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( .Mi,  Book  \  what  is  it  in  tins  world  of  yours 

That  makes  it  fatal  to  be  wed  to  you?    Oh  \  why 

With  cypress  branches  have  you  wreathed  your  bowers 
Ana  made  your  best  interpreter  a  sigh? 


*:-r 


FAMOUS  BIOGRAPHY. 


CONTAINING 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT 

BY  T.  B  MACAULAY. 
ROBERT  BURNS. 

BY  THOMAS  CARLYI.K. 
MAHOMET : 

BY  GIBBON. 
JOAN  OF  ARC ; 

BY  MICIIKLKT. 
HANNIBAL 

BY  THOMAS  ARNOLD. 
JULIUS  OS5SAR: 

BY  H.  G.  Li  UDELL. 


OLIVER  CROMWELL- 

BY  LAMARTINR. 

WILLIAM  PITT: 

BY  T.    B.    SlACAOLAT. 

MARTIN  LUTHER: 

BY  BUNSEN. 
MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTTS  : 

BY  LAMARTINE. 
COLUMBUS : 

BY  LAMARTINE. 
VITTORIA  COLONNA  : 

BY  T.  A.  TROLJ.OPE. 


NEW  YORK. 
JOHN    B.    ALDEN,    PUBLISHER, 

1883. 


FREDERICK   THE  GREAT, 


TUB  Prussian  monarchy,  the  youngest  of  the  great  European 
States,  but  in  population  and  in  revenue  the  fifth  amongst  them,  and 
in  art,  science,  and  civilization  entitled  to  the  third,  if  not  the  second 
place,  sprang  from  an  humble  origin.  About  the  beginning  of  th« 
fifteenth  century,  the  marquisate  of  Brandenburg  was  bestowed  by 
tJ»e  Emperor  Sigismund  on  the  noble  family  of  Hohenzollern.  In  the 
sixteenth  century  that  family  embraced  the  Lutheran  doctrines. 
Early  in  the  seventeenth  century  it  obtained  from  the  King  of  PoLui.1 
the  investiture  of  the  duchy  of  Prussia.  Even  after  this  accession  of 
territory,  the  chiefs  of  the  house  of  Hohenzollern  hardly  ranked  with 
the  Electors  of  Saxony  and  Bavaria.  The  soil  of  Brandenburg  was, 
for  the  most  part,  sterile.  Even  around  Berlin,  the  capital  of  the 
province,  and  around  Potsdam,  the  favorite  residence  of  the  Mar- 
graves, the  country  was  a  desert.  In  some  tracts  the  deep  sand  could 
with  difficulty  be  forced  by  assiduous  tillage  to  yield  thin  crops  of 
rye  and  oats.  In  other  places,  the  ancient  forests,  from  which  I  lie 
conquerors  of  the  Roman  empire  had  descended  on  the  Danube,  iv 
mained  untouched  by  the  hand  of  man.  Where  the  soil  was  rich  it 
was  generally  marshy,  and  its  insalubrity  repelled  the  cultivators 
whom  its  fertility  attracted.  Frederick  William,  called  the  CJreat 
Elector,  was  the  prince  to  whose  policy  his  successors  have  agreed  to 
ascribe  their  greatness.  He  acquired  by  the  peace  of  Westphalia  sev- 
eral valuable  possessions,  and  among  them  the  rich  city  and  district 
of  Magdeburg  ;  and  lie  left  to  his  son  Frederick  a  principality  as  con- 
siderable as  any  which  was  not  called  a  kingdom. 

Frederick  aspired  to  the  stylo  of  royalty.  Ostentatious  and  pro- 
fuse, negligent  of  his  true  interests  and  of  his  high  duties,  insatiably 
eager  for  frivolous  distinctions,  he  added  nothing  to  the  real  weight 
of  the  State  which  he  governed  ;  but  he  gained  the  great  object  of 
his  life,  the  title  of  king.  In  the  year  1700  he  assumed  this  new  dig- 
nity. He  had  on  that  occasion  to  undergo  all  the  mortifications  which 
fall  to  the  lot  of  ambitious  upstarts.  Compared  with  the  other 
crowned  heads  of  Europe,  he  made  a  figure  resembling  that  which  a 
Nabob  or  a  Commissary,  who  had  bought  a  title,  would  make  in  the 
company  of  Peers  whose  ancestors  had  beeu  attainted  for  treason 
the 


2064O95 


FREDERICK   THE  GREAT. 

The  «nvy  of  th«  class  which  he  quitted,  and  the  civil  scorn  of  th« 
[ass  into  which  he  intruded  himself,  were  marked  in  very  significant 
ways.  The  elector  of  Saxony  at  first  refused  to  acknowledge  the  new 
majesty.  Louis  the  Fourteenth  looked  down  on  his  brother  king  with 
an  nir  not  unlike  that  with  which  the  count  in  Moliere's  play  regards 
Monsieur  Jotirdain,  just  fresh  from  the  mummery  of  being  made  a 
gentleman.  Austria  exacted  large  sacrifice  in  return  for  her  recogni- 
tion, and  at  last  gave  it  ungraciously. 

Frederick  was  succeeded  by  his  son,  Frederick  William,  a  prince 
who  must  be  allowed  to  have  possessed  some  talents  for  administration, 
but  whose  character  was  disfigured  by  the  most  odious  vices,  and 
whose  eccentricities  were  such  as  had  never  been  seen  out  of  a  mad- 
house. He  was  exact  and  diligent  in  the  transaction  of  business,  and 
he  was  the  first  who  formed  the  design  of  obtaining  for  Prussia  a 
place  among  the  European  powers,  altogether  out  of  proportion  to  her 
extent  and  population,  by  means  of  a  strong  military  organization. 
Strict  economy  enabled  him  to  keep  up  a  peace  establishment  of  sixty 
thousand  troops.  These  troops  were  disciplined  in  such  a  manner, 
tliat,  placed  beside  them,  the  household  regiments  of  Versailles  and 
St.  James  would  have  appeared  an  awkward  squad.  The  master  of 
such  a  force  could  not  but  be  regarded  by  all  his  neighbors  as  a  for- 
midable enemy  and  a  valuable  ally. 

But  the  mind  of  Frederick  William  was  so  ill-regulated  that  all  his 
inclinations  became  passions,  and  all  his  passions  partook  of  the  char 
airier  of  moral  and  intellectual  disease.  His  parsimony  degenerated 
into  sordid  avarice.  His  taste  for  military  pomp  and  order  became  a 
mania,  like  that  of  a  Dutch  burgomaster  for  tulips.  While  the  en- 
voys of  the  ceurt  of  Berlin  wero  in  a  state  of  such  squalid  poverty  as 
moved  the  laughter  of  foreign  capitals — while  the  food  of  the  royal 
family  was  so  bad  that  even  hunger  loathed  it — no  price  was  thought 
too  extravagant  for  tall  recruits.  The  ambition  of  the  king  was  to 
form  a  brigade  of  giants,  and  every  country  was  ransacked  by  his 
agents  for  men  above  the  ordinary  stature.  These  researches  were 
Dot  confined  to  Europe.  No  head  that  towered  above  the  crowd  in 
the  Iwixaiars  of  Aleppo,  of  Cairo,  or  of  Surat,  could  escape  the  crimps 
of  Frederick  William.  One  Irishman  more  than  seven  feet  high,  who 
waus  picked  up  hi  London  hy  the  Prussian  ambassaidor,  received  u 
bounty  of  nearly  £1,300  sterling — very  much  more  than  the  ambas- 
sador's salary.  This  extraivagance  was  the  more  absurd  because  a 
stout  youth  of  five  feet  eight,  who  might  have  been  procured  fora 
few  dollairs,  would  in  all  probability  have  been  a  much  more  valuable 
soldier.  But  to  Frederick  William  this  huge  Irishman  was  what  a 
brass  Otho  or  a  Vinegar  Bible  is  to  a  collector  of  a  different  kind.* 

*  Carlyle  thus  describes  the  PotsAam  Regiment :— "  A  Potsdam  Giant  Regiment, 
each  «H  the  world  never  saw  before  or  Bince.  Thr««  Battalions  of  them— two  ul- 
WMrg  how  at  Potsdam  doing  formal  life-guard  dnty,  the  third  at  Brandenburg  on 
•*«fll,  100  to  (M  BaUIlton-2,400  BOOB  of  Anak  in  all.  SuWimo  euowtfa,  hagely  p*f 


FREDERICK  THE  GKBAT.  a 

ii»  is  remarkable  that,  though  the  main  end  of  Frederick  William's 
administration  was  to  have  a  military  force,  though  his  reign  forms 
an  important  epoch  in  the  history  of  military  discipline,  and  though 
his  dominant  passion  was  the  love  of  military  display,  he  was  yet  one 
of  the  most  pacific  of  princes.  We  are  afraid  that  his  aversion  to  war 
was  not  the  effect  of  humanity,  but  was  merely  one  of  his  thousand 
whims.  His  feeling  about  his  troops  seems  to  have  resembled  a 
miser's  feeling  about  his  money.  Ho  loved  to  collect  them,  to  count 
them,  to  see  them  increase,  but  ho  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to 
break  in  upon  the  precious  hoard.  He  looked  forward  to  some  future 
time  when  his  Patagonian  battalions  were  to  drive  hostile  infan/try  be- 
fore them  like  sheep.  But  this  future  time  was  always  receding,  and 
it  is  probable  that  if  his  life  had  been  prolonged  thirty  years  his  su- 
perb army  would  never  have  seen  any  harder  service  than  a  sham 
fight  in  the  fields  near  Berlin.  But  the  great  military  means  which 
he  had  collected  were  destined  to  be  employed  by  a  spirit  far  more 
daring  and  inventive  than  his  own. 

Frederick,  surnamed  the  Great,  son  of  Frederick  William,  was 
born  in  January,  1712.  It  may  safely  be  pronounced  that  he  had  re- 
ceived from  nature  a  strong  and  sharp  understanding,  and  a  rare  firm- 
news  of  temper  and  intensity  of  will.  As  to  the  other  parts  of  his 
character,  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  they  are  to  be  ascribed  to  na- 
ture or  to  the  strange  training  which  he  underwent.  The  history  of 
his  boyhood  is  painfully  interesting.  Oliver  Twist  in  the  parish  work- 
house, Smiko  at  Dotheboys  Hall,  were  petted  children  when  compared 
with  this  wretched  heir-apparent  of  a  crown.  The  nature  of  Fivder 
irk  William  was  hard  aud  bad,  and  the  habit  of  exercising  arliii  rary 
power  had  made  him  frightfully  savage.  His  rage  constantly  vented 

feet  to  the  royal  eye,  such  a  mass  of  shining  giants,  in  their  long-drawn  ivgularitioH 
mid  mathematical  manceuvrlngs,  like  some  streak  of  Promethean  lightning,  realized 
hero  at  last  in  the  vulgar  dunk  of  things. 

"Truly  they  are.  men  supreme  in  discipline,  in  beauty  of  equipment,  and  the 
shortest  man  of  them  rises:  I  think,  toward  seven  feet ;  B  >mo  are  nearly  nine  feet 
high.  Men  from  all  countries  ;  a  hundred  and  odd  come  mutually,  as  wo  saw,  from 
Uussia — u  very  precious  windfall ;  the  rest  have  been  collected,  crimj>ed,  purchased 
out  of  every  European  country  at  enormous  expense,  not  to  speak  of  other  trouble 
to  His  Majesty.  James  Kirkman,  an  Irish  recruit  of  good  inches,  cost  him  £1,200 
before  he  could  be  got  inveigled,  shipped,  and  brought  safe  to  hand.  The  docti  i 
ments  are  yet  in  existence ;  and  (he  portrait  of  this  Irish  fellow-citizen  himself,' 
who  is  by  no  means  a  beautiful  man.  Indeed,  they  are.  all  portrayed— all  the  pri- 
vate* of  this  distinguished  Regiment  are,  if  anybody  cared  to  look  at  them.  'Ite- 
divanoff  from  Moscow '  seems  of  fur  better  bone  than  Kirkman,  though  still  more 
piolirl  of  aspect.  One  Hohmann,  a  born  Prussian,  was  so  tall  you  could  not,  though 
you  yourself  tall,  touch  his  bare  crown  with  your  hand  ;  August  the  Strong  of  Poland 
tried  on  one  occasion  and  could  not.  Before  Hohmann  turned  up,  there  had  been 
•  Jonae,  the  Norwegian  Blacksmith,'  also  a  dreadfully  tall  monster.  Giant  '  Mac- 
dell  ' — who  was  to  be  married,  no  consent  awked  on  either  side,  to  the  tall  young 
Woman,  which  latter  turned  out  to  be  a  decrepit  ofti  woman  (all  Jest-Rooks  know  tho 
myth) — he  also  was  an  Irish  giant,  his  name  probably  M'Dow.'l.  This  Hohmann 
was  now  Fl&qlemann  ('fugleman'  as  we  have  n'med  it,  leader  of  the  file),  t.h« 
•fiuttest  of  fee  Jteifiment,  A  very  pwuntftiu  of  pipeclayed,  flesh  awl  bomv" 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

it/<elf  to  right  and  left  in  curses  and  blows.  When  his  majesty  trx* 
!i  walk,  every  human  being  fled  before  him  as  if  a  tiger  had  broke* 
loose  from  a  menagerie.  If  he  met  a  lady  in  the  street  he  gave  her  t 
kick  and  told  her  to  go  home  and  mind  her  brats.  If  he  saw  a  clergy- 
man staring  at  the  soldiers,  he  admonished  the  reverend  gentleman 
to  betake  himself  to  study  and  prayer,  and  enforced  this  pious  advice 
•by  a  sound  caning,  administered  on  the  spot.  But  it  was  in  his  own 
house  that  lie  was  most  unreasonable  and  ferocious.  His  palace  was 
hell,  and  he  the  most  execrable  of  fiends — a  cross  between  Moloch  and 
Puck.  His  son  Frederick*  and  his  daughter  Wilhelmina,  afterwards 
Margravine  of  Bareuth,  were  in  an  especial  manner  objects  of  his 
aversion.  His  own  mind  was  uncultivated.  He  despised  literature, 
lie  hated  infidels,  Papists,  and  metaphysicians,  and  did  not  very  well 
understand  in  what  they  differed  from  each  other.  The  business  of 
life,  according  to  him,  was  to  drill  and  to  be  drilled.  The  recreations 
suited  to  a  prince  were  to  sit  in  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke,  to  sip 
Swedish  beer  between  the  puffs  of  the  pipe,  to  play  backgammon  for 
three- halfpence  a  rubber,  to  kill  wild  hogs,  and  to  shoot  partridges  by 
the  thousand.  The  Prince-Royal  showed  little  inclination  either  for 
the  serious  employments  or  for  the  amusements  of  his  father.  Iki 
shirked  the  duties  of  the  parade — he  detested  the  fume  of  tobacco — 
he  had  no  taste  either  for  backgammon  or  for  field-sports.  He  had 
received  from  nature  an  exquisite  ear,  and  performed  skilfully  on  the 
flute.  His  earliest  instructors  had  been  French  refugees,  and  they 
had  awakened  in  him  a  strong  passion  for  French  literature  and 
French  society.  Frederick  William  regarded  these  tastes  as  effemi- 
nate and  contemptible,  and  by  abuse  and  persecution  made  them  still 
stronger.  Things  became  worse  when  the  Prince-Royal  attained  that 
time  of  life  at  which  the  great  revolution  in  the  human  mind  and 
body  takes  place.  He  was  guilty  of  some  youthful  indiscretions, 
which  no  good  and  wise  parent  would  regard  with  severity.  At  a 
later  period  he  was  accused,  truly  or  falsely,  of  vices  from  which  His- 
tory  averts  her  eyes,  and  which  even  Satire  blushes  to  name — vices 

•The  following  is  his  answer  to  an  humble  supplication  of  Friedrich's  for  for- 
giveness :— 


•.vhilc  In-  is  then'  to  see  it,  but  when  hi«  back  is  turned  too.    For  the  rest,  thon 
know  st  very  well  that  I  can  endure  no  effeminate  fellow  (efeminirten  Kerl],  who 
has  no  human  inclination  in  him;  who  puts  himself  to  shame,  cannot  ride  nor 
Shoot,  and  withal  is  dirty  in  his  person  ;  frizzles  his  hair  like  a  fool,  and  docs  not 
off.    And  all  this  I  have  a  thousand  times  reprimanded  ;  but  all  in  vain,  and 
i)  improvement  in  nothing  (keine  Besxerung  in  nicMs  ist).     For  the  rest,  haughty, 
proud  us  a  churl  ;  »pc>ak»  to  nobody  but  some  few,  and  is  not  popular  and  affable  ; 
and  cuts  L'rinuiues  with  his  face,  as  if  he  were  a  fool ;  and  does  my  will  in  nothing 
BJileea  held  to  itby  force:  nothing  out  of  love  ;— and  has  pleasure  in  nothin "  but 
>wing  his  own  whims  (own  Kapf)— no  use  to  him  iu  any  thing  else.    This  ia  tU« 

.  11.,  pp.  47,  48.) 


S'flEDERICK   THE   GREAT.  <5 

inch  that,  to  Iwrrow  the  energetic  language  of  Lord- Keeper  fovon- 
try,  "the  depraved  nature  of  man,  which  of  itself  carrieth  man  to 
all  other  sin,  abhorreth  them."  But  the  offences  of  his  youth  were 
not  characterized  by  any  peculiar  turpitude.  They  excited,  however, 
transports  of  rage  in  the  king,  who  hated  all  faults  except  those  to 
which  he  was  himself  inclined,  and  who  conceived  that  he  made  am- 
ple atonement  to  Heaven  for  his  brutality,  by  holding  the  softer  pas- 
sions in  detestation.  The  Prince-Royal,  too,  was  not  one  of  those 
who  are  content  to  take  their  religion  on  trust,  lie  asked  pu/./.lmg 
questions,  and  brought  forward  arguments  which  seemed  to  savor 
of  something  different  from  pure  Lutherauism.  The  king  suspected 
that  his  son  was  inclined  to  be  a  heretic  of  some  sort  or  other,  whether 
Calvinist  or  Atheist,  his  majesty  did  not  very  well  know.  The  ordi- 
nary malignity  of  Frederick  William  was  bad  enough.  He  now 
thought  malignity  a  part  of  his  duty  as  a  Christian  man,  and  all  the 
conscience  that  he  had  stimulated  his  hatred.  The  flute  was  broken 
• — the  French  books  were  sent  out  of  the  palace — the  prince  was 
kicked  and  cudgelled  and  pulled  by  the  hair.  At  dinner  the  plates 
were  hurled  at  his  head — sometimes  he  was  restricted  to  bread  and 
water — sometimes  he  was  forced  to  swallow  food  so  nauseous  that  he 
could  not  keep  it  on  his  stomach.  Once  his  father  knocked  him 
down,  dragged  him  along  the  floor  to  a  window,  and  was  with  diffi- 
culty prevented  from  strangling  him  with  the  cord  of  the  curtain. 
The  queen,  for  the  crime  of  not  wishing  to  see  her  son  murdered,  was 
subjected  to  the  grossest  indignities.  The  Princess  Wilhelmiiia,  who 
took  her  brother's  part,  was  treated  almost  as  ill  as  Mrs.  Brownrigg's 
Apprentices.  Driven  to  despair,  the  unhappy  youth  tried  to  run 
away  ;  then  the  fury  of  the  old  tyrant  rose  to  madness.  The  prince 
was  sui  officer  in  the  army  ;  his  flight  was  therefore  desertion,  and,  in 
the  moral  code  of  Frederick  William,  desertion  was  the  highest  of  all 
crimes.  "Desertion,"  says  this  royal  theologian  in  one  of  his  half- 
crazy  letters;  "  is  from  hell.  It  is  a  work  of  the  children  of  the  devil. 
No  child  of  God  could  possibly  be  guilty  of  it."  An  accomplice  of 
the  prince,  in  spite  of  the  recommendation  of  a  court-martial,  was 
mercilessly  put  to  death.  It  seemed  probable  that  the  prince  himself 
would  suffer  the  same  fate.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  the  inteives 
sion  of  the  States  of  Holland,  of  the  Kings  of  Sweden  and  Poland, 
and  of  the  Emperor  of  Germany,  saved  the  house  of  Brandenburgh 
from  the  stain  of  an  unnatural  murder.  After  months  of  cruel  sus- 
pense, Frederick  learned  that  his  life  would  be  spared.  He  remained, 
however,  long  a  prisoner  ;  but  he  was  not  on  that  account  to  be  pitied. 
He  found  in  his  jailors  a  tenderness  which  he  had  never  found  in  his 
father  ;  his  table  was  not  sumptuous,  but  he  had  wholesome  food  in 
sufficient  quantity  to  appease  hunger;  he  could  read  the  J  Jen  rind  A 
without  being  kicked,  and  play  on  his  flute  without  having  it  broken 
erer  his  head. 

Whan  his  confinement  terminated,   he  was  a  man.     He  liad  nearly 


«  FREDERICK   THE  GREAT. 

completed  his  twenty-first  year,  and  could  scarcely,  even  by  such  a 
parent,  as  Frederick  William,  be  kept  much  longer  under  the  re 
si.niints  which  had  made  his  boyhood  miserable.  Suffering  had  ma- 
tured his  understanding,  while  it  had  hardened  his  heart  and  soured 
his  tem|M-r.  He  had  learnt  self-command  and  dissimulation;  he  af 
I'erted  to  conform  to  some  of  his  father's  views,  and  submissively  ac- 
cepted a  wife,  who  was  a  wife  only  in  name,  from  his  father's  hand. 
He  .also  served  with  credit,  though  without  any  opportunity  of  ac- 
quiring brilliant  distinction,  under  the  command  of  Prince  Eugene, 
(luring  a  campaign  marked  by  no  extraordinary  events.  He  was  now 
permitted  to  keep  a  separate  establishment,  and  was  therefore  able  to 
indulge  with  caution  his  own  tastes.  Partly  in  order  to  conciliate  the 
king,  and  partly,  no  doubt,  from  inclination,  he  gave  up  a  portion  of 
his  time  to  military  and  political  business,  and  thus  gradually  ac- 
quired such  an  aptitude  for  affairs  as  his  most  intimate  associates  were 
not  aware  that  ho  possessed. 

His  favorite  abode  was  at  Rheinsbcrg,  near  the  frontier  which 
separates  the  Prussian  dominions  from  the  duchy  of  Mecklenburg. 
Rlu-insberg  is  a  fertile  and  smiling  spot,  in  the  midst  of  the  sandy 
\v:iHle  <>f  (.lie  Marquisate.  The  mansion,  surrounded  by  woods  of  oak 
and  lieech,  l(x>ks  out  upon  a  spacious  lake.  There  Frederick  amused 
himself  by  laying  out  gardens  in  regular  alleys  and  intricate  mazes, 
by  building  obelisks,  temples,  and  conservatories,  and  by  collecting 
rare  fruits  and  llowers.  His  retirement  was  enlivened  by  a  I'cwc.om- 
panions,  among  whom  he  seems  to  have  preferred  those  who,  by  birth 
or  extraction,  were  French.  With  these  inmates  he  dined  and  supped 
well,  drank  freely,  and  amused  himself  sometimes  with  concerts, 
sometimes  with  holding  chapters  of  a  fraternity  which  he  called  the. 
Order  of  Bayard  ;  but  literature  was  his  chief  resource. 

His  education  had  been  entirely  French.  The  long  ascendency 
which  Louis  XIV.  had  enjoyed,  and  the  eminent  merit  of  the  tragic  aaq 
comic,  dramatists,  of  the  satirists,  and  of  the  preachers  who  hail  flour- 
ished under  that  magnificent  prince,  had  made  the  French  language 
predominant  in  Europe.  Even  in  countries  which  had  a  national 
literature,  and  which  could  boast  of  names  greater  than  those  of  Ra- 
cine, of  Moliere,  and  of  Massillon — in  the  country  of  Dante,  in  the 
country  of  Cervantes,  in  the  country  of  Hhakspeare  and  Milton— the 
intellectual  fashions  of  Paris  had  l>een  to  a  great  extent  adopted. 
Herman  y  lind  not  yet  produced  a  single  masterpiece  of  poetry  or  elo- 
quence. In  (iennany,  therefore!,  the  French  taste  reigned  without 
rival  and  without  limit.  Every  youth  of  rank  was  taught  to  speak 
and  write  French.  That  he  should  speak  and  write  his  own  tongue 
with  politeness,  or  even  with  accuracy  and  facility,  was  regarded  as 
comparatively  an  unimportant  object.  Even  Frederick  William,  with 
nil  his  rugged  Saxon  prejudices,  thought  it  necessary  that  his  chil- 
dren should  know  French,  and  quite  unnecessary  that  they  should  l>e 
woll  verw-d  in  (lennan.  Tlie  Latin  was  positively  interdicted.  "My 


FREDERICK   THE  GREAT.  v 

gon,"  His  Majesty  wrote,  "sliall  not  learn  Latin;  arid,  more  thttu 
that,  I  will  not  suffer  anybody  even  to  mention  such  a  thing  to  inc." 
One  of  the  preceptors  ventured  to  read  the  Golden  Bull  in  the  original 
with  the  Prince- Royal.  Frederick  William  entered  the  room,  and 
broke  out  in  his  usual  kingly  style, 

"  Rascal,  what  are  you  at  there?  " 

"  Please  Your  Majesty,"  answered  the  preceptor,  "  I  was  explain, 
ing  the  Golden  Bull  to  His  Royal  Highness." 

"  I'll  Golden  Bull  you,  you  rascal,"  roared  the  majesty  of  Prussia 
Up  went  the  king's  cane,  away  ran  the  terriiit  d  instructor,  and  Fred- 
erick's classical  studies  ended  forever.  He  now  and  then  affected  to 
quote  Latin  sentences,  and  produced  such  exquisite  Ciceronian  ph  nisei 
as  these:  "  Stante  pede  morire" — "  D«  gustibus  non  est  disputan 
dus  " — "  Tot  verbas  tot  spondera."  Of  Italian,  he  had  not  enough 
to  read  a  page  of  Metastasio  with  ease,  and  of  Spanish  -and  English, 
he  did  not,  as  far  as  we  are  aware,  understand  a  single  word. 

As  the  highest  human  compositions  to  which  he  had  access  were 
those  of  the  French  writers,  it  is  not  strange  that  his  admiration  for 
those  writers  should  have  been  unbounded.  His  ambitious  and  eager 
temper  early  prompted  him  to  imitate  what  he  admired.  The  wish, 
perhaps,  dearest  to  his  heart  was,  that  he  might  rank  among  tl.<» 
masters  of  French  rhetoric  and  poetry.  He  wrote  prose  and  verse  as 
indefutigably  as  if  he  had  been  a  starving  hack  of  Cave  or  Osborn  ; 
but  Nature,  which  had  bestowed  on  him  in  a  large  measure  the 
talents  of  a  captain  and  of  an  administrator,  had  withheld  from  him 
those  higher  and  rarer  gifts,  without  which  industry  labors  in  vain 
to  produce  immortal  eloquence  or  song.  And,  indeed,  had  he  been 
blessed  with  more  imagination,  wit,  and  fertility  of  thought  than  he 
appears  to  have  had,  he  would  still  have  been  subject  to  one  great 
disadvantage,  which  would,  in  all  probability,  hare  forever  prevented 
him  from  taking  a  high  place  among  men  of  letters.  He  had  not  the 
full  command  of  any  language.  There  was  no  machine  of  thought 
which  he  could  employ  with  perfect  ease,  confidence,  and  free- 
dom. He  had  Gorman  enough  to  scold  his  servants  or  to  give  the 
word  of  command  to  his  grenadiers  ;  but  his  grammar  and  pronun- 
ciation were  extremely  bad.  He  found  it  difficult  to  make  out  the 
meaning  even  of  the  simplest  German  poetry.  On  one  occasion  a  ver- 
sion of  Racine's  IpfyigGnie  was  read  to  him.  He  held  the  French 
original  in  his  hand  ;  but  was  forced  to  own  that,  even  with  such 
help,  he  could  not  understand  the  translation.  Yet  though  he  had 
neglected  his  mother  tongue  in  order  to  bestow  all  his  attention  on 
French,  his  French  was,  after  all,  the  French  of  a  foreigner.  It  was 
necessary  for  him  to  have  always  at  his  beck  some  men  of  letters 
from  Paris  to  point  out  the  solecisms  and  false  rhymes,  of  which,  to 
the  last,  he  was  frequently  guilty.  Even  had  he  possessed  the 
poetic  faculty — of  which,  as  far  as  we  can  judge,  he  was  utterly 
destitute — the  waat  of  a  language  would  have  prevented  him  from 


8  FREDERICK  THE  (JREAT. 

Ving  a  great  poet.  No  noble  work  of  imagination,  as  far  as  we  can 
recoiled,  was  ever  comi>osed  by  any  man,  except  in  a  dialect  which  he 
bad  learned  without  remembering  bow  or  when,  and  which  he  had 
s|M>ken  with  perfect  ease  before  he  had  ever  analyzed  its  structuiv. 
Romans  of  great  talents  wrote  Greek  verses  ;  but  how  many  of  those 
verses  have  deserved  to  live  ?  Many  men  of  eminent  genius  have;,  in 
modern  times,  written  Latin  poems;  but,  as  far  as  we  are  aware-, 
,ni>no  of  those  poems,  not  even  Milton's,  can  be  ranked  in  the  first 
class  of  art,  or  even  very  high  in  the  second.  It  is  not  strange, 
therefore,  that  in  the  French  verses  of  Frederick,  we  can  iind  nothing 
beyond  the  reach  of  any  man  of  good  parts  and  industry — nothing 
al«>ve  the  level  of  Newdigate  and  Seatonian  poetry.  His  best  pieces 
may  perhaps  rank  with  the  worst  in  Dodsley's  collection.  In  history 
he  succeeded  better.  We  do  not,  indeed,  find  in  any  part  of  his 
voluminous -Memoirs  either  deep  reflection  or  vivid  painting.  Hut 
tlie  narrative  is  distinguished  by  clearness,  conciseness,  good  sense, 
and  a  certain  air  of  truth  and  simplicity,  which  is  singularly  graceful 
in  a  man  who,  having  done  great  things,  sits  down  to  relate  them. 
On  the  whole,  however,  none  of  his  writings  are  so  agreeable  to  us  as 
bis  Litters;  particularly  those  which  are  written  with  earnestness, 
and  are  not  embroidered  with  verses. 

It  is  not  strange  that  a  young  man  devoted  to  literature,  and  ac- 
quainted only  with  the  literature  of  France,  should  have  looked  with 
profound  veneration  on  the  genius  of  Voltaire.  Xor  is  it  just  to  con 
(leiuii  him  for  this  feeling.  "A  man  who  has  never  seen  the  sun." 
says  Calderon  in  one  of  his  charming  comedies,  "cannot  be  blamed 
for  thinking  that  no  glory  can  exceed  that  of  the  moon.  A  mm 
who  has  seen  neither  moon  nor  sun  cannot  be  blamed  for  talking  of 
the  unrivaled  brightness  of  the  morning  star.''  Had  Frederick  been 
able  to  read  Homer  and  Milton,  or  even  Virgil  and  Tasso,  his  admira 
ti-iri  of  the  11,'nnade  would  prove  that  he  was  utterly  destitute  of  the 
power  of  discerning  what  is  excellent  in  art.  Had  he  been  familiar 
with  Sophocles  or  Shakspeare,  we  should  have  expected  him  to  ap- 
preciate %<iii-t'  more  justly.  Had  he  been  able  to  study  Thucydides 
mid  Tacit  us  in  the  original  Greek  and  Latin,  he  would  have  known 
that  then-  were  heights  in  the  eloquence  of  history  far  beyond  t lie 
peach  of  t  he  author  of  the  Life  of  (Jlmrle*  the  Twelfth.  But  the  finest 
heroic  poem,  several  of  the  most  powerful  tragedies,  and  the  most 
brilliant  and  picturesque  historical  work  that  Frederick  had  ever 
read,  were  Voltaire's.  Such  high  and  various  excellence  moved  the 


was  at  Rhemsberg,  Voltaire  was  still  a  courtier  ;  and,  though  he 
*ouM  not  always  curb  his  petulent  wit,  he  liad,  as  yet,  published 
not  lung  that  could  exclude  him  from  Versailles,  a»d  little  that  a 


FREDERICK   THE  GREAT.  9 

divine  of  the  nrild  aad  generous  school  of  Grotius  and  Tillotson  might 
not  read  with  pleasure.  In  the  Ilenriade,  in  Zaire,  and  in  Alsire, 
Christian  piety  is  exhibited  in  the  most  amiable  form  ;  and,  som« 
years  after  the  period  of  which  we  are  writing,  a  Pope  condescended 
to  accept  the  dedication  of  Mahomet.  The  real  sentiments  of  the 
poet,  however,  might  be  clearly  perceived  by  a  keen  eye  through  the 
decent  disguise  with  which  he  veiled  them,  and  could  not  escape  the 
sagsicity  of  Frederick,  who  held  similar  opinions,  and  had  been  ac- 
customed to  practise  similar  dissimulations.  4 

The  prince  wrote  to  his  idol  in  the  style  of  a  worshipper,  and  Yol-/ 
taire  replied  with  exquisite  grace  and  address.  A  correspondence 
followed,  which  may  be  studied  with  advantage  by  those  who  wish 
te  Income  proficients  in  the  ignoble  art  of  flattery.  No  man  ever  paid 
compliments  better  than  Voltaire.  His  sweetened  confectionery  had 
always  a  delicate,  yet  stimulating  flavor,  which  was  delightful  to 
palates  wearied  by  the  coarse  preparations  of  inferior  artists.  It  was 
only  from  his  hand  that  so  much  sugar  could  be  swallowed  without 
making  the  swallower  sick.  Copies  of  verses,  writing-desks,  trinkets 
of  amber,  were  exchanged  between  the  friends.  Frederick  confided 
his  writings  to  Voltaire,  and  Voltaire  applauded  as  if  Frederick  had 
been  Racine  and  Bossuet  in  one.  One  of  his  Royal  Highness's  per- 
formances was  a  refutation  of  the  Principe  of  Machiavelli.  Voltaire, 
undertook  to  convey  it  to  the  press.  It  was  entitled  the  Anti- 
Machiaoel,  and  was  an  edifying  homily  against  rapacity,  perfidy,  ar- 
bitrary government,  unjust  war — in  short,  against  almost  every  thing 
for  which  its  author  is  now  remembered  among  men. 

The  old  king  uttered  now  and  then  a  ferocious  growl  at  the  diver- 
sions of  Rheinsberg.  But  his  health  was  broken,  his  end  was  ap- 
proaching, and  his  vigor  was  impaired.  He  had  only  one  pleasure 
left — that  of  seeing  tall  soMiers.  He  could  always  be  propitiated  by  u 
p  reseat  of  a  grenadier  of  six  feet  eight  or  six  feet  nine  ;  and  such 
presents  were  from  time  to  time  judiciously  offered  by  his  son. 

Early  in  the  year  1740,  Frederick  William*  met  death  with  a  finn- 

*Macaulay  is  a  little  too  harsh  with  the  old  kins.  The  following  extract  from 
Oarlyle's  recent  Life  of  Frederick  the  Great,  describing  the  last  hours  of  Fnednich 
Wilhelm,  will  show  something  better  in  his  character  :  "  For  the  rest,  he  isstrutj- 
glin','  between  death  and  life,  in  general  persuade,  that  the  end  is  fast  hastening  on. 
He  sends  for  Chief-Preacher  Roloff  out  to  Potsdam  ;  has  some  notable  dialogues 
with  Roloff  and  with  two  other  Potsdam  rlenrymen,  of  which  there  is  record  still 
left  iis.  In  thsee,  as  in  all  his  demeanor  at  this'  supreme  time,  we  see  the  big,  rug- 
ged block  of  manhood  come  out  very  vividly  ;  strong  in  his  simplicity,  in  his  veraci- 
ty. Friedrich  Wil^elm's  wish  is  to  know  from  Roloff  what  the  chances  are  for  him 
in  the  other  world— which  is  not  less  certain  than  Potsdam  and  the  giant  grenadiers 
to  Friednch  Wilhelm  ;  and  where,  he  perceives,  never  half  so  clearly  before,  ho 
shall  actually  j>cel  off  his  Kinghood  and  stand  before  God  Almighty  no  better  than 
a  naked  beggar.  Roloff's  prognostics  are  not  so  encouraging  as  the  King  had 
hoped.  Surely  this  King  'never  look  or  coveted  what  was  not  his  :  kept  true  to  his 
marriage-row,  in  spite  of  horrible  examples  eve  ywhere  ;  believed  the  Bible,  hon- 
ored the  Preacliers,  went  diligently  to  Church,  and  tried  to  do  what  he  understood 
Ged'a  commandment*  were  '! '  To  all  which  Roloff,  a  courageous,  pious  man,  an- 


10  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

ness  and  dignity  worthy  of  a  better  and  wiser  man  ;  and  Frederick, 
who  had  just  completed  his  twenty-eighth  year,  became  King  of  PruB- 
niti.  1 1  is  character  was  little  understood.  That  he  had  good  abilities, 
indeed,  n<>  person  who  had  talked  with  him  or  corresponded  with  him 
could  doubt,  Hut  the  easy,  Epicurean  life  which  he  had  led,  his  lovo 
of  i,'ood  cookery  and  good  wine,  of  music,  of  conversation,  of  light 
literature,  led  many  to  regard  him  as  a  sensual  and  intellectual  vo- 
luptuary. His  habit  of  canting  about  moderation,  peace,  lil>erty,  and 
the  happiness  which  a  grxxl  mind  derives  from  the  happiness  of  oth- 
ers, had  imposed  on  some  who  should  have  known  better.  Those 
who  thought,  liest  of  him  expected  a  Telemachus  after  Fenelon's  pat- 
tern. Others  predicted  the  approach  of  a  Mediccan  age — an  age  pro- 
pitious to  learning  and  art,  aud  not  unpropitious  to  pleasure.  Nobody 
h:ul  the  least  suspicion  that  a  tyrant  of  extraordinary  military  and 
iMilith-al  talents,  of  industry  more  extraordinary  still,  without  fear, 
without  faith,  and  without,  mercy,  had  ascended  the  throne. 

The  disappointment  of  Fal  staff  at  his  old  boon  companion's  corona- 
tion was  not  more  bitter  than  that  which  awaited  some  of  the  in- 
mates of  Rheinslwrg,  They. had  long  looked  forward  to  the  accession 
of  their  patron,  as  to  the  day  from  which  their  own  prosperity  and 
greatness  was  to  date.  They  had  at  last  reached  the  promised  land, 
the  land  which  they  had  figured  to  themselves  as  llowing  with  milk 
and  honey,  and  they  found  it  a  desert.  "  No  more  of  these  fooleries," 
w:ts  the  short,  sharp  admonition  given  by  Frederick  to  one  of  them. 
It  soon  became  plain  that,  in  the  most  important  points,  the  new 
sovereign  Ixire  a  strong  family  likeness  to  his  predecessor.  There 
was  a  wide  difference  bet  ween  the  father  and  the  son  as  respected  ex- 
tent and  vigor  of  intellect,  speculative- opinions,  amusements,  studies, 
outward  demeanor.  But  the  groundwork  of  the  character  was  the 
same  in  both.  To  both  were  common  the  love  of  order,  the  love  of 
business,  the  military  taste,  the  parsimony,  the  imperious  spirit,  the 

ewers  with  discreet  words  and  shakings  of  the  head.  'Did  I  behave  ill  then,  did  I 
i'vi-r  do  injustice  ? '  Roloff  mentions  Huron  Schlubhut,  the  defalcating  Amtmann, 
hinged  at.  Konigsberg  without  even  a  trial.  'He  had  no  trial ;  but  was  there  any 
doubt  //,•  had  Justice  y  A  public  thief,  confessing  he  had  stolen  the  taxes  IK;  was  s<:t 
to  gather  ;  Insolently  offering,  as  if  that  were  all,  to  repay  the  money,  and  saying,  It 
wan  not  Matter  (good  manners)  to  hang  a  nobleman!'  Roloff  shakes  his  head, 
•  I  <«>  violent,  Your  Majesty,  and  savoring  of  the  tyrannous.  The  poor  King  must 

re|H'Tit . 

••'Well  _is  there  any  thing  more  ?  Out  with  it,  then  ;  better  now  than  toolntc  !' 
tain  building  operations  of  an  oppressive  character  come  under  review. 1 
And  then  there  is  forgiveness  of  enemies  ;  Your  Majesty  is  bound  to  for- 


• .  •     •      '  »  mere  m  lorsjiveness  or  enemies  ;  Your  Majesty  is  hound  to  ror- 

BU  men,  or  how  can  you  ask  to  be  forgiven  ?'— '  Well  I  will ;  I  do.     You  K.rkiu 


pHcttj  and  sincerity  :  sne.h  as  we  rarely  get  right  of  among  the.  modern  son*  of 
LdMn,  among  the  crowned  tons  nearly  never.  At  parting  he  said  to  KoloiT,  'von 
U>.  He)  do  not  spare  me  :  >t  i«  right.  You  do  your  duty  like  au  Vionent  Christian 


FREDERICK  THE   GREAT.  11 

iemper  in:  table  even  to  ferocity,  tho  pleasure  in  the  pain  and  hu- 
miliation of  others.  But  those  propensities  had  in  Frederick  Wil- 
liam partaken  of  the  general  unsoundness  of  his  mind,  and  wore  a 
very  different  aspect  when  found  in  company  with  the  strong  and 
cultivated  understanding  of  his  successor.  Thus,  for  example,  Freder- 
ick was  as  anxious  as  any  prince  could  be  about  the  efficacy  of  his 
army.  But  this  anxiety  never  degenerated  into  a  monomania,  like 
that  which  led  his  father  to  pay  fancy- prices  for  giants.  Frederick 
vras  as  thrifty  about  money  as  any  prince  or  any  private  man  ought 
to  l>e.  But  he  did  not  conceive,  like  his  father,  that  it  was  worth 
while  to  eat  unwholesome  cabbages  for  the  sake  of  saving  four  or 
five  rix  dollars  in  the  year.  Frederick  was,  we  fear,  as  malevolent 
as  his  father  ;  but  Frederick's  wit  enabled  him  often  to  show  his 
malevolence  in  ways  more  decent  than  those  to  which  his  father 
resorted,  and  to  inflict  misery  and  degradation  by  a  taunt  instead  of  a 
blow.  Frederick,  it  is  true,  by  no  means  relinquished  his  hereditary 
privilege  of  kicking  and  cudgelling.  His  practice,  however,  as  to 
lhat  matter  differed  in  some  important  respects  from  his  father's.  To 
Frederick  William,  the  mere  circumstance  that  any  persons  whatever, 
men,  women,  or  children,  Prussians  or  foreigners,  were  within  reach 
ef  his  toes  and  of  his  cane,  appeared  to  be  a  sufficient  reason  for  pro- 
ceeding to  belabor  them.  Frederick  required  provocation  as  well  as 
vicinity  ;  nor  was  he  ever  known  to  inflict  this  paternal  species  of 
correction  on  any  but  his  born  subjects  ;  though  on  one  occasion  M. 
Thiebault  had  reason  during  a  few  seconds  to  anticipate  the  high 
honor  of  being  an  exception  to  this  general  rule. 

The  character  of  Frederick  was  still  very  imperfectly  understood 
either  by  his  subjects  or  by  his  neighbors,  when  events  occurred 
which  exhibited  it  in  a  strong  light.  A  few  months  after  his  acces- 
sion died  Charles  VI. ,  Emperor  of  Germany,  the  last  descendant  in 
the  male  line  of  the  house  of  Austria. 

Charles  left  no  son,  and  had  long  before  his  death  relinquished  all 
hopes  of  male  issue.  During  the  latter  part  of  his  life  his  principal 
object  had  been  to  secure  to  his  descendants  in  the  female  line  the 
many  crowns  of  the  house  of  Hapsbnrg.  With  this  view,  he  had 
promulgated  a  new  law  of  succession  widely  celebrated  throughout 
Europe  under  the  name  of  the  "  Pragmatic  Sanction."  By  virtue  of 
this  decree,  his  daughter,  tho  Archduchess  Maria  Theresa,  wife  of 
Francis  of  Lorraine,  succeeded  to  the  dominions  of  her  ancestors. 

No  sovereign  has  ever  taken  possession  of  a  throne  by  a  clearer 
title.  All  tho  politics  of  the  Austrian  cabinet  had  during  twenty 
years  been  directed  to  one  single  end — the  settlement  of  the  succes- 
sion. From  every  person  whose  rights  could  l>c  considered  as  injuri- 
ously affected,  renunciations  in  the  most  solemn  form  had  been  ob- 
tained. Tli«  new  law  had  been  ratified  by  the  Estates  of  all  the  king- 
doms and  principalities  which  made  up  the  great  Austrian  monarchy. 
England,  Franc*,  Spain,  Russia,  Pokuid,  Prussia,  Sweden,  Denmark, 


U  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

the  Germanic  body,  had  bound  themselves  by  treaty  to  maintain  th« 
"Pragmatic Sanction."  That  instrument  was  placed  under  the  pro- 
trction  of  the  public  faith  of  the  whole  civilized  world. 

Kven  if  no  positive  stipulations  on  this  subject  had  existed,  the 
arrangement  was  one  which  no  good  man  would  have  been  willing  to 
disturb.  It  was  a  peaceable  arrangement.  It  was  an  arrangement 
acceptable  to  the  great  population  whose  happiness  was  chiefly  con- 
cerned. It  was  an  arrangement  which  made  no  change  in  the  distri- 
lniiion  of  power  among  the  states  of  Christendom.  It  was  an  ar- 
rangement which  could  be  set  aside  only  by  means  of  a  general  war  ; 
and,  if  it  were  set  aside,  the  effect  would  be  that  the  equilibrium  of 
Europe  would  be  deranged,  that  the  loyal  and  patriotic  feelings  of 
millions  would  be  cruelly  outraged,  and  that  great  provinces  which  had 
IN TH  united  for  centuries  would  be  torn  from  each  other  by  main 

force. 

The  sovereigns  of  Europe  were  therefore  bound  by  every  obligation 
which  those  who  are  intrusted  with  power  over  their  fellow-creatures 
ought  to  hold  most  sacred,  to  respect  and  defend  the  right  of  the 
Archduchess.  Her  situation  and  her  personal  qualities  were  such  as 
might  bo  expected  to  move  the  mind  of  any  generous  man  to  pity, 
admiration,  and  chivalrous  tenderness.  She  was  in  her  twenty-fourth 
year.  Her  form  was  majestic,  her  features  beautiful,  her  counte- 
nance sweet  and  animated,  her  voice  musical,  her  deportment  gracious 
and  dignified.  In  all  domestic  relations  she  was  without  reproach. 
She  was  married  to  a  husband  whom  she  loved,  and  was  on  the  point 
c.f  giving  birth  to  n.  child  when  death  deprived  her  of  her  father. 
The  lo-^s  <>f  a  parent  and  the  new  cares  of  the  empire  were  too  much 
for  her  in  the  delicate  state  of  her  health.  Her  spirits  were  depressed 
and  her  check  lost  its  bloom. 

Vet  it  seemed  that  she  had  little  cause  for  anxiety.  It  seemed  that 
justice,  humanity,  and  the  faith  of  treaties  would  have  their  due 
weight,  and  that  the  settlement  so  solemnly  guaranteed  would  l>e 
quietly  carried  into  effect.  England,  Russia,  Poland,  and  Holland 
declared  in  form  their  intentions  to  adhere  to  their  engagements. 
The  Krench  ministers  made  a  verbal  declaration  to  the  same  e(Te<*. 
Hut  from  no  quarter  did  the  young  Queen  of  Hungary  receive  strong 
er  assurances  of  friendship  and  support  than  from  the  King  of  Prus- 
sia. 

•he  King  of  Prussia,  the  "  Anti-Machiavel,"  had  already  fully 
determined  to  commit  the  great  crime  of  violating  his  plighted  faith, 
of  robbing  the  ally  whom  he  was  bound  to  defend,  and  of  plunging 
all  Europe  into  a  long,  bloody,  and  desolating  war,  and  all  this  for  DUO 
«.-nd  whatever  except,  that  he  might  extend  his  dominions  and  see  his 
name  in  the  gazettes.  He  determined  to  assemble  a  great  army  with 
and  semvy  to  invade  Silesia  before  Maria  Theresa  should  b« 
apprized  of  his  dewign.  and  to  add  that  rich  province  to  his  kingdom. 

We  will  not  condescend  to  refute  at  length  the  pleas  .  .  .  [put 


FREDERICK   THE  GREAT.  18 

forth  by]  Doctor  Preuss.  They  amount  to  thin — that  the  house  of 
Brandenburg  had  some  ancient  pretensions  to  Silesia,  and  had  in  the 
previous  century  been  compelled  by  hard  usage  on  the  part  of  tha 
court  of  Vienna,  to  waive  those  pretensions.  It  is  certain  that  who- 
ever might  originally  have  been  in  the  right  Prussia  had  submitted. 
Prince  after  prince  of  the  house  of  Brandenburg  had  acquiesced  in 
the  existing  arrangement.  Nay,  the  court  of  Ber.in  had  rerr-ntly 
been  allied  with  that  of  Vienna,  and  had  guaranteed  the  integrity  of 
the  Austrian  States.  Is  it  not  perfectly  clear  that  if  antiquated 
claims  are  to  be  set  up  against  recent  treaties  and  long  possession,  the 
world  can  never  be  at  peace  for  a  day?  The  laws  of  all  nations  have 
wisely  established  a  time  of  limitation,  after  which  titles,  however 
illegitimate  in  their  origin,  cannot  be  questioned.  It  is  felt  by  every- 
body that  to  eject  a  person  from  his  estate  on  the  ground  of  some  in- 
justice committed  in  the  time  of  the  Tudors,  would  produce  ail  the 
evils  which  result  from  arbitrary  confiscation,  would  make  all  prop- 
erty insecure.  It  concerns  the  commonwealth — so  runs  the  legal 
maxim — that  there  be  an  end  of  litigation.  And  surely  this  maxim 
is  at  least  equally  applicable  to  the  great  commonwealth  of  Slates, 
for  in  that  commonwealth  litigation  means  the  devastation  of  prov- 
inces, the  suspension  of  trade  and  industry,  sieges  like  those  of  Bada- 
joz  and  St.  Sebastian,  pitched  fields  like  those  of  Eylau  and  Boro- 
dino. We  hold  that  the  transfer  of  Norway  from  Denmark  to 
Sweden  was  an  unjustifiable  proceeding  ;  but  would  the  King  of  Den- 
mark be  therefore  justified  in  landing  without  any  new  provocation  in 
Norway,  and  commencing  military  operations  there?  The  King  of 
Holland  thinks,  no  doubt,  that  he  was  unjustly  deprived  of  the  ISel- 
gian  provinces.  Grant  that  it  were  so.  Would  he,  therefore,  be 
justified  in  marching  with  an  army  on  Brussels?  The  case  against 
Frederick  was  still  stronger,  inasmuch  as  the  injustice  of  which  he 
complained  had  been  committed  more  than  a  century  before.  Nor 
must  it  be  forgotten  that  he  owed  the  highest  personal  obligations  to 
the  house  of  Austria.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  his  life  had  not 
been  preserved  by  the  intercession  of  the  prince  whose  daughter  he 
was  about  to  plunder. 

To  do  the  king  justice;,  lie  pretended  to  no  more  virtue  than  he  had. 
In  manifestoes  he  might,  for  form's  sake,  insert  some  idle  storie* 
about  his  antiquated  claim  on  Silesia  ;  but  in  his  conversations  and 
Memoirs  he  took  a  very  different  tone.  To  quote  his  own  words — • 
'  Ambition,  interest,  the  desire  of  making  people  talk  about  mo, 
carried  the  day,  and  I  decided  for  war." 

Having  resolved  on  his  course,  he  acted  with  ability  and  vigor.  It 
was  impossible  wholly  to  conceal  his  preparations,  for  throughout  the 
Prussian  territories  regiments,  guns,  and  baggage  were  in  motion. 
The  Austrian  envoy  at  Berlin  apprized  his  court  of  these  facts,  and 
expressed  a  suspicion  of  Frederick's  designs  ;  but  the  ministers  of 
Maria  Theresa  refused  to  give  credit  to  so  black  an  imputatten  on  a 


14  FREDERICK   TEE   GREAT. 

yuan*  prince  who  was  known  chiefly  by  his  high  professions  of  in- 
tegrity mid  philanthropy.  "  Wo  will  not,"  they  wrote,  "we  cannot 
believe  it." 

In  the  meantime  the  Prussian  forces  had  been  assembled.  With- 
out any  declaration  of  war,  without  any  demand  for  reparation,  in 
the  very  act  of  pouring  forth  compliments  and  assurances  of  good- 
will, Frederick  commenced  hostilities.  Many  thousands  of  his  troops 
were  :\.-tually  in  Silesia  before  the  Queen  of  Hungary  knew  that  he 
lr,d  set  up  any  claim  to  any  part  of  her  territories.  At  length  he 
sent  her  a  message  which  could  be  regarded  only  as  an  insult.  If  she 
would  but  let  him  have  Silesia,  he  would,  he  said,  stand  by  her 
against  any  power  which  should  try  to  deprive  her  of  her  other  do- 
minions :  :us  if  he  was  not  already  bound  to  stand  by  her,  or  as  if  his 
new  promise  could  be  of  more  value  than  the  old  one  ! 

It  w:us  the,  depth  of  winter.  The  cold  was  severe,  and  the  roads 
deep  in  mire.  But  the  Prussians  passed  on.  Resistance  was  impos- 
sible. The  Austrian  army  was  then  neither  numerous  nor  ellicient. 
The  small  portion  of  that  army  which  lay  in  Silesia  was  unprepared 
for  hostilities.  Ologau  was  blockaded  ;  Breslau  opened  its  gates  ; 
Ohlau  was  evacuated.  A  few  scattered  garrisons  still  held  out  ;  but 
the  whole  open  country  was  subjugated  ;  no  enemy  ventured  to  en- 
counter the  king  in  the  field  ;  and  before  the  end  of  January,  1741, 
he  returned  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  his  subjects  at  Ber  in. 

Had  the  Silesian  question  been  merely  a  question  between  Freder- 
ick and  Maria  Theresa,  it  would  be  impossible  to  acquit  the  Prussian 
King  of  gross  pcriidy.  But  when  we  consider  the  effects  which  his 
]M)licy  produced,  and  could  not  fail  to  produce,  on  the  whole  commu- 
nity of  civili/ed  nations,  we  are  compelled  to  pronounce  a  condemna- 
tion s.ill  more  seven;.  Till  he  began  the  war  it  seemed  possible, 
even  probable,  that  the  peace  of  the  world  would  bo  preserved.  The 
plunder  of  the  great  Austrian  heritage  was  indeed  a  strong  tempta- 
tion ;  and  in  more  than  one  cabinet  ambitious  schemes  were  already 
meditated.  But  the  treaties  by  which  the  "  Pragmatic  Sanction  "  had 
hem  guartmieed  wen;  express  and  recent.  To  throw  all  Europe  into 
confusion  for  a  purpose  clearly-  unjust  was  no  light  matter.  England 
was  true  to  her  engagements.  The  voice  of  Fleury  had  always  been 
Tor  peace.  He  had  a  conscience,  lie  was  now  in  extreme  old  age, 
und  was  unwilling,  after  a  life  which,  when  his  situation  was  con 
.sidured,  must  be  pronounced  singularly  pure,  to  carry  the  fresh  stain 
of  a  great  crime  Iteforo  the  tribunal  of  his  Clod.  Even  the  vain  and 
unprincipled  Belle  Isle,  whoso  whole  life  was  one  wild  day  dream  of 
"-)tic|ueM,  and  sjxdiation,  felt  that  France,  bound  as  she  was  by  solemn 
stipulations,  could  not  without  disgrace  make  a  direct  attack  on  the 
Austrian  dominions.  Charles,  Elector  of  Bavaria,  pretended  that  he 
had  a  right  to  a  large  part  of  the  inheritance  which  the  "  Pragmatic 
Sanction  "  gave  to  the  Queen  of  Hungary,  but  ho  was  not  sufficiently 
jxnverful  to  raovu  without  support.  It  might,  therefore,  not  un- 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT.  15 

reasonably  be  expected  tliat  after  a  short  period  of  restlessness,  all 
the  potentates  of  Christendom  would  acquiesce  in  the  arrangement* 
mado  by  the  late  emperor.  But  the  selfish  rapacity  of  the  King  of 
Prussia  gave  thw  signal  to  his  neighbors.  His  example  quieted  their 
genso  of  shame.  His  success  led  them  to  underrate  the,  difficulty  of 
dismembering  the  Austrian  monarchy.  The  whole  world  sprang  to 
arms.  On  the  head  of  Frederick  is  a.l  the  blood  which  was  shed  in  a 
war  which  raged  during  many  years  and  in  every  quarter  of  the 
globe — the  blood  of  the  column  of  Fontenoy,  the  blood  of  the  brave 
mountaineers  who  were  slaughtered  at  Culloden.  The  evils  produced 
by  this  wickedness  were  felt  in  lands  where  the  name  of  Prussia  was 
unknown  ;  and,  in  order  that  he  might  rob  a  neighbor  whom  he  had 
promised  to  defend,  black  men  fought  on  the  coast  of  Coromandel, 
and  red  men  scalped  each  other  by  the  great  lakes  of  North  America. 

Silesia  had  been  occupied  without  a  battle  ;  but  the  Austrian 
troops  were  advancing  to  the  relief  of  the  fortresses  which  still  held 
out.  In  the  spring  Frederick  rejoined  his  army.  He  had  seen  little 
of  war,  and  had  never  commanded  any  great  body  of  men  in  the 
field.  It  is  not,  therefore,  strange  that  his  first  military  operations 
showed  little  of  that  skill  which,  at  a  later  period,  was  the  admira- 
tion of  Europe.  What  connoisseurs  say  of  some  pictures  painted  by 
Raphael  in  his  youth,  may  be  said  of  this  campaign.  It  was  in 
Frederick's  early  bad  manner.  Fortunately  for  him,  the  generals  to 
whom  lie  was  opposed  were  men  of  small  capacity.  The  discipline 
of  his  own  troops,  particularly  of  the  infantry,  was  unequalled  in 
that  age  ;  and  some  able  and  experienced  officers  were  at  hand  to 
assist  him  with  their  advice.  Of  these,  the  most~distinguishod  was 
Field-Marshal  Schwerin — a  brave  adventurer  of  Pomeranian  extrac- 
tion, who  luid  served  half  the  governments  in  Europe,  had  borne  the 
commissions  of  the  States-General  of  Holland  and  of  the  Duke  of 
Mecklenburg,  and  fought  under  Marlborough  at  Blenheim,  and  had 
been  with  Charles  the  Twelfth  at  Bender. 

Frederick's  first  battle  was  fought  at  Molwicz,  and  never  did  tho 
career  of  a  great  commander  open  in  a  more  inauspicious  manner. 
His  army  was  victorious.  Not  only,  however,  did  lie  not  establish 
his  title  to  the  character  of  an  able  general,  but  he  was  so  unfortu- 
nate as  to  make  it  doubtful  whether  he  possessed  the  vulgar  courage 
of  a  soldier.  The  cavalry  which  he  commanded  in  person  was  put 
to  flight.  Unaccustomed  to  the  tumult  and  carnage  of  a  field  of  bat- 
tle, he  lost  his  self-possession,  and  listened  too  readily  to  those  who 
urged  him  to  save  himself.  His  English  gray  carried  him  many 
miles  fiom  the  field,  while  Schwerin,  though  wounded  in  two  places, 
manfully  upheld  the  day.  The  skill  of  tho  old  Field -Marshal  and 
the  steadiness  of  the  Prussian  battalions  prevailed  ;  and  the  Austrian 
army  was  driven  from  the  field  with  the  loss  of  eight  thousand  men. 

The  news  was  carried  late  at  night  to  a  mill  in  which  the  king  had 
taken  shelter.  It  gave  him  a  bitter  pang.  Ho  woa  successful  :  brrt 


1«  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

he  owed  his  success  to  dispositions  which  others  had  made,  and  to  th« 
valor  of  nidi  wlio  had  fought  while  he  was  flying.  So  unpromising 
\V:LS  tin-  first  appearance  of  the  greatest  warrior  of  that  age  ! 

The  battle  of  Molwitx  was  the  signal  for  a  general  explosion 
throughout  Europe.  Havana  took  up  arms.  France,  not  yet  declar- 
ing herself  a  principal  inr  the  war,  took  part  in  it  as  an  ally  of  Bava- 
via.  The  two  great  statesmen  to  whom  mankind  had  owed  many 
of  tranquillity  disappeared  about  this  time  from  the  scene  ; 
but  not  till  they  had  both  been  guilty  of  the  weakness  of  sacrificing 
their  sense  of  justice  and  their  love  of  peace  in  the  vain  hope  of  pre- 
serving their  power.  Fleury,  sinking  under  age  and  infirmity,  wa» 
borne  down  by  the  impetuosity  of  Belle-Isle.  Walpole  retired  from 
the  service  of  his  ungrateful  country  to  his  woods  and  paintings  at 
lloughtoii,  and  his  power  devolved  on  the  daring  and  eccentric  Car- 
teret.  As  were  the  ministers,  so  were  the  nations.  Thirty  years 
during  which  Europe  had,  with  few  interruptions,  enjoyed  repose, 
had  prepared  the  public,  mind  for  great  military  efforts.  A  new  gen- 
eration had  grown  up,  which  could  not  remember  the  siege  of  Turin 
.or  the  slaughter  of  Malplaquet ;  which  knew  war  by  nothing  but  its 
trophies  ;  and  which,  while  it  looked  with  pride  on  the  tapestries  at 
Blenheim,  or  the  statue  in  the  "  Place  of  Victories,"  little  thought  by 
what  privations,  by  what  waste  of  private  fortunes,  by  how  many 
bitter  teai-s,  conquests  must  be  purchased. 

Kor  a  time  fortune  seemed  adverse  to  the  Queen  of  Hungary. 
Frederick  invaded  .Moravia.  The  French  and  Bavarians  penetrated 
into  Hohemia,  and  were  there  joined  by  the  Saxons.  Prague  was 
taken.  The  Elector  of  Bavaria  was  raised  by  the  suffrages  of  his 
colleagues  to  the  Imperial  throne — a  throne  which  the  practice  of 
centuriwK  had  almost  entitled  the  house  of  Austria  to  regard  as  an 
hereditary  possession. 

Yet  was  the  spirit  of  the  haughty  daughter  of  the  CVsars  unbroken. 
Hungary  was  still  hers  by  an  unquestionable  title  ;  and  although  her 
ancestors  had  found  Hungary  the  most  mutinous  of  all  their  king- 
doms, she  resolved  to  trust  herself  to  the  fidelity  of  a  people,  rude 
indeed,  turbulent,  and  impatient  of  oppression,  but  brave,  generous, 
and  simple  hearted.  In  the  midst  of  distress  and  peril  she  had  given 
bin. 1 1  to  a  son,  afterwards  the  Kmperor  Joseph  the  Second.  Scarcely 
h;id  she  risen  from  her  couch,  when  she  hastened  to  Pressburg. 
There,  in  the  sight  of  an  innumerable  multitude,  she  was  crowned 
with  the  crown  and  robed  with  the  robe  of  St.  Stephen.  No  specta- 
tor  could  restniin  his  tears  when  the  beautiful  young  mother,  still 
•weak  from  child-bearing,  rode,  after  the  fashion  of  her  fathers,  up 
the  .Mount  of  Defiance,,  unsheathed  the  ancient  sword  of  state,  shook 
it  towards  north  and  south,  east  and  west,  and,  with  a  glow  on  her 
pale  fare,  challenged  the  four  corners  of  the  world  to  dispute  her 
rights  and  those  of  her  l>oy.  At  the  first  sitting  of  the  Diet  she  jip. 
clad  in  devp  mourning  for  her  father,  and  in  pathetic  and  dig- 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  n 

nified  words  implored  lior  people  to  support  her  just  cause.  Mag- 
nates and  deputies  sprang  up,  half  drew  their  sabres,  and  with  eager, 
voices  vowed  to  stand  by  her  with  their  lives  and  fortunes.  Till  then 
her  firmness  had  never  once  forsaken  her  before  the  public  eye,  but 
at  that  shout  she  sank  down  upon  her  throne,  and  wept  aloud.  Still 
more  touching  was  the  sight  when,  a  few  days  later,  she  came  Ix'foro 
the  Kstates  of  her  realm,  and  held  up  before  them  the  little  Archduke 
in  her  arms.  Then  it  was  that  the  enthusiasm  of  Hungary  broke 
forth  into  that  war-cry  which  soon  resounded  throughout  Europe, 
"  Let  us  die  for  our  King,  Maria  Theresa  !  " 

In  the  mean  time,  Frederick  was  meditating  a  change  of  policy. 
He  had  no  wish  to  raise  France  to  supreme  power  on  the  continent, 
at  the  expense  of  the  house  of  Ilapsburg.  His  first  object  was  to 
rob  the  Queen  *bf  Hungary.  His  second  was  that,  if  possible,  no- 
body should  rol)  her  but  himself.  He  had  entered  into  engagements 
with  the  powers  leagued  against  Austria ;  but  these  engagements 
were  in  his  estimation  of  no  more  force  than  the  guarantee  formerly 
given  to  the  "  Pragmatic  Sanction."  His  game  was  now  to  secure  his 
share  of  the  plunder  by  betraying  his  accomplices.  Maria  Theresa 
was  little  inclined  to  listen  to  any  such  compromise  ;  but  the  English 
government  represented  to  her  so  strongly  the  necessity  of  buying  oft' 
so  formidable  an  enemy  as  Frederick,  that  she  agreed  to  negotiate. 
The  negotiation  would  not,  however,  have  ended  in  a  treaty,  had  not, 
the  arms  of  Frederick  been  crowned  \tith  a  second  victory.  Prince 
Charles  of  Lorraine,  brother-in-law  to  Maria  Theresa,  a  bold  and 
ivtive,  though  unfortunate  general,  gave  battle  to  the  Prussians  at 
Chotusitz,  and  was  defeated.  The  king  was  still  only  a  learner  of 
the  military  art.  He  acknowledged,  at  a  later  period,  that  his  suc- 
cess on  this  occasion  was  to  be  attributed,  not  at  all  to  his  own  gen- 
eralship, but  solely  to  the  valor  and  steadiness  of  his  troops,  lie 
completely  effaced,  however,  by  his  courage  and  energy,  the  stain 
which  Molwitx  had  left  on  his  reputation. 

A  peace,  concluded  under  the  English  mediation,  was  the  fruit  of 
this  battle.  Maria  Theresa  ceded  Silesia  ;  Frederick  abandoned  his 
allies  ;  Saxony  followed  his  example  ;  and  the  queen  was  left  at  lib 
erty  to  turn  her  whole  force  against  France  and  Bavaria.  She  was 
everywhere  triumphant.  The  French  were  compelled  to  evacuate 
Bohemia,  and  with  difficulty  effected  their  escape.  The  whole  line 
of  their  retreat  might  be  tracked  by  the  corpses  of  thousands  who 
died  of  cold,  fatigue,  and  hunger.  Many  of  those  who  r«mched  their 
country  carried  with  them  seeds  of  death.  Bavaria  was  overrun  by 
bands  of  ferocious  warriors  from  that  bloody  "  debatable  land  "  which 
lies  on  the  frontier  between  Christendom  and  Islam.  The  terrible 
names  of  the  Pandoor,  the  Croat,  and  the  Hussar  then  first  became 
familiar  to  western  Europe.  The  unfortunate  Charles  of  Bavaria, 
vanquished  by  Austria,  betrayed  by  Prussia,  driven  from  his  heredi- 
tary states,  and  neglected  by  his  allies,  was  hurried  by  shame  ant? 


18  FREDERICK   THE  GREAT. 

remorse  to  an  untimely  find.  An  English  army  appeared  in  the  hran 
of  (Jet-many,  and  defeated  the  French  at  Dettingen.  The  Austrian 
captains  already  began  to  talk  of  completing  the  work  of  Marllx>r- 
ough  and  Kugene,  and  of  compelling  France  to  relinquish  Alsace  ana 
the  Three  Bishoprics. 

The  court  of  Versailles,  in  this  peril,  looked  to  Frederick  for  help, 
lie  had  Ix-on  guilty  of  two  great  treasons,  perhaps  he  might  bo  in- 
•  liici-d  to  commit  a  third.  The  Duchess  of  Chateauroux  then  held  tho 
chief  influence  over  the  feeble  Louis.  She  determined  to  send  an 
agent  to  Berlin,  and  Voltaire  was  selected  for  the  mission.  lie 
eagerly  undertook  the  task  ;  for,  while  his  literary  fame  filled  all 
Europe,  he  was  troubled  witli  a  childish  craving  for  political  distinc- 
tion. He  was  vain,  and  not  without  reason,  of  his  address,  and 
of  his  insinuating  eloquence  ;  and  he  flattered  himself  that  he  pos- 
sessed boundless  influence  over  the  King  of  Prussia.  The  truth  was 
that  he  knew,  as  yet,  only  one  corner  of  Frederick's  character.  Ho 
was  well  acquainted  with  all  the  petty  vanities  and  affectations  of  tho 
poetaster  ;  but  was  not  aware  that  these  foibles  were  united  with  all 
the  talents  and  vices  which  lead  to  success  in  active  life  ;  and  that 
the  unlucky  versifier  who  l>ored  him  with  reams  of  middling  Alexan- 
drians, was  tho  most  vigilant,  suspicious,  and  severe  of  politicians. 

Voltaire  was  received  with  every  mark  of  respect  and  friendship, 
wits  lodged  in  the  palace,  and  had  a  seat  daily  at  the  royai  table. 
The  negotiation  was  of  an  extraordinary  description.  Nothing  can 
U-  conceived  more  whimsical  than  the  conferences  which  took  place 
IM-I  ween  the  first  literary  man  and  the  first  practical  man  of  the  age, 
whom  a  strange  weakness  had  induced  to  exchange  their  parts.  The 
great  poet  would  talk  of  nothing  but  treaties  and  guarantees,  and  the 
neat  king  of  nothing  but  metaphors  and  rhymes.  On  one  occasion 
Voltaire  put  into  his  Majesty's  hand  a  paper  on  the  state  of  Euro]*-, 
and  received  it  back  with  verses  scrawled  on  the  margin.  In  secret 
Ihey  both  laughed  at  each  other.  Voltaire  did  not  spare  the  king's 
poems;  and  the  king  hsis  left  on  record  his  opinion  of  Voltaire's 
diplomacy.  "lie  luul  no  credentials,"  says  Frederick,  "and  the 
whole  mission  was  a  joke,  a  mere  farce." 

Hut  what  the  influence  of  Voltaire  could  not  effect,  the  rapid  pro- 
gress of  the  Austrian  arms  effected.  If  it  should  be  in  the  power  of 
Maria  Theresa  and  George  the  Second  to  dictate  terms  of  peace  to 
IMMMCC,  what  chance  was  there  that  Prussia  would  long  retain  Sile- 
sia? Frederick's  conscience  told  him  that  he  had  acted  perfidiously 
and  inhumanly  towards  the  Queen  of  Hungary.  That  her  resentment 
was  strong  she  had  given  ample  proof,  and  of  her  respect  for  treaties 
heiadged  by  his  own.  (iiiarantees,  he  said,  were  filigree,  pretty  to 
look  at,  but  too  brittle  to  bear  the  slightest  pressure.  He  thought  it 
his  safest  course  to  ally  himself  Hosely  to  France,  and  again  to  attack 
the  Empress  Queen.  Accordingly,  in  the  autumn  of  1744,  without 
notice,  without  auy  decent  pretext,  he  recommenced  hostilities. 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  IS 

marclied  through  the  electorate  of  Saxony  without  troubling  himself 
about  the  permission  of  the  Elector,  invaded  Bohemia,  took  Prague, 
and  even  menaced  Vienna. 

It  was  now  that,   for  the  first  time,  he  experienced  the  inconsist- 
ency of   fortune.      An   Austrain   army   under  Charles  of   Lorraine 
threatened  his  communications  with  Silesia.     Saxony  was  all  in  arms 
behind  him.     He  found  it  necessary  to  save  himself  by  a  retreat.     He 
afterwards  owned  that  his  failure  was  the  natural  effect  of  his  own 
blunders.     No  general,  he  said,  had  ever  committed  greater  faults.  | 
It  must  l>e  added,  that  to  the  reverses  of  this  campaign  he  always  as-' 
cribed  his  subsequent  successes. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  difficulty  and  disgrace  that  he  caught  the 
first  clear  glimpse  of  the  principles  of  the  military  art. 

The  memorable  year  of  1745  followed.  The  war  raged  by  sea  and 
land  in  Italy,  in  Germany,  and  in  Flanders  ;  and  even  England, 
after  many  years  of  profound  internal  quiet,  saw,  for  the  last  time, 
hostile  armies  set  in  battle  array  against  each  other.  This  year  is 
memorable  in  the  life  of  Frederick,  as  the  date  at  which  his  noviciate 
in  the  art  of  war  may  be  said  to  have  terminated.  There  have  been 
great  captains  whose  precocious  and  self-taught  military  skill  resem- 
bled intuition.  Conde,  Clive,  and  Napoleon  are  examples.  But 
Frederick  was  not  one  of  these  brilliant  portents.  His  proficiency  in 
military  science  was  simply  the  proficiency  which  a  man  of  vigorous 
faculties  makes  in  any  science  to  which  he  applies  his  mind  with 
earnestness  and  industry.  It  was  at  Hohenfreidberg  that  lie  first 
proved  how  much  he  had  profited  by  his  errors  and  by  their  conse- 
quences. His  victory  on  that  day  was  chiefly  due  to  his  skilful  disjtosi- 
tions,  and  convinced  Europe  that  the  prince  who,  a  few  years  before, 
had  stood  aghast  in  the  rout  at  Molwitz,  had  attained  in  the  military 
art  a  mastery  equalled  by  none  of  his  contemporaries,  or  equalled  by 
Saxo  alone.  The  victory  of  Hohenfriedberg  was  speedily  followed 
by  that  of  Sorr. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  arms  of  France  had  l>een  victorious  in  the 
Low  Countries.  Frederick  had  no  longer  reason  to  fear  that  Maria 
Theresa  would  l>e  able  to  give  law  to  Europe,  and  helmgan  to  medi- 
tate a  fourth  breach  of  his  engagements.  The  court  of  Versailles  was 
alarmed  and  mortified.  A  letter  of  earnest  expostulation,  in  thu 
handwriting  of  Louis,  was  sent  to  Berlin  ;  but  in  vain.  In  tho 
autumn  of  1745,  Frederick  made  peace  with  England,  and,  before  the 
close  of  the  year,  with  Austria  also.  The  pretensions  of  Charle.sof 
Bavaria  could  present  no  obstacle  to  an  accommodation.  That  un- 
happy prince  was  no  more  ;  and  Francis  of  Lorraine,  the  husband  of 
Maria  Theresa,  was  raised,  with  the  general  consent  of  the  Germanio 
body,  to  the  Imperial  throne. 

Prussia  was  again  at  peace  ;  but  the  European  war  lasted  till,  in 
the  year  1748,  it  was  terminated  by  the  treaty  of  Aix  la  Chapelle. 
Of  all  the  powers  that  had  taken  ^>art  in  it,  the  only  gainer  was  Fred- 


so  FKKDERICK  THE  CJKKAT. 

erick.  Not  only  had  he  added  to  his  patrimony  the  fino  province  oj 
Silesia  ;  he  had'  by  his  unprincipled  dexterity,  succeeded  so  well  iii 
alternately  depressing  the  scale  of  Austria  and  that  of  France,  that 
tic  \\as  generally  regarded  as  holding  the  balance  of  Europe— a  high 
dignity  (or  one  who  ranked  lowest  among  kings,  and  whose  great- 
grandfather had  been  no  more  than  a  margrave.  By  the  public  the 
Kinir  of  Prussia  was  considered  as  a  politician  destitute  alike  of 
morality  and  decency,  insatiably  rapacious,  and  shamelessly  false  ; 
nor  was  the  public,  much  in  the  wrong.  He  was  at  t lie  same  time 
billowed  to  be  a  man  of  parts — a  rising  general,  a  shrewd  negotiator 
and  administrator.  Those  qualities,  wherein  he  surpassed  all  man- 
kind, were  as  yet  unknown  to  others  or  to  himself;  for  they  were 
qualities  which  shine  out  only  on  &  dark  ground.  His  career  had 
hitherto,  with  little  interruption,  been  prosperous  ;  and  it  was  only 
in  adversity,  in  adversity  which  seemed  without  hope  or  resource,  in 
adversity  that  would  have;  overwhelmed  even  men  celebrated  for 
stre.^th  of  mind,  that  his  real  greatness  could  be  shown. 

lie  had  from  the  commencement  of  his  reign  applied  himself  to 
public  business  after  a  fashion  unknown  among  kings  Louis, the 
XIV.,  indeed,  had  been  his  own  prime  minister,  and  had  exercised  a 
general  superintendence  over  all  the  departments  of  the  government  ; 
but  this  was  not  sufficient  for  Frederick.  He  was  not  content  with 
being  his  own  prime  minister — he  would  be  his  own  sole  minister. 
I'mlcr  him  there  was  no  room,  not  merely  for  a  Richelieu  or  a  Ma- 
/.a rin,  but  for  a  Colbert,  a  Louvois,  or  a  Torcy.  A  love  of  labor  lot- 
its  own  sake,  a  restless  and  insatiable  longing  to  dictate,  to  intermed- 
dle, to  make  his  power  felt,  a  profound  scorn  and  distrust  of  his  I'd 
low  creatures,  indisposed  him  to  ask  counsel,  to  confide  important, 
secrets,  to  delegate  ample  powers.  The  highest  functionaries  under 
his  government  were  mere  clerks,  and  were  not  so  much  trusted  by 
him  as  valuable  clerks  are  often  trusted  by  the  heads  of  departments. 
He  was  his  own  treasurer,  his  own  commander- in-chief,  his  own  in- 
tendant  of  public,  works  ;  his  own  minister  for  trade  and  justice,  for 
home  affairs  and  foreign  affairs  ;  his  own  master  of  the  horse,  steward 
and  chamberlain.  Matters  of  which  no  chief  of  an  office  in  any  other 
government  would  ever  hear,  were,  in  this  singular  monarchy,  de- 
cided by  the  king  in  person.  If  a  traveller  wished  for  a  good  place 
to  see  a  review,  he  had  to  write  to  Frederick,  and  rceived  next  day, 
from  a  royal  messenger,  Frederick's  answer  signed  by  Frederick's 
own  hand.  This  was  an  extravagant,  a  morbid  activity.  The  pub- 
lic business  would  assuredly  have  been  better  done  if  eacli  depart- 
ment Ind  Iweii  put  under  a  man  of  talents  and  integrity,  and  if  the 
king  had  contented  himself  with  a  general  control.  In  this  manner 
the  advantages  which  belong  to  unity  of  design,  and  the  advantages 
which  In-long  to  the  division  of  lalwr,  would  have  been  to  a  great  ex- 
tent combined.  But  such  a  system  would  not  have  suited  the  pocii- 
liar  tomj>or  of  Frederick.  lie  could  tolerate  no  will,  no  reason  in  th« 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT.  31 

state  save  his  own.  He  wished  for  no  abler  assistance  than  that  of 
penmen  who  had  just  understanding  enough  to  translate,  to  trans- 
cribe, to  make  out  his  scrawls,  and  to  put  his  concise  Yes  and  No  into 
an  official  form.  Of  the  higher  intellectual  faculties,  there  is  as  much 
in  a  copying  machine  or  a  lithographic  press  as  he  required  from  a 
secretary  of  the  cabinet. 

His  own  exertions  were  such  as  were  hardly  to  be  expected  from  :i 
human  body  or  a  human  mind.  At  Potsdam,  his  ordinary  residence, 
he  rose  at  three  in  summer  and  four  in  winter.  A  page  scxm  ap- 
peared, with  a  large  basketful  of  all  the  letters  which  had  arrived  for 
the  king  by  the  last  courier — dispatches  from  ambassadors,  reports 
from  officers  of  revenue,  plans  of  buildings,  proposals  for  draining 
marshes,  complaints  from  persons  who  thought  themselves  aggrieved, 
applications  from  persons  who  wanted  titles,  military  commissions, 
and  civil  situations.  He  examined  the  seals  with  a  keen  eye  ;  for  ho 
was  never  for  a  moment  free  from  the  suspicion  that  some  fraud 
might  be  practised  on  him.  Then  ho  read  the  letters,  divided  them 
into  several  packets,  and  signified  his  pleasure,  gene; rally  by  a  mark, 
often  by  two  or  three  words,  now  and  and  then  by  some  cutting 
epigram.  By  eight  he  had  generally  finished  this  part  of  his  task. 
The  adjutant -general  was  then  in  attendance,  and  received  instruc- 
tions for  the  day  as  to  all  the  military  arrangements  of  the  kingdom. 
Then  ihe  king  went  ;o  review  his  guards,  not  as  kings  ordinarily  re- 
view their  guards,  but  witli.  the  minute  attention  and  severity  of  an 
old  drill-sergeant.  In  the  mean  time  the  four  cabinet  secretaries  hud 
been  employed  in  answering  the  letters  on  which  the  king  had  that 
morning  signified  his  will.  These  unhappy  men  were  forced  to  work 
all  the  year  round  like  negro  slaves  in  the  time  of  the  sugar-crop. 
They  never  had  a  holiday.  They  never  knew  what  it  was  to  dine.  It 
was  necessary  that,  before  they  stirred,  they  should  finish  the  whole 
of  their  work.  The  king,  always  on  his  guard  against  treachery, 
took  from  the  heap  a  handful  at  random,  and  looked  into  them  to  see 
whether  his  instructions  had  been  exactly  followed.  This  was  no 
bad  security  against  foul  play  on  the  part  of  the  secretaries  ;  for  if 
one  of  them  were  detected  in  a  trick,  he  might  think  himself  for- 
tunate it'  lie  escaped  with  five  years'  imprisonment  in  a  dungeon. 
Frederick  then  signed  the  replies,  and  all  were  sent  oil  the  samo 
evening. 

The  general  principles  upon  which  this  strange  government  wa;i 
conducted  deserve  attention.  The  policy  of  Frederick  was  essentially 
(the  same  as  his  father's  ;  but  Frederick,  while  ho  carried  that  policy 
to  lengths  to  which  his  father  never  thought  of  carrying  it,  cleared  it 
at  the  same  time  from  the  absurdities  with  which  his  father  had  en- 
cumbered it.  The  king's  first  object  was  to  have 'a  great,  efficient, 
and  well-trained  army.  He  had  a  kingdom  which  in  extent  and 
population  was  hardly  in  the  second  rank  of  European  powers  ;  and 
yet  he  aspired  to  a  place  not  inferior  to  that  of  the  sovereigns  of  Eng 


22  FREDERICK   THE   GREAT. 

land,  Franco,  and  Austria.  For  that  end  it  was  necessary  that  Prus- 
sia should  be  all  sting.  Louis  XV.,  with  five  times  as  many  subjects 
us  Frederick,  and  moro  than  five  times  as  large  a  revenue,  had  not  a 
more  formidable  army.  The  proportion  which  the  soldiers  in  Prus- 
sia bore  to  Ihe  people  seems  hardly  credible.  Of  the  males  in  tho 
vigor  of  life,  a  seventh  part  were  probably  under  arms  ;  and  this 
great  force  had,  by  drilling,  by  reviewing,  and  by  the  unsparing  use 
of  cane  and  scourge,  been  taught  to  perform  all  evolutions  with  a 
rapidity  and  a  precision  which  would  have  astonished  Villars  or 
Eugene.  The  elevated  feelings  which  are  necessary  to  the  best  kind 
of  army  were  then  wanting  to  the  Prussian  service.  In  those  ranks 
were  not  found  the  religious  and  political  enthusiasm  which  inspired 
the  pikeinen  of  Cromwell — the  patriotic  ardor,  the  thirst  of  glory,  the 
devotion  to  a  great  leader,  which  inflamed  the  Old  (iuard  of  Napo- 
leon. But  in  all  the  mechanical  parts  of  the  military  calling,  the 
Prussians  were  as  superior  to  the  English  and  French  troops  of  tli&t 
day  as  thu  English  and  French  troops  to  a  rustic  malitia. 

Though  the  pay  of  the  Prussian  soldier  was  small,  though  every 
rix  dollar  of  extraordinary  charge  was  scrutinized  by  Frederick  with 
a  vigilance  and  suspicion  such  as  Mr.  Joseph  Hume  never  brought  to 
the  examination  of  an  army-estimate,  the  expense  of  such  an  estab 
lishment  was,  for  the  means  of  the  country,  enormous.  In  order  that. 
it  might  not  be  utterly  ruinous,  it  was  necessary  that  every  other-  ex- 
pense should  be  cut  down  to  the  lowest^  possible  point.  Accordingly, 
Frederick,  though  liig  dominions  bordered  on  the  sea,  had  no  navy. 
He  neither  had  nor  wished  to  have  colonies.  His  judges,  his  fiscal 
officers,  were  meanly  paid.  His  ministers  at  foreign  courts  walked 
on  foot,  or  drove  shabby  old  carriages  till  the  axeltrees  gave  way. 
Even  to  his  highest  diplomatic  agents,  who  resided  at  London  and 
Paris,  he  allowed  less  than  a  thousand  pounds  sterling  a  year.  The 
royal  household  was  managed  with  a  frugality  unusual  in  tho  estab- 
lishments of  opulent  subjects — unexampled  in  any  other  palace. 
The  king  loved  good  (fating  and  drinking,  and  during  great  part  of 
Ins  life  took  pleasure  in  .seeing  his  table  surrounded  by  guesls  ;  yet 
the  whole  charge  of  his  kitchen  was  brought  within  the  sum  of  two 
thousand  pounds  sterling  a  year.  He  examined  every  extraordinary 
item  with  a  care  which  might  be  thought  to  suit  the  mistress  of  a 
boarding  house  better  than  a  great  prince.  When  more  than  four 
rix  dollars  wen!  asked  of  him  for  a  hundred  oysters,  he  stormed  as  if 
he  had  heard  that  one  of  his  generals  had  sold  a  fortress  to  the  Km 
press  <.^ieen.  Not  a  bottle  of  champagne  was  uncorked  without  his( 
express  order.  The  game  of  the  royal  parks  and  forests,  a  serioiw 
head  of  expenditure  in  most,  kingdoms,  was  to  him  a  source  of  profit. 
The  whole  was  farmed  out ;  and  though  the  farmers  were  almost 
ruined  by  their  contract,  the  king  would  grant  them  no  remission. 
His  wardrobe  consisted  of  one  fine  gala  dress,  which  lasted  him  all 
his  life  ;  of  two  or  three  old  ooate  fit  for  Monmouth  street,  of  /ellow 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT.  23 

waistcoats  soiled  with  snuff,  and  of  huge  l>oots  embrowned  by  time. 
One  taste  alone  sometimes  allured  him  beyond  the  limits  of  parsi- 
mony, nay,  even  beyond  the  limits  of  prudence — the  taste  for  build- 
ing. In  all  other  things  his  economy  was  such  as  we  might  cau  by 
a  harsher  name,  if  we  did  not  reflect  that  his  funds  were  drawn  from 
a  heavily  taxed  people,  and  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  without 
cxeessive  tyranny  to  keep  up  at  once  a  formidable  army  and  a  ;-:pIei>- 
<1'<1  court. 

Considered  as  an  administrator,  Frederick  had  undoubtedly  many 
titles  to  praise.  Order  was  strictly  maintained  throughout  bis  do- 
minions. Property  was  secure.  A  great  liberty  of  speaking  and  of 
writing  was  allowed.  Confident  in  the  irresistible  strength  derived 
from  a  great  army,  the  king  looked  down  on  malcontents  and  libellers 
with  a  wise  disdain,  and  gave  little  encouragement  to  spies  and  5n- 
f;  Tiiiers.  When  he  was  told  of  the  disaffection  of  one  of  his  sub- 
jects, he  inerely  asked,  "  How  many  thousand  men  can  he  bring  into 
fhelieldV"  Ho  once  saw  a  crowd  staring  at  something  on  a  wall. 
He  rode  up,  and  found  that  the  object  of  curiosity  was  a  scurrilous 
placard  against  himself.  The  placard  had  been  posted  up  so  high 
that  it  waa  not  easy  to  rend  it.  Frederick  ordered  his  attendants  to 
take  it  down  and  put  it  lower.  "My  people  and  1,"  he  said,  "  have 
,"omo  to  an  agreement  which  satisfies  us  both.  They  are  to  say  what 
they  please,  and  I  am  to  do  what  I  please."  No  person  would  have 
dared  to  publish  in  London  satires  on 'George  II.  approaching  to 'the 
atrocity  of  those  satires  on  Frederick  which  the  booksellers  at  Berlin 
sold  with  impunity.  One  bookseller  sent  to  the  palace  a  copy  of  the 
most  stinging  lampoon  that  perhaps  was  ever  written  in  the  world, 
the  "Memoirs  of  Voltaire,"  published  by  Beaumarchais,  and  asked 
for  his  Majesty's  orders.  "  Do  not  advertise  it  in  an  offensive  manner," 
said  the  king;  "but  sell  it  by  all  means.  I  hope  it  will  pay  you 
well.1'  F;ven  among  statesmen  accustomed  to  the  license  of  a  free 
press  such  steadfastness  of  mind  as  this  is  not  very  common. 

It  is  due  also  to  the  memory  of  Frederick  to  say  that  he  earnestly 
labored  to  secure  to  his  people  the  great  blessing  of  cheap  and  speedy 
justice.  He  was  one  of  the  first  rulers  who  abolished  the  cruel  and 
absurd  practice  of  torture.  No  sentence  of  death  pronounced  by  the 
ordinary  tribunals  was  executed  without  his  sanction  ;  and  his  sanc- 
tion, except  in  cases  of  murder,  was  rarely  given.  Towards  his 
troops  he  acted  in  a  very  different  manner.  Military  offences  were 
punished  with  such  barbarous  scourging  that  to  be  shot  was  consid- 
ered by  the  Prussian  soldier  as  a  secondary  punishment.  Indeed,  the 
principle  which  pervaded  Frederick's  whole  policy  was  this — that  the 
more  sever!  y  the  army  is  governed,  the  safer  it  is  to  treat  tho  rest,  of 
the  community  with  lenity. 

Religious  persecution  was  unknown  under  his  government — unless 
Borne  foolish  and  unjust  restrictions  which  lay  upon  the  Jews  may  bo 
as  forming  an  exception.  His  policy  with  respect  to  the 


24  FREDERICK   THE  GREAT. 

Catholics  of  Silesia  presented  an  honorable  contrast  to  the  pwlicy 
which,  under  very  similar  circumstances,  England  long  followed 
with  respect  to  the  Catholics  of  Ireland.  Every  form  of  religion  and 
irroligion  found  an  asylum  in  his  states.  The  scoffer  whom  Parlia 
mentsol'  Prance  had  sentenced  to  acruel  death  was  consoled  l>y  a  com 
ission  in  the  Prussian  service.  The  Jesuit  who  could  show  his  face  no 
where  else — who  in  Britain  was  still  subject  to  penal  laws,  who  wax 
])roscril>ed  by  France,  Spain,  Portugal,  and  Naples,  who  had  been 
given  up  even  by  the  Vatican — found  safety  and  the  means  of  sub- 
sistence in  the  Prussian  dominions. 

Most  of  the  vices  of  Frederick's  administration  resolve  themselves 
into  one  vice — the  spirit  of  meddling.  The  indefatigable  activity  of 
his  intellect,  his  dictatorial  temper,  his  military  habits,  all  inclined 
him  to  this  great  fault.  He  drilled  his  people  as  he  drilled  his  grena- 
diers. Capital  and  industry  \\ere  diverted  from  their  natural  direc- 
tion by  a  crowd  of  preposterous  regulations.  There  was  a  monopoly 
of  coffee,  a  monopoly  of  tobacco,  a  monopoly  of  refined  sugar.  The 
public  money,  of  which  the  king  was  generally  so  sparing,  was 
lavishly  spent  in  plowing  bogs,  in  planting  mulberry-trees  amidst  the 
sand,  in  bringing  sheep  from  Spain  to  improve  the  Saxon  wool,  in 
bestowing  prizes  for  fine  yarn,  in  building  manufactories  of  porcelain, 
manufactories  of  carpets,  manufactories  of  hardware,  manufactories 
of  lace.  Neither  the  experience  of  other  rulers  nor  his  own  could 
ever  teach  him  that  something  more  than  an  edict  and  a  grant  of  pub- 
lic money  is  required  to  create  a  Lyons,  a  Brussels,  or  a  Birmingham. 

For  his  commercial  policy,  however,  there  is  some  excuse.  He  had 
on  his  side  illustrious  examples  and  popular  prejudice.  (Jrievously 
aa  he  erred,  he  erred  in  company  with  his  ago.  In  other  depart- 
ments his  meddling  was  altogether  without  apology.  He  interfered 
with  the  course  of  justice  as  well  as  with  the  course  of  trade,  and  set 
up  his  own  crude  notions  of  equity  against  the  law  as  expounded  by 
the  unanimous  voice  of  the  gravest  magistrate.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  that  a  body  of  men  whose  lives  W,TO  passed  in  adjudicating 
on  q motions  of  civil  right,  were  more  likely  to  form  correct  opinions 
on  such  questions  than  a  prince  whose  attention  was  divided  between 
a  thousand  objects  and  who  had  probably  never  read  a  law-book 
through.  The  resistance  opposed  to  him  by  the  tribunals  inflamed 
him  to  fury.  He  reviled  his  Chancellor.  He  kicked  the  shins  of  his 
Judges.  He  did  not,  it  is  true,  intend  to  act  unjustly.  He  firmly  be- 
lieved that  he  was  doing  right  and  defending  the  cause  of  the  poor 
against,  the  wealthy.  Yet  this  well-meant  meddling  probably  did  far 
more  harm  than  all  the  explosions- of  his  evil  passions  during  th« 
whole  of  his  long  reign.  We  could  make  shift  to  live  under  a  de- 
bauchee or  a  tyrant,  but  to  be  ruled  by  a  busybody  is  more  than  hu- 
man nature  can  bear. 

The  same  passion  for  directing  and  regulating  appeared  in  erery 
part  of  the  king's  policy.  Every  lad  of  a  certain  station  in  life  was 


FREDERICK   THE  GREAT.  25 

forced  to  go  to  certain  schools  within  the  Prussian  dominions.  If  a 
young  Prussian  repaired,  though  but  for  a  few  weeks,  to  Leyden  or 
Gottingen  for  the  purpose  of  study,  the  offence  was  punished  with 
civil  disabilities,  and  sometimes  with  confiscation  of  property.  No- 
body was  to  travel  without  the  royal  permission.  If  the  permission 
were  granted,  the  pocket-money  of  the  tourist  was  fixed  by  royal  or 
dinances.  A  merchant  might  take  with  him  two  hundred  and  fifty 
irix  dollars  in  gold,  a  noble  was  allowed  to  take  four  hundred  ;  for  it 
may  be  observed,  in  passing,  that  Frederick  studiously  kept  up  the 
old  distinction  between  the  nobles  and  the  community.  In  specula- 
lion  he  was  a  French  philosopher,  but  in  action  a  German  prince. 
11^,  talked  and  wrote  about  the  privileges  of  blood  in  the  style  of 
Kieyes  ;  but  in  practice  no  chapter  in  the  empire  looked  with  a  keener 
•r'ye  to  genealogies  and  quarterings. 

Such  was  Frederick  the  ruler.  But  there  was  another  Frederick, 
the  Frederick  of  lUieinsbnrg,  the  fiddler  and  the  flute-player,  the 
poetaster  and  metaphysician.  Amidst  the  cares  of  the  state  the  king 
had  retained  his  passion  for  music,  for  reading,  for  writing,  for  liter- 
ary society.  To  these  amusements  he  devoted  all  the  time  lie  could 
snatch  from  the  business  of  war  and  government  ;  and  perhaps  more 
light  is  thrown  on  his  character  by  what  passed  during  his  hours  of 
relaxation  than  by  his  battles  or  his  laws. 

It  was  the  just  boats t  of  Schiller,  that  in  his  country  no  Augustus, 
no  Loren/.o,  had  watched  over  the  infancy  of  art.  The  rich  and  en- 
ergetic; language;  of  Luther,  driven  by  the  Latin  from  the  schools  of 
pedants,  and  by  the  French  from  the  palaces  of  kings,  had  taken 
refuge  among  the  people.  Of  the  powers  of  that  language  Frederick 
had  no  notion.  He  generally  spoke  of  it,  and  of  those  who  used  it, 
with  the  contempt  of  ignorance.  His  library  consisted  of  French 
books  ;  at  his  table  nothing  was  heard  but  French  conversation. 

The  associates  of  his  hours  of  relaxation  were,  for  the  mast  part, 
foreigners.  Britain  furnished  to  the  royal  circle  two  distinguished 
men,  born  in  the  highest  rank,  and  driven  by  the  civil  dissensions 
from  the  land  to  which,  under  happier  circumstances,  their  talents  and 
vi  rtues  might  have  been  a  source  of  strength  and  glory.  George  Keith, 
Earl  Marischal  of  Scotland,  had  taken  arms  for  the  house  of  Stuart 
in  1715,  and  his  younger  brother  James,  then  only  seventeen  years 
old,  had  fought  gallantly  by  his  side.  When  all  was  lost  they  re- 
tired to  the  Continent,  roved  from  country  to  country,  served  under 
many  standards,  and  so  bore  themselves  as  to  win  the  respeet  and 
good-will  of  many  who  had  no  love  for  the  Jacobite  cause.  Their 
long  wanderings  terminated  at  Porsdam  ;  nor  had  Frederick  any  as- 
sociates who  deserved  or  obtained  so  large  a  share  of  his  esteem. 
They  were  not  only  accomplished  men,  but  nobles  and  warriors, 
capable  of  serving  him  in  war  and  diplomacy,  as  well  as  of  amusing 
him  at  supper.  Alone  of  all  his  companions,  they  appear  never  to 
liave  had  reason  to  complain  of  his  demeanor  to  wards',  them.  Sorn« 


Jfl  FREDKKICK    THE  OREAT. 

of  those  who  knew  the  palace  best  pronounced  that  the  Lord  Mari 
.schal  was  the  only  human  being  whom  Frederick  ever  really  loved. 

Italy  sent  to  the  parties  at  Potsdam  the  ingenious  and  amiable  Al- 
garotti  and  Bastiani,  the  most  crafty,  cautious,  and  servile  of  Abbes. 
But  the  greater  part  of  the  society  which  Frederick  had  assembled 
round  him  was  drawn  from  France.  Maupertuis  had  acquired  some 
celebrity  by  the  journey  which  ho  made  to  Lapland,  for  the  purpose 
of  ascertaining  by  actual  measurement  the  shape  of  our  planet.  lie 
was  placed  in  the  chair  of  the  Academy  of  Berlin,  a  humble  imitation 
of  the  renowned  Academy  of  Paris.  Baculard  D'Arnaud,  a  young 
jxu.'t,  who  was  thought  to  have  given  promise  of  great  tilings,  had 
been  induced  to  quit  the  country  and  to  reside  at  the  Prussian  court. 
The  Marquess  D'Argens  was  among  the  king's  favorite  companions, 
on  account,  it  would  seem,  of  the  strong  opposition  between  their 
characters.  The  parts  of  D'Argens  were  good  and  his  manners  those 
of  a  finished  French  gentleman  ;  but  his  whole  soul  was  dissolved  in 
sloth,  timidity,  and  self-indulgence.  His  was  one  of  that  abject  class 
of  minds  which  are  superstitious  without  being  religious.  Hating 
Christianity  with  a  rancour  which  made  him  incapable  of  rational 
inquiry,  unable  to  see  in  the  harmony  and  beauty  of  the  universe  the 
traces  of  divine  power  and  wisdom,  he  was  the  slave  of  dreams  and 
omens — would  not  sit  down  to  the  table  with  thirteen  in  company, 
turned  pale  if  the  salt  fell  towards  him,  begged  his  guests  not  to 
cross  their  knives  and  forks  on  their  plates,  and  would  not  for  the 
world  commence  a  journey  on  Friday.  His  health  was  a  subject  of 
constant  anxiety  to  him.  Whenever  his  head  ached  or  his  pulse  beat 
quick,  his  dastardly  fears  and  effeminate  precautions  were  the  jest  of 
all  Berlin.  All  this  suited  the  lung's  purpose  admirably.  He  wanted 
somebody  by  whom  he  might  be  amused,  and  whom  he  might  de- 
spise. When  he  wished  to  pass  half  an  hour  in  easy,  polished  con- 
versation, D'Argens  was  an  excellent  companion  ;  when  he  wanted  to 
vent  his  spleen  and  contempt,  D'Argens  was  an  excellent  butt.  With 
these  associates  and  others  of  the  same  class,  Frederick  loved  to 
spend  the  time  which  he  could  steal  from  public  cares.  He  wished 
his  supper-parties  to  be  gay  and  easy  ;  and  invited  his  guests  to  lay 
aside  all  restraint,  and  to  forget  that  ho  was  at  the  head  of  a  hundred 
and  sixty  thousand  soldiers,  and  was  absolute  master  of  the  life  and 
liberty  of  all  who  sat  at  meat  with  him.  There  was  therefore  at 
these  meetings  the  outward  show  of  ease.  The  wit  and  learning  of 
the  company  were  ostentatiously  displayed.  The  discussions  on  his- 
tory and  literature  were  often  highly  interesting.  But  the  al>surdity 
of  all  the  religions  known  among  men  was  the  chief  topic  of  conver- 
sation ;  and  the  audacity  with  which  doctrines  and  names  venerated 
throughout  Christendom  wen;  treated  on  these  occasions,  startled 
even  persons  accustomed  to  the  society  of  French  and  English  free- 
thinkers. But  real  liberty  or  real  affection  was  in  this  brilliant  so- 
ciety not  to  be  found,  Absolute  kings  seldom  bare  fricada:  and 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT.  27 

Frederick's  faults  were  such  as,  even  where  perfect  equality  exists, 
xnake  friendship  exceedingly  precarious.  He  had,  indeed,  many 
qualities  which  on  the  first  acquaintance  were  captivating.  His 
conversation  was  lively,  his  manners  to  those  whom  he  desired 
to  please  were  even  caressing.  No  man  could  chatter  with  more 
delicacy.  No  man  succeeded  more  completely  in  inspiring  those 
who  approached  him  with  vague  hopes  of  some  great  advantage  from 
his  kindness.  But  under  this  fair  exterior  he  was  a  tyrant — suspi- 
cious, disdainful,  and  malevolent.  He  had  one  taste  which  may  be 
pardoned  in  a  boy,  but  which,  when  habitually  and  deliberately  in- 
dulged in  a  man  of  mature  age  and  strong  understanding,  is  almost 
invariably  the  sign  of  a  bad  heart — a  taste  for  severe  practical  jokes. 
If  a  friend  of  the  king  was  fond  of  dress,  oil  was  flung  over  his  rich- 
est suit.  If  he  was  fond  of  money,  some  prank  was  invented  to  make 
him  disburse  more  than  he  could  spare.  If  he  was  hypochondriacal, 
he  was  made  to  believe  that  he  had  the  dropsy.  If  he  particularly 
set  his  heart  on  visiting  a  place,  a  letter  was  forged  to  frighten  him 
from  going  thither.  These  things,  it  may  be  said,  are  trifles.  They 
are  so  ;  but  they  are  indications  not  to  be  mist;',ken  of  a  nature  to 
which  the  sight  of  human  suffering  and  hijman  degradation  is  an 
agreeable  excitement. 

Frederick  had  a  keen  eye  for  the  foibles  of  others,  and  loved  to 
Communicate  his  discoveries.  Ho  had  some  talent  for  sarcasm,  and 
considerable  skill  in  detecting  the  sore  places  where  sarcasm  would 
be  most  actually  felt.  His  vanity,  as  well  as  his  malignity,  found 
gratification  in  the  vexation  and  confusion  of  those  who  smarted  un- 
der his  caustic  jests.  Yet  in  truth  his  success  on  these  occasions  be- 
longed quite  a,s  much  to  the  king  as  to  the  wit.  We  read  that  Corn- 
modus  descended,  sword  in  hand,  into  the  arena  against  a  wretched 
gladiator,  armed  only  with  a  foil  of  lead,  and,  after  shedding  the 
blood  of  the  helpless  victim,  struck  medals  to  commemorate  the  in- 
glorious victory.  The  triumphs  of  Frederick  in  the  war  of  rapartee 
were  much  of  the  same  kind.  How  to  deal  with  him  was  the  most 
puzzling  of  questions.  To  appear  constrained  in  his  presence  was  to 
disobey  his  commands  and  to  spoil  his  amusement.  Yet  if  his  asso- 
ciates were  enticed  by  his  graciousness  to  indulge  in  the  familiarity  of 
a  cordial  intimacy,  he  was  certain  to  make  them  repent  of  their  pre- 
sumption by  some  cruel  humiliation.  To  resent  his  affronts  wa,s  per- 
ilous ;  yet  not  to  resent  them  was  to  deserve  and  to  invite  them.  In 
his  view,  those  who  mutinied  were  insolent  and  ungrateful ;  those 
who  submitted  were  curs  made  to  receive  l>ones  and  kickings  with  the 
same  fawning  patience.  It  is,  indeed,  difficult  to  conceive  how  any 
thing  short  of  the  rage  of  hunger  should  have  induced  men  to  bear 
the  misery  of  being  the  associates  of  the  Great  King.  It  was  no  lu- 
crative post.  His  Majesty  was  as  severe  and  economical  in  his  friend- 
ships as  in  the  other  charges  of  his  establishment,  and  as  unlikely  to 
give  a  rix  dollar  too  much  for  his  gue«t.a  as  for  lua  dinners. 


28  FREDERICK   TJE   GREAT. 

which  he  allowed  to  a  poet  or  a  philosopher  was  the  very  smallest 
sum  for  which  such  poet  or  philosopher  could  be  induced  to  sell  him 
srlf  into  slavery ;  and  the  bondsman  might  think  himself  fortunate 
it  what  had  been  so  grudgingly  given  was  not,  after  years  of  suffer- 
ing, rudely  and  arbitrarily  withdrawn. 

1'otsdam  was,  in  truth,  what  it  was  called  by  one  of  its  most  illus- 
trious  inmates,  the  Palace  of  Alcina.  At  the  first  glance  it  seemed  to 
IM-  a  delightful  spot,  where  every  intellectual  and  physical  enjoyment 
awaited  the  happy  adventurer.  Every  new  coiner  was  received  with 
eager  hospitality,  intoxicated  with  flattery,  encouraged  to  expect  pros- 
perity and  greatness.  It  was  in  vain  that  a  long  succession  of  favor- 
itcs  win)  had  entered  that  abode  with  delight  and  hope,  and  who,  after 
a  short  term  of  delusive  happiness,  had  been  doomed  to  expiate  their 
fully  by  years  tf  wretchedness  and  degradation,  raise  their  voices  to 
warn  the  aspirant  who  approached  the  charmed  threshold.  Some  had 
wisdom  enough  to  discover  the  truth  early  and  spirit  enough  to  fly 
without  looking  back  ;  others  lingered  on  to  a  cheerless  and  unhon- 
ored  old  age.  We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  the  po  rest  autlx>r 
of  that  time  in  London,  sleeping  on  a  bulk,  dining  in  a  cellar,  with  a 
cravat  of  paper,  and  a  skewer  for  a  shirt-pin,  was  a  happier  man  than 
nnv  of  the  literary  inmates  of  Frederick's  court. 

But  of  all  who  entered  the  enchanted  garden  in  the  inebriation  of 
delight,  and  quitted  it  in  agonies  of  rage  and  shame,  the,  most  re- 
markable was  Voltaire.  Many  circumstances  had  made;  him  desirous 
of  finding  a  homo  at  a  distance  from  his  country.  His  fame  had 
raised  him  up  enemies.  His  sensibility  gave  them  a  formidable  ad- 
vantage over  him.  They  were,  indeed,  contemptible  assailants.  Of 
all  that  they  wrote  against  him,  nothing  has  survived  except  what  he 
has  himself  preserved.  But  the  constitution  of  his  mind  resembled 
the  constitution  of  those  bodies  in  which  the  slightest  scratch  of  a 
bramble  or  the  bite  of  a  gnat  never  fails  to  fester.  Though  his  repu- 
tation was  rather  raised  than  lowered  by  the  abuse  of  such  writers  as 
Kn'ron  and  Desfontaines — though  the  vengeance  which  he  took  on 
Kreron  and  Desfontaines  was  such  that  scourging,  branding,  pillory- 
ing, would  have  been  a  trifle  to  it — there  is  reason  to  believe  that  they 
gave  him  far  more  pain  than  ho  ever  gave  them.  Though  he  en  joyed 
during  his  own  lifetime  the  reputation  of  a  classic — though  he  was 
extolled  by  his  contemporaries  above,  all  poets,  philosophers,  and  his- 
toiiiins — though  his  works  were  read  with  much  delight  and  admira- 
tion at  Moscow  and  Westminster,  at  Florence  and  Stockholm,  as  at 
I'aris  itself,  he  was  yet  tormented  by  that  restless  jealousy  which 
should  seem  to  belong  only  to  minds  burning  with  the  desire  of  fame,' 
and  yet  conscious  of  impotence.  To  meiv  of  letters  who  could  by  no 
possibility  bo  his  rivals,  he  was,  if  they  behaved  well  to  him,"  not 
merely  just,  not  merely  courteous,  but  often  a  hearty  friend  and  a 
munificent  Iwmefactor.  But  to  every  writer  who  rose  to  a  celebrity 
approaching  his  own,  he  became  either  a  disguised  or  an  avowed  ejie- 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT.  20 

my.  He  slyly  depreciated  Montesquieu  and  Buffon.  He  publicly  and 
with  violent  outrage  made  w!\r  on  Jean  Jacques.  Nor  had  he  the  art 
of  hiding  his  feelings  under  the  semblance  of  good-humor  or  of  con- 
tempt. With  all  his  great  talents  and  all  his  long  experience  of  th« 
world,  he  had  no  more  self-command  than  a  petted  child  or  an  hys- 
terical woman.  Whenever  he  was  mortified,  he  exhausted  the  whole 
rhetoric  of  anger  and  sorrow  to  express  his  mortification.  His  tor- 
rents of  bitter  words — his  stamping  and  cursing — his  grimaces  and 
his  tears  of  rage— were  a  rich  feast  to  those  abject  natures  whose  de- 
light is  in  the  agonies  of  powerful  spirits  and  in  the  abasement  of  im-' 
mortal  names.  These  creatures  had  now  found  out  a  way  of  galling 
him  to  the  very  quick.  In  one  walk,  at  least,  it  had  been  admitted  by 
envy  itself  that  he  was  without  a  living  competitor.  Since  Racine 
had  been  laid  among  the  great  men  whose  dust  made  the  holy  pro- 
cinct  of  Port-Royal  holier,  no  tragic  poet  had  appeared  who  could  con- 
test the  palm  with  the  author  of  Zaire,  of  Alzire,  and  of  Merope. 
At  length  a  rival  was  announced.  Old  Crebillion,  who  many  years 
before  had  obtained  some  theatrical  success,  and  who  had  long  been 
forgotten,  came  forth  from  his  garret  in  one  of  the  meanest  lanes 
near  the  Rue  St.  Antoine,  and  was  welcomed  by  the  acclamations  of 
envious  men  of  letters  and  of  a  capricious  populace.  A  tiling  called 
Catiline,  which  he  had  written  in  his  retirement,  was  acted  with 
boundless  applause.  Of  this  execrable  piece  it  is  sufficient  to  say 
that  the  plot  turns  on  a  love  affair,  carried  on  in  all  the  forms  of 
Scudery,  between  Catiline,  whose  confident  is  the  Praetor  Lentulus, 
and  Tullia,  the  daughter  of  Cicero.  The  theatre  resounded  with  ac- 
clamations. The  king  pensioned  the  successful  poet  ;  and  the  coffee- 
houses pronounced  that  Voltaire  was  a  clever  man,  but  that  the  real 
tragic  inspiration,  the  celestial  fire  which  glowed  in  Corneilleand  Ra- 
cine, was  to  be  found  in  <  Yebilliwn  alone. 

The  blow  went  to  Voltaire's  heart.  Had  his  wisdom  and  fortitude 
been  in  .proportion  to  the  fertility  of  his  intellect,  and  to  the  bril- 
liancy of  his  wit,  he  would  have  seen  that  it  was  out  of  the  power  of 
all  the  puffers  and  detractors  in  Europe  to  put  Catilin*  above  Z/riri' ; 
but  he  had  none  of  the  magnanimous  patience  with  which  Milton  and 
Bentley  left  their  claims  to  the  unerring  judgment  of  lime.  He 
f-ngerly  engaged  in  an  undignified  competition  with  Crebillion,  ami 
produced  a  series  of  plays  on  the  same  subjects  which  his  rival  had 
treated.  These  pieces  were  coolly  received.  Angry  with  the  court, 
angry  with  the  capital,  Voltaire  began  to  find  pleasure  in  the  prospect, 
of  exile.  His  attachment  for  Madame  de  Chatelet  long  prevented 
him  from  executing  his  purpose.  Her  death  set  him  at  liberty  ;  and 
he  determined  to  take  refuge  at  Berlin. 

To  Berlin  he  was  invited  bya  series  of  letters,  couched  in  terms  of 
the  most  enthusiastic  friendship  and  admiration.  For  once  the  rigid 
parsimony  of  Frederick  seemed  to  have  relaxed.  Orders,  honorable 
offices,  a  liberal  pension,  a  well-served  tablo,  stately  apartment*  under 


HO  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

a  royal  roof,  wcm  offered  in  return  for  the  pleasure  and  honor  which 
we iv  filleted  from  the  society  of  the  first  wit  of  the  age.  A  thou- 
si«\d  louis  wore  remitted  for  the  charges  of  the  journey.  No  ambass- 
ndor  setting  out  from  Berlin  for  a  court  of  the  first  rank  had  ever 
Urn  more  amply  supplied.  But  Voltaire  was  not  satisfied.  At  a 
later  ]>erio<l,  when  he  possessed  an  ample  fortune,  he  was  one  of  the 
most  liberal  of  men  ;  but  till  his  means  had  become  equal  to  his 
wishes,  his  greediness  for  lucre  was  unrestrained  either  by  justice  or 
by  shame.  He  had  the  effrontery  to  ask  for  a  thousand  louis  more, 
in  order  to  enable  him  to  bring  his  niece,  Madame  Denis,  the  ugliest, 
of  coquettes,  in  his  company.  The  indelicate  rapacity  of  the  poet. 
produced  its  natural  effect  on  the  severe  and  frugal  king.  The  an- 
swer was  a  dry  refusal.  "  I  did  not,"  said  His  Majesty,  "  solicit  the 
honor  of  the  lady's  society."  On  this  Voltaire  went  off  into  a  parox- 
ysm of  childish  rage.  "Was  there  ever  such  avarice?  lie  has  a 
hundred  of  tubs  full  of  dollars  in  his  vaults,  and  haggles  with  me 
•  bout,  a  poor  thousand  louis."  It  seemed  that  the  negotiation  would 
be  brokeji  off ;  but  Frederick,  with  great  dexterity,  affected  indiffer- 
ence, and  seemed  inclined  to  transfer  his  idolatry  to  Baculard  d'Ar- 
naud.  His  Majesty  even  wrote  some  bad  verses,  of  which  the  sense 
was,  that  Voltaire  was  a  setting  sun,  and  that  Arnaud  was  rising. 
(Jood -natiired  friends  soon  car ried  the  lines  to  Voltaire.  He  was  in 
bed.  He  jumped  out  in  his  shirt,  danced  about  the  room  with  rage, 
and  sent  for  his  passport  and  his  post-horses.  It  was  not  difficult  to 
foresee  the  end  of  a  connection  which  had  such  a  beginning. 

It.  was  in  the  year  1750  that  Voltaire  left  the  great  capital,  which 
he  was  not  to  see  again  till,  after  the  lapse  of  nearly  thirty  years, 
he  returned,  Imved  down  by  extreme  old  age,  to  die  in  the 
midst  of  a  splendid  and  ghastly  triumph.  His  reception  in  Prussia 
\v:us  such  as  might  well  have  elated  a  less  vain  and  excitable  mind. 
Hi'  wrote  to  his  friends  at  Paris,  that  the  kindness  and  the  attention 
with  which  he  had  been  welcomed  surpassed  description  —that  the 
king  was  the  most  amiable  of  men — that  Potsdam  was  the  Paradiseof 
philosophers,  lie  was  created  chamberlain,  and  received,  together 
with  his  gold  key,  the  cross  of  an  order  and  a  patent  ensuring  'in  him 
a  iK-nsiori  of  eight  hundred  pounds  sterling  a  year  for  life.  A  hun- 
dred and  sixty  pounds  a  year  were  promised  to  his  niece  if  she  sur- 
vived him.  The  royal  cooks  and  coachmen  were  pnt  at  his  disposal. 
He  was  lodged  in  the  same  apartments  in  which  Saxe  had  lived  when 
at  tloe  height  of  power  and  glory  he  visited  Prussia.  Frederick,  in- 
deed, stooped  for  a  time  even  to  use  the  language  of  adulation.  He 
pressed  to  liis  lips  the  meagre  hand  of  the  little  grinning  skeleton, 
whom  be  regarded  as  the  dispenser  of  immortal  renown.  He  would 
add,  he  said,  to  the  titles  which  he  owed  to  his  ancestors  and  his 
•word, mother  title  derived  from  his  last  and  prondost  acquisition. 
His  stylo  should  run  thus  :  Frederick,  King  of  Prussia,  Margrave  of 
Brodenlrarg,  Sovr.reigu  Duke  of  Silesia,  Possessor  of  Voltaire.  But 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT.  31 

eren  amidst  the  delights  of  the  honeymoon,  Voltaire's  sensitive 
vanity  began  to  take  alarm.  A  few  days  after  his  arrival,  he  could 
not  help  telling  his  niece  that  the  amiable  king  had  a  trick  of  giving 
a  sly  scratch  with  one  hand  while  patting  and  stroking  with  the 
other.  Soon  came  hints  not  the  less  alarming  because  mysterious. 
"The  supper  parties  are  delicious.  The  king  is  the  life  of  the  com- 
pany. But — I  have  operas  and  comedies,  reviews  and  concerts,  my 
studies  and  books.  But — but — Berlin  is  fine,  the  princess  charming, 

the  maids  of  honor  handsome.     But " 

This  eccentric  friendship  was  fast  cooling.  Never  had  there  met 
two  persons  so  exquisitely  fitted  to  plague  each  other.  Each  of  them 
bad  exactly  the  fault  <>l'  which  the  other  was  most  impatient;  and 
they  were,  in  different  ways,  the  most  impatient  of  mankind.  Fred- 
erick was  frugal,  almost  niggardly.  When  he  hud  secured  his  play- 
thing he  began  to  think  that  he  had  bought  it  too  dear.  Voltaire,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  greedy,  even  to  the  extent  of  impudence  and 
knavery  ;  and  conceived  that  the  favorite  of  a  monarch  who  had  bar- 
rels full  of  gold  and  silver  laid  up  in  cellars,  ought  to  make  a  fortune 
which  a  receiver-general  might  envy.  They  soon  discovered  each 
other's  feelings.  Both  were  angry,  and  a  war  began,  in  which  Fred- 
erick stooped  to  Ihc  part  of  Harpagon,  and  Voltaire  to  that  of  Scapin. 
It  is  humiliating  to  relate  that  the  great  warrior  and  statesman  gave 
orders  that  his  guest's  allowance  of  sugar  and  chocolate  should  be 
curtailed.  It  is,  if  possible,  a  still  more  humiliating  fact,  that  Vol- 
taire indemnified  himself  by  pocketing  the  wax  candles  in  the  royal 
anti-chamber.  Disputes  about  money,  however,  were  not  the  most 
serious  disputes  of  these  extraordinary  associates.  The  sarcasm  soon 
galled  the  sensitive  temper  of  the  poet.  D'Arnaud  and  D'Argens, 
Guichard  and  La  Metrie,  might,  for  the  sake  of  a  morsel  of  bread, 
be  willing  to  bear  the  insolence  of  a  master  ;  but  Voltaire  was  of 
another  order.  He  knew  that  he  was  a  potentate  as  well  as  Fred- 
erick; that  his  European  reputation,  and  his  incomparable  power  of 
covering  whatever  he  hated  with  ridicule,  made  him  an  object,  of 
dread  even  to  the  leaders  of  armies  and  the  rulers  of  nations.  In 
truth,  of  all  the  intellectual  weapons  which  have  ever  been  wielded 
by  man,  the  most  terrible  was  the  mockery  of  Voltaire.  Bigots  and 
tyrants,  who  had  never  been  moved  by  the  wailing  and  cursing  of 
millions,  turned  pale  at  his  name.  Principles  unassailable  by  reason 
— principles  which  had  withstood  the  fiercest  attacks  of  power,  the 
most  valuable  truths,  the  most  generous  sentiments,  the  noblest  and 
most  graceful  images,  the  purest  reputations,  the  most  august  insti- 
tutions— began  to  look  mean  and  loathsome  as  soon  as  that  withering 
smile  was  turned  upon  them.  To  every  opponent,  however  strong  in 
his  cause  and  his  talents,  in  his  station  aud  his  character,  who  ven- 
tured to  encounter  the  great  scoffer,  might  be  addressed  the  caution 
which  w*s  given  of  old  to  the  Archangel  : — 

A.B.— 2 


3J  FREDERICK   THE  GREAT. 

"  I  forewarn  thee,  shun 
His  deadly  arrow  ;  neither  vainly  hope 
To  be  invulnerable  in  those  bright  arms, 
Though  temper'd  heavenly  ;  for  that  fatal  dint, 
Save  Him  who  reigns  above,  none  can  resist." 

We  cannot  pause  to  recount  how  often  that  rare  talent  was  exer- 
cised against  rivals  worthy  of  esteem — how  often  it  was  used  to 
crush  and  torture  enemies  worthy  only  of  silent  disdain — how  often 
it  \\-as  perverted  to  the  more  noxious  purpose  of  destroying  the  last 
solace  of  earthly  misery  and  the  last  restraint  on  earthly  power. 
Neither  can  we  pause  to  tell  how  often  it  was  used  to  vindicate  jus- 
tice, humanity,  and  toleration — the  principles  of  sound  philosophy, 
the  principles  of  free  government.  This  is  not  the  place  for  a  full 
character  of  Voltaire. 

Causes  of  quarrel  multiplied  fast.  Voltaire,  who,  partly  from  love 
of  money  and  partly  from  love  of  excitement,  was  always  fond  of 
stockjobbing,  became  implicated  in  transactions  of  at  least  a  dubious 
character.  The  king  was  delighted  at  having  such  an  opportunity 
to  humble  his  guest ;  and  bitter  reproaches  and  complaints  were  ex- 
changed. Voltaire,  too,  was  soon  at  war  with  the  other  men  of  let- 
ters who  surrounded  the  king  ;  and  this  irritated  Frederick,  who, 
however,  had  himself  chiefly  to  blame  :  for,  from  that  love  of  tor- 
menting which  was  in  him  a  ruling  passion,  lie  perpetually  lavished 
extravagant  praises  on  small  men  and  bad  books,  merely  in'order  that 
lie  might  enjoy  the  mortification  and  rage  which  on  such  occasions 
Voltaiiv  took  no  pains  to  conceal.  His  Majesty,  however,  soon  had 
reason  to  regret  the  pains  which  he  had  taken  to  kindle  jealousy 
among  the  members  of  his  household.  The  whole  palace  was  in  a 
ferment  with  literary  intrigues  and  cabals.  It  was  to  no  purpose 
that  the  imperial  voice,  which  kept  a  hundred  and  sixtv  thousand 
soldiers  in  order,  was  raised  to  quiet  the  contention  of  the  exasperated 
wits.  It  was  far  easier  to  stir  up  such  a  storm  than  to  lull  it,  Nor 
was  Frederick,  in  his  capacity  of  wit,  by  any  means  without  his  own 
share  of  vexations.  He  had  sent  a  large  quantity  of  verses  to  Vol- 
taire, and  requested  that  they  might  be  returned  with  remarks  and 
correction.  "See,"  exclaimed  Voltaire,  "what  a  quantity  of  his 
dirty  linen  the  king  has  sent  me  to  wash!"  Talebearers  were  not 
wanting  to  cany  the  sarcasm  to  the  royal  ear,  and  Frederick  was  as 
much  incensed  as  a  Grub  Street  writer  who  had  found  his  name  in 
the  "  Punciad." 

Tins  could  not  last.  A  circumstance  which,  when  the  mutual  re- 
gard of  the  friends  was  in  its  first  glow,  would  merely  have  been 
matter  for  laughter,  produced  a  violent  explosion.  Maupertuis  en- 
joyed as  much  of  Frederick's  good-will  as  any  man  of  letters  II« 
was  President  of  the  Academy  of  Berlin,  and  stood  second  to  Voltaire 
though  at  an  immense  distance,  in  the  literary  society  which  had 
beeu  assembled  at  the  Prussian  court.  Frederick  had,  by  playin--  foi 


FREDERICK  THE"  GREAT.  33 

his  own  amusement  on  the  feelings  of  the  two  jealous  and  vainglori- 
ous Frenchmen,  succeeded  in  producing  a  bitter  enmity  between 
them.  Voltaire  resolved  to  set  his  mark,  a  mark  never  to  be  effaced, 
on  the  forehead  of  Maupertuis  ;  and  wrote  the  exquisitely  ludicrous 
diatribe  of  Doctor  Akakin.  He  showed  this  little  piece  to  Frederick, 
who  had  too  much  taste  and  too  much  malice  not  to  relish  such  deli- 
cious pleasantry.  In  truth,  even  at  this  time  of  day.  it  is  not  easy 
for  any  person  who  has  the  least  perception  of  the  ridiculous  to  read 
the  jokes  on  the  Latin  city,  the  Patagonians,  r.nd  the  hole  to  the  cen- 
ter of  the  earth,  without  laughing  till  he  cries.  But  though  Freder- 
ick was  diverted  by  this  charming  pasquinade,  he  was  unwilling  that 
it  should  get  abroad.  His  self-love  was  interested.  He  had  selected 
Maupertuis  to  fill  the  Chair  of  his  Academy.  If  all  Europe  were 
taught  to  laugh  at  Maupertuis,  would  not  the  reputation  of  the  Acad- 
emy, would  not  even  the  dignity  of  its  royal  patron  be  in  some  de- 
gree compromised  ?  The  king,  therefore,  begged  Voltaire  to  sup- 
press his  performance.  Voltaire  promised  to  do  so,  and  broke  his 
word,  The  diatribe  was  published,  and  received  witli  shouts  of  mer- 
riment and  applause  by  all  who  could  read  the  French  language. 
The  king  stormed,  Voltaire,  with  his  usual  disregard  of  truth,  pro- 
tested his  innocence,  and  made  up  some  lie  about  a  printer  or  an 
amanuensis.  The  king  was  not  to  be  so  imposed  upon.  He  ordered 
the  pamphlet  to  be  burned  by  the  common  hangman,  and  insisted 
upon  having  an  apology  from  Voltaire,  couched  in  the  most  abject 
terms.  Voltaire  sent  back  to  the  king  his  cross,  his  key,  and  the 
patent  of  his  pension.  After  this  burst  of  rage,  the  strange  pair  be- 
gan to  be  ashamed  of  their  violence,  and  went  through  the  forms  of 
reconciliation.  But  the  breach  was  irreparable  ;  and  Voltaire  took 
his.  leave  of  Frederick  forever.  They  parted  with  cold  civility  ;  but 
their  hearts  were  big  with  resentment,  Voltaire  had  in  his  keeping 
a  volume  of  the  kind's  poetry  and  forgot  to  return  it.  This  was,  we 
believe,  merely  one  of  the  oversights  which  men  setting  out  upon  a 
journey  often  commit.  That  Voltaire  could  have  meditated  plagiar- 
ism is  quite  incredible.  He  would  not,  we  are  confident,  for  the  half 
of  Frederick's  kingdom,  have  consented  to  father  Frederick's  verses. 
The  king,  however,  who  rated  his  own  writings  much  above  their 
value,  and  who  was  inclined  to  see  ail  Voltaire's  actions  in  the  worst 
light,  was  enraged  to  think  that  his  favorite  compositions  were  in  the 
hands  of  an  enemy,  as  thievish  as  a  daw  and  as  mischievous  as  a 
monkey.  In  the  anger  excited  by  tlrs  thought,  he  lost  sight  of  reason 
and  decency,  and  determined  on  committing  an  outrage  at  once  odi- 
ous and  ridiculous. 

Voltaire  had  reached  Frankfort.  His  niece,  Madame  Denis,  came 
thither  to  meet  him.  He  conceive:!  himself  secure  from  the  power  of 
his  late  master,  when  he  was  arrested  by  order  of  the  Prussian  resi- 
dent. The  precious  volume  was  delivered  up.  But  the  Prussian 
Agents  had  no  doubt  been  instructed  not  to  let  Voltaire  escape  without 


84  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

somo  gross  indignity.  He  was  confined  twelve  days  in  a  wretched 
hovel.  Sentinels  with  fixed  bayonets  kept  guard  over  him.  His 
(1  through  the  mire  by  the  soldiers.  Sixteen  hun- 
dred dollars  were  extorted  from  him  by  his  insolent  jailers.  It  is  ab- 
surd in  Miy  that  this  outrage  is  not  to  be  attributed  to  the  king. 
Was  anybody  punished  for  it?  Was  anybody  called  in  question  for  it? 
Was  it ,  not  consistent  with  Frederick's  character  ?  Was  it  not  of  a 
piece  with  his  conduct  on  other  similar  occasions '!  Is  it  not  notorious 
that  he  repeatedly  gave  private  directions  to  his  officers  to  pillage  and 
demolish  tin-  houses  of  persons  against  whom  he  had  a  grudge— 
char-ing  them  at  the  same  time  to  take  their  measure  in  such  a  way 
thatnis  name  might  not  be  compromised?  He  acted  thus  towards 
Count  Buhl  in  the  Seven  Years'  War.  Why  should  we  believe  that 
he  would  have  been  more  scrupulous  with  regard  to  Voltaire  ? 

When  at  length  the  illustrious  prisoner  regained  his  liberty,  the 
prospect  before  him  was  but  dreary.  He  was  an  exile  both  from  the 
country  of  his  birth  and  from  the  country  of  his  adoption.  The 
French  government  had  taken  offence  at  his  journey  to  Prussia,  and 
would  not  permit  him  to  return  to  Paris;  and  in  the  vicinity  of 
Prussia  it  was  not  safe  for  him  to  remain. 

He  took  refuge  on  the  beautiful  shores  of  Lake  Leman.  There, 
]oo>eci  from  every  tie  which  had  hitherto  restrained  him,  and  having 
little  to  hope  or  to  fear  from  courts  and  churches,  he  began  his  long 
war  against,  all  that,  whether  for  good  or  evil,  had  authority  over 
man  ;  for  what  Burke  said  of  the  Constituent  Assembly  was  emi- 
nently true  of  this  its  great  forerunner.  He  could  not  build — he 
could  only  pull  down  ;  he  was  the  very  Vitruvius  of  ruin.  He  has 
bequeathed  to  us  not  a  single  doctrine  to  be  called  by  his  name,  not  a 
single  addition  to  the  stock  of  our  positive  knowledge.  But  no  human 
•!•  ever  left  behind  him  so  vast  and  terrible  a  wreck  of  truths 
and  falsehoods — of  things  noble  and  things  base — of  things  useful 
and  things  pernicious.  From  the  time  when  his  sojourn  beneath  the 
Alps  commenced,  the  dramatist,  the  wit,  the  historian,  was  merged 
in  a  more  important  character.  He  was  now  the  patriarch,  t  :<> 
founder  of  a  sect,  the  chief  of  a  conspiracy,  the  prince  of  a  wide 
intellectual  commonwealth.  lie  often  enjoyed  a  pleasure  dear  to  the 
ti >etter  part  of  his  nature— the  pleasure  of  vindicating  innocence 
'which  had  no  other  helper,  of  repairing  cruel  wrongs,  of  punishing 
tyranny  in  high  places.  He  had  also  the  satisfaction,  not  less  accept 
able  to  Ids  ravenous  vanity,  of  hearing  terrified  Capuchins  call  him 
the  Antichrist.  But  whether  employed  in  works  of  benevolence  or  in 
works  of  mischief,  he  never  forgot  Potsdam  and  Frankfort ;  find  ho 
listened  anxiously  to  every  murmur  which  indicated  that  a  tempest 
was  gathering  in  Europe,  and  that  his  vengeance  was  at  hand. 

He  soon  had  his  wish.  Maria  Theresa  had  never  for  a  moment 
forgotten  the  great  wrong  which  she  had  received  at  the  hand  of 
Frederick.  Voting  and  delicate,  Just  left  an  -orphan,  just  about  to  be 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT.  85 

a  mother,  she  had  been  compelled  to  fly  from  the  ancient  capital  of 
her  race  ;  she  had  seen  her  fair  inheritance  dismembered  by  robbers, 
and  of  those  robbers  he  had  been  the  foremost.  Without  a  pretext, 
without  a  provocation,  in  defiance  of  the  most  sacred  engagements, 
he  had  attacked  the  helpless  ally  whom  he  was  bound  to  defend. 
The  Empress-Queen  had  the  faults  as  well  as  the  virtues  which  are 
connected  with  quick  sensibility  and  a  high  spirit.  There  was  no 
peril  which  she  was  not  ready  to  brave,  no  calamity  which  she  was 
not  ready  to  bring  on  her  subjects,  or  on  the  whole  human  race,  if 
only  she  might  once  taste  the  sweetness  of  a  complete  revenge.  Re- 
venge, too,  presented  itself  to  her  narrow  and  superstitious  mind  in 
the  guise  of  duty.  Silesia  had  been  wrested  not  only  from  the  house 
of  Austria,  but  from  the  Church  of  Rome. 

The  conqueror  had,  indeed,  permitted  his  new  subjects  to  worship 
God  after  their  own  fashion  ;  but  this  was  not  enough.  To  bigotry  it 
seemed  an  intolerable  hardship  that  the  Catholic  Church,  having 
long  enjoyed  ascendancy,  should  be  compelled  to  content  itself  with 
equality.  Nor  was  this  the  only  circumstance  which  led  Maria 
Theresa  to  regard  her  enemy  as  the  enemy  of  God.  The  profaneness 
of  Frederick's  writings  and  conversation,  and  the  frightful  rumors 
which  were  circulated  respecting  the  immoralities  of  his  private  life, 
naturally  shocked  a  woman  who  believed  witli  the  firmest  faith  all 
that  her  confessor  told  her,  and  who,  though  surrounded  by  tempta- 
tions, though  young  and  beautiful,  though  ardent  in  all  her  passions, 
though  possessed  of  absolute  power,  had  preserved  her  fame  unsul- 
lied even  by  the  breath  of  slander. 

To  recover  Silesia,  to  humble  the  dynasty  of  Hohenzollern  to  the 
dust,  was  the  great  object  of  her  life.  She  toiled  during  many  years 
for  this  end,  with  zeal  as  indefatigable  as  that  which  the  poet 
ascribes  to  the  stately  goddess  who  tired  out  her  immortal  horses  in 
the  work  of  raising  the  nations  against  Troy,  and  who  offered  to  give 
up  to  destruction  her  darling  Sparta  and  Mycenae,  if  only  she  might 
once  see  the  smoke  going  up  from  the  palace  of  Priam.  With  even 
such  a  spirit  did  the  proud  Austrian  Juno  strive  to  array  against  her 
foe  a  coalition  such  as  Europe  had  never  seen.  Nothing  would  con- 
tent her  but  that  the  whole  civilized  world,  fr  m  the  White  Sea  to 
the  Adriatic,  fr  m  the  Bay  of  Biscay  to  the  pastures  of  the  wild 
horses  of  Tana  is,  should  be  combined  in  arms  against  one  petty  state. 

She  early  succeeded  by  various  arts  in  obtaining  the  adhesion  of 
Russia.  An  ample  share  of  spoils  was  promised  to  the  King  of  Po- 
land ;  and  that  prince,  governed  by  his  favorite,  Count  Buhl,  readily 
promised  the  assistance  of  the  Saxon  forces.  The  great  difficulty  was 
with  France.  That  the  houses  of  Bourbon  and  of  Hapsburg  should  ever 
cordially  co-operate  in  any  great  scheme  of  European  policy  had  long 
been  thought,  to  use  the  strong  expression  of  Frederick,  just  as  im- 
possible as  that  fire  and  water  should  amalgamate.  The  whole  his 
tory  of  the  Continent,  during  two  centuries  and  a  half,  had  been  tLi 


W  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

history  of  the  mutual  jealousies  and  enmities  of  France  and  Austria. 
Since  the  administration  of  Richelieu,  above  all,  it  had  been  consid- 
ered as  the  plain  policy  of  the  most  Christian  king  to  thwart  on  all 
<„  m-ions  the  court  of  Vienna,  and  to  protect' every  member  of  the 
Germanic  body  who  stood  up  against  the  dictation  of  the  Coesars. 
Common  sentiments  of  religion  had  been  unable  to  mitigate  this 
strong  antipathy.  The  rulers  of  France,  even  while  clothed  in  the 
Kornan  purple,  even  while  persecuting  the  heretics  of  Rochelle  and' 
Auvergne,  had  still  looked  witli  favor  on  the  Lutheran  and  Calvin- 
istic  princes  who  were  struggling'  against  the  chief  of  the  empire. 
If  the  French  ministers  paid  any  respect  to  the  traditional  rues 
handed  down  to  them  through  many  generations,  they  would  have 
acted  towards  Frederick  as  the  greatest  of  their  predecessors  acted 
towards  Gu-4avus  Adolphus.  That  there  was  deadly  enmity  between 
Prussia  and  Austria,  was  of  itself  a  sufficient  reason  for  close  friend- 
ship between  Prussia  and  France.  With  France,  Frederick  could 
never  have  any  serious  controversy.  His  territories  were  so  situated, 
that  his  ambition,  greedy  and  unscrupulous  as  it  was,  could  never  im- 
pel him  to  attack  her  of  his  own  accord.  He  was  more  than  half  a 
Frenchman.  He  wrote,  spoke,  read  nothing  but  French  ;  he  de- 
lighted in  French  society.  The  admiration  of  the  French  he  pro- 
posed to  himself  as  the  best  reward  of  all  his  exploits.  It  seemed  in- 
credible that  any  French  government,  however  notorious  for  levity  or 
stupidity,  could  spurn  away  such  an  ally. 

The  court  of  Vienna,  however,  did  not  despair.  The  Austrian  dip- 
lomatists propounded  a  new  scheme  of  politics,  which,  it  must  be 
owned,  was  not  altogether  without  plausibility.  The  great  powers, 
according  to  this  theory,  had  long  been  under  a  delusion.  They  had 
looked  on  each  other  as  natural  enemies,  while  in  truth  they  were 
natural  allies.  A  succession  of  cruel  wars  had  devastated  Europe, 
had  thinned  the  population,  had  exhausted  the  public  resources,  had 
loaded  governments  with  an  immense  burden  of  debt ;  and  when,  af- 
ter two  hundred  years  of  murderous  hostility  or  of  hollow  truce,  the 
illustrious  houses  whose  enmity  had  distracted  the  world  sat  down  to 
count  their  gains,  to  what  did  the  real  advantage  on  either  side 
amount?  Simply  to  this,  that  they  kept  each  other  from  thriving. 
It  was  not  the  King  of  France,  it  was  not  the  Emperor,  who  had 
reaped  the  fruits  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  of  the  War  of  the  Grand 
Alliance,  of  the  War  of  the  Pragmatic  Sanction.  Those  fruits  have 
been  pilfered  by  States  of  the  second  and  third  rank,  which,  secured 
against  jealousy  by  their  insignificance,  had  dexterously  aggrandized 
themselves  while  pretending  to  serve  the  animosity  of  the  great  chiefs 
of  Christendom.  While  the  lion  and  tiger  were  tearing  each  other, 
the  jackal  had  run  off  into  the  jungle  with  the  prey.  The  real  gainer 
by  the  Thirty  Years' War  had  been  neither  France  nor  Austria,  but 
Sweden.  The  real  gainer  by  the  War  of  the  Grand  Alliance  had 
been  neither  France  nor  Austria,  but  Savoy.  The  real  gainer  bj  the 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  37 

War  of  the  Pragmatic  Sanction  had  been  neither  France  nor  Austria, 
but  the  upstart  of  Brandenburg.  Of  all  these  instances,  the  last  was 
the  most  striking  :  France  had  made  great  efforts,  had  added  largely 
to  her  military  glory  and  largely  to  her  public  burdens  ;  and  for  what 
end?  Merely  that  Frederick  might  rule  Silesia.  For  this,  and  this 
alone,  one  French  army,  wasted  by  sword  and  famine,  had  perished 
in  Bohemia  ;  and  another  had  purchased,  with  floods  of  the  noblest 
blood,  the  barren  glory  of  Fontenoy.  And  this  prince,  for  whom 
France  had  suffered  so  much,  was  he  a  grateful,  was  he  even  an  hon- 
est ally  ?  Had  he  not  been  as  false  to  the  court  of  Versailles  as  to  the 
-*«ourt  of  Vienna  ?  Had  he  not  played  on  a  large  scale  the  same  part 
which,  in  private  life,  is  played  by  the  vile  agent  of  chicane  who  sets 
his  neighbors  quarrelling,  involves  them  in  costly  and  interminable 
litigation,  and  betrays  them  to  each  other  all  round,  certain  that, 
whoever  may  be  ruined,  he  shall  be  enriched  ?  Surely  the  true  wis- 
dom of  the  great  powers  was  to  attack,  not  each  other,  but  this  com- 
mon barrator,  who,  by  inflaming  the  passions  of  both,  by  pretending 
to  serve  both,  and  by  deserting  both,  had  raised  himself  above  the 
station  to  which  he  was  born.  The  great  object  of  Austria  was  tore- 
gain  Silesia  ;  the  great  object  of  France  was  to  obtain  an  accession  of 
territory  on  the  side  of  Flanders.  If  they  took  opposite  sides,  there- 
suit  would  probably  be  that,  after  a  war  of  many  years,  after  the 
slaughter  of  many  thousands  of  brave  men,  after  the  waste  of  many 
millions  of  crowns,  they  would  lay  down  their  arms  without  having 
achieved  either  object ;  but  if  they  came  to  an  understanding,  there 
would  be  no  risk  and  no  difficulty.  Austria  would  willingly  make  in 
Belgium  such  cessions  as  France  could  not  expect  to  obtain  by  ten 
pitched  battles.  Silesia  would  easily  be  annexed  to  the  monarchy  of 
which  it  had  long  been  a  part.  The  union  of  two  such  powerful  gor- 
ernments  would  at  once  overawe  the  King  of  Prussia.  If  he  resisted, 
one  short  campaign  would  settle  his  fate.  France  and  Austria,  long 
accustomed  to  rise  from  the  game  of  war  both  losers,  would,  for  the 
first  time,  both  be  gainers.  There  could  be  no  room  for  jealousy  be- 
tween them.  The  power  of  both  would  be  increased  at  once  ;  the 
equilibrium  between  them  would  be  preserved  ;  and  the  only  sufferer 
would  be  a  mischievous  and  unprincipled  buccaneer,  who  deserved  no 
tenderness  from  either. 

These  doctrines,  attractive  for  their  novelty  and  ingenuity,  soon  be- 
came fashionable  at  the  supper-parties  and  in  the  coffee-houses  of 
Paris,  and  were  espoused  by  every  gay  marquis  and  every  facetious 
abbe  who  was  admitted  to  see  Madame  de  Pompadour's  hair  curled 
and  powdered.  It  was  not,  however,  to  any  political  theory  that  the 
strange  Coalition  between  France  and  Austria  owed  its  origin.  The 
real  motive  which  induced  the  great  continental  powers  to  forget 
their  old  animosities  and  their  old  state  maxims,  was  personal  aver- 
§ion  to  the  King  of  Prussia.  This  feeling  was  strongest  in  Maria 
Theresa  ;  but  it  was  by  no  means  confined  to  her.  Frederick,  in  some 


88  FREDERICK   THE   GREAl'. 

respects  a  good  master,  was  emphatically  a  bad  neighbor.  That  l*e 
was  hard  in  all  his  dealings  and  quick  to  take  all  advantages  was  not 
his  most  odious  fault.  His  bitter  and  scoffing  speech  had  inflicted 
keener  wounds  than  his  ambition.  In  his  character  of  wit  he  was 
under  less  restraint  than  even  in  his  character  of  ruler.  Satirical 
verses  against  all  the  princes  aud  ministers  of  Europe  were  ascribed 
to  his  pen.  In  his  letters  and  conversation  he  alluded  to  the  greatest 
potentates  of  the  age  in  terms  which  would  have  better  suited  Colle, 
in  a  war  of  repartee  with  young  Crebillion  at  Pelletier's  table,  than 
a  great  sovereign  speaking  of  great  sovereigns.  About  women  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  expressing  himself  in  a  manner  which  it  was  im- 
possible for  the  meekest  of  women  to  forgive  ;  and,  unfortunately  for 
him,  almost  the  whole  continent  was  then  governed  by  women  who 
were  by  no  means  conspicuous  for  meekness.  Maria  Theresa  herself 
bad  not  escaped  his  scurrulous  jests  ;  the  Empress  Elizabeth  of  Rus- 
sia knew  that  her  gallantries  afforded  him  a  favorite  theme  for  ri- 
baldry and  invective  ;  Madame  de  Pompadour,  who  was  really  the 
head  of  the  French  government,  had  been  even  more  keenly  galled. 
She  I  ad  attempted,  by  the  most  delicate  flattery,  to  propitiate  the  King 
of  Prussia,  but  her  messages  had  drawn  from  him  only  dry  and  sar- 
castic, replies.  Tlie  Empress-Queen  took  a  very  different  course. 
Though  the  haughtiest  of  princesses,  though  the  most  austere  of 
matrons,  she  forgot  in  h^r  thirst  for  revenge  both  the  dignity  of  her 
race  and  the  purity  of  her  character,  and  condescended  to  flatter  the 
low-born  and  low-minded  concubine,  who,  having  acquired  influence 
by  prostituting  herself,  retained  it  by  prostituting  others.  Maria 
Theresa  actually  wrote  with  her  own  hand  a  note  full  of  expressions 
of  esteem  and  friendship  to  her  dear  cousin,  the  daughter  of  the 
butcher  Poisson,  the  wife  of  the  publican  D'Etioles,  the  kidnapper  of 
young  girls  for  the  Parc-aux-cerfs — a  strange  cousin  for  the  descendant 
of  so  many  Emperors  of  the  West !  The  mistress  was  completely  gained 
over  and  easily  carried  her  point  with  Louis,  who  had,  indeed, 
wrongs  of  his  own  to  resent.  His  feelings  were  not  quick  ;  but  con- 
tempt, says  the  e  istern  proverb,  pierces  even  through  the  shell  of  the 
tortoise  ;  and  neither  prudence  nor  decorum  had  ever  restrained  Fred- 
erick from  expressing  his  measureless  contempt  for  tfie  sloth,  the  im- 
becility, and  tin-  baseness  of  Louis.  France  was  thus  induced  to  join 
the  coalition  ;  and  the  example  of  France  determined  the  conduct  of 
Sweden,  then  completely  subject  to  French  influence. 

The  enemies  of  Frederick  were  surely  strong  enough  to  attack  him 
opcniy,  but  they  were  desirous  to  add  to  all  their  other  advantages 
I  vantage  of  a  surprise.  He  was  not,  however,  a  man  to  be  taken 
off  his  guard.  He  had  tools  in  every  court  ;  and  he  now  received. 
from  Vi-  mill,  from  Dresden,  and  from  Paris,  accounts  so  circumstan- 
tial and  so  consistent,  that  he  could  not  doubt  of  his  danger.  lie 
learnt  that  he  was  to  be  assailed  at  once  by  France,  Austria,  Russia, 
Saxony,  Sweden,  and  the  Germanic  body";  that  the  greater  part  of 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  39 

his  dominions  was  to  be  portioned  out  among  his  enemies  ;  that 
France,  which  from  her  geographical  position  could  not  directly*  share 
in  his  spoils,  was  to  receive  an  equivalent  in  the  Netherlands  ;  that 
Austria  was  to  have  Silesia,  and  the  czarina  East  Prussia  ;  that  Au- 
gustus of  Saxony  expected  Madgeburg  ;  and  that  Sweden  would  be 
rewarded  with  part  of  Pomerania.  If  these  designs  succeeded,  the 
house  of  Bradenburg  would  at  once  sink  in  the  European  system  to  a 
.place  lower  than  that  of  the  Duke  of  Wurtemhurg  or  the  Margrave 
of  Baden. 

And  what  hope  was  there  that  these  designs  would  fail  1  No  such 
union  of  the  continental  powers  had  been  seen  for  ages.  A  less  for- 
midable confederacy  had  in  a  week  conquered  all  the  provinces  of 
Venice,  when  Venice  was  at  the  height  of  power,  wealth,  and  glory. 
A  less  formidable  confederacy  had  compelled  Louis  the  Fourteenth 
to  bow  down  his  haughty  head  to  the  very  earth.  A  less  formidable 
confederacy  has,  within  our  own  memory,  subjugated  a  still  mightier 
empire  and  abased  a  still  prouder  name.  Such  odds  had  never  been 
heard  of  in  war.  The  people  who  Frederick  ruled  were  not  five  mil- 
lions. The  population  of  the  countries  which  were  leagued  against 
him  amounted  to  a  hundred  millions.  The  disproportion  in  wealth 
was  at  least  equally  great.  Small  communitias,  actuated  by  strong 
sentiments  of  patriotism  or  loyalty,  have  sometimes  made  head 
against  great  monarchies  weakened  by  factions  and  discontents.  But 
small  as  was  Frederick's  kingdom,  it  probably  contained  a  greater 
number  of  disaffected  subjects  than  were  to  be  found  in  all  the  States 
of  his  enemies,  Silesia  formed  a  fourth  part  of  his  dominions  ;  and 
from  the  Silesians,  born  under  the  Austrian  princes,  the  utmost  that 
he  could  expect  was  apathy.  From  the  Silesian  Catholics  he  could 
hardly  expect  anything  but  resistance. 

Some  States  have  been  enabled,  by  their  geographical  position,  to 
defend  themselves  with  advantage  against  immense  force.  '  The  sea 
has  repeatedly  protected  England  against  the  fury  of  the  whole  Con- 
tinent. The  Venetian  government,  driven  from  its  possessions  on  the 
land,  could  still  bid  defiance  to  the  confederates  of  Cambray  from 
the  arsenal  amidst  the  lagoons.  More  than  one  great  and  well- 
appointed  army,  which  regarded  the  shepherds  of  Switzerland  as  an 
easy  prey,  has  perished  in  the  passes  of  the  Alps.  Frederick  had  no 
such  advantage.  The  form  of  his  States,  their  situation,  the  nature 
of  the  ground,  all  were  against  him.  His  long,  scattered,  straggling 
territory  seemed  to  have  been  shaped  with  an  express  view  to  the 
convenience  of  invaders,  and  was  protected  by  no  sea,  by  no  chain  of 
hills.  Scarcely  any  corner  of  it  was  a  week's  march  from  the  terri- 
tory of  the  enemy.  The  capital  itself,  in  the  event  of  war,  would  be 
constantly  exposed  to  insult.  In  truth,  there  was  hardly  a  politician 
or  a  soldier  in  Europe  who  doubted  that  the  conflict  would  be  termi- 
nated in  a  very  few  days  by  the  prostration,  of  the  house  of  Branden- 
burg, 


40  FREDERICK   THE   GREAT. 

Nqr  was  Frederick's  own  opinion  very  different.  He  anticipated 
nothing  short  of  his  own  ruin,  and  of  the  ruin  of  his  family.  Yet 
there  was  still  a  cfaAnce.  a  slender  chance  of  escape.  His  States  had 
at  least  the  advantage'of  a  central  position  ;  his  enemies  were  widely 
separated  from  each  other,  and  could  not  conveniently  unite  their 
overwhelming  f&rces  on  one  point.  They  inhabited  different  climates, 
and  it  was  probable  that  the  season  of  the  year  which  would  be  best 
suited  to  the  military  operations  of  one  portion  of  the  league,  would 
be  unfavorable  to  those  of  another  portion.  The  Prusssan  monarchy, 
too,  was  free  from  some  infirmities  which  were  found  in  empires  f-\r 
more  extensive  and  magnificent.  Its  effective  strength  for  a  desper- 
ate struggle  was  not  to  be  measured  merely  by  the  number  of  square 
mile.s  or  the  number  of  people.  In  that  square  but  well-knit  and 
well-exercised  body,  there  was  nothing  but  sinew  and  muscle  and 
bone.  No  public  creditors  looked  for  dividends.  No  distant  colonies 
required  defence.  No  court,  filled  with  flatterers  and  mistresses,  de- 
voured the  pay  of  fifty  battalions.  The  Prussian  army,  though  far 
inferior  in  number  to  the  troops  which  were  about  to  be  opposed  to 
it,  was  yet  strong  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  extent  of  the  Prussian 
dominions.  It  was  also  admirably  trained  and  admirably  officered, 
accustomed  to  obey  and  accustomed  to  conquer.  The  revenue  was 
not  only  unencumbered  by  debt,  but  exceeded  the  ordinary  outlay  in 
time  of  peace.  Alone  of  all  the  European  princes,  Frederick  had  a 
treasure  laid  up  for  a  day  of  difficulty.  Above  all,  he  was  one  and 
his  enemies  were  many.  In  their  camps  wTould  certainly  be  found 
the  jealousy,  the  dissension,  the  slackness  inseparable  from  coalition  ; 
on  his  side  was  the  energy,  the  unity,  the  secrecy  of  a  strong  dictator* 
ship.  To  a  certain  extent  the  deficiency  of  military  means  might  be 
supplied  by  the  resources  of  military  art.  Small  as  the  king's  army 
was,  when  compared  with  the  six  hundred  thousand  men  whom  the 
confederates  could  bring  into  the  field,  celerity  of  movement  might  in 
.some  degree  compensate  for  deficiency  of  bulk.  It  is  thus  just  possi- 
ble that  genius,  judgment,  resolution,  and  good  luck  united  might 
protract  the  struggle  during  a  campaign  or  two  ;  and  to  gain  even  a 
month  was  of  importance.  It  could  not  be  long  before  the  vices 
which  are  found  in  all  extensive  confederacies  would  begin  to  show 
themselves.  Every  member  of  the  league  would  think  his  own  share 
of  the  war  too  large,  and  his  own  share  of  the  spoils  too  small.  Com- 
plaints and  recrimination  would  abound.  The  Turk  might  stir  on  the 
Danube  ;  the  statesmen  of  France  might  discover  the  error  which  they 
had  committed  in  abandoning  the  fundamental  principles  of  their  na- 
tional policy.  Above  all,'  death  might  rid  Prussia  of  its  most  for- 
midable enemies.  The  war  was  the  effect  of  the  personal  aversion 
with  which  three  or  four  sovereigns  regarded  Frederick  ;  and  the  de- 
cease of  any  of  those  sovereigns  might  produce  a  complete  revolution 
in  the  state  of  Europe. 

In  the  midst  of  an  horizon  generally  dark  and  stormy,  Frederick 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  4l 

»ould  discern  one  bright  spot.  The  peace  which  had  been  concluded 
between  England  and  France  in  1748  had  been  in  Europe  no  more 
than  an  armistice  ;  and  not  even  been  an  armistice  in  the  other  quarters 
of  the  globe.  In  India  the  sovereignty  of  the  Carnatic  was  disputed 
between  two  great  Mussulman  houses  ;  Fort  Saint  George  had  laken 
the  one  side,  Pondicherry  the  other  ;  and  in  a  series  of  battles  and 
sieges  the  troops  of  Lawrence  and  Clive  had  been  opposed  to  those  of 
Dupleix.  A  struggle  less  important  in  its  consequence,  but  not  less 
likely  to  produce  immediate  irritation,  was  carried  on  between  those 
French  and  English  adventurers  who  kidnapped  negroes  and  collected 
gold  dust  on  the  coast  of  Guinea.  But  it  was  in  North  America  that 
the  emulation  and  mutual  aversion  of  the  two  nations  were  most  con- 
spicuous. The  French  attempted  to  hem  in  the  English  colonists  by 
a  chain  of  military  posts,  extending  from  the  great  Lakes  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Mississippi.  The  English  took  arms.  The  wild  abori- 

ginal  tribes  appeared  on  each  side  mingled  with  the  "Pale  Faces." 
attles  were  fought ;  forts  were  stormed  ;  and  hideous  stories  about 
stakes,  scalpings,  and  death  songs  reached  Europe,  and  inflamed  that 
national  animosity  which  the  rivalry  of  ages  had  produced.  The  dis- 
putes between  France  and  England  came  to  a  crisis  at  the  very  time 
when  the  tempest  which  had  been  gathering  was  about  to  burst  on 
Prussia.  The  tastes  and  interests  of  Frederick  would  have  led  him, 
if  he  had  been  allowed  an  option,  to  side  with  the  house  of  Bourbon. 
But  the  folly  of  the  court  of  Versailles  left  him  no  choice.  Franco 
became  the  tool  of  Austria,  and  Frederick  was  forced  to  become  the 
ally  of  England.  He  could  not,  indeed,  expect  that  a  power  which 
covered  the  sea  with  its  fleets,  and  which  had  to  make  war  at  once  on 
the  Ohio  and  the  Ganges,  would  be  able  to  spare  a  large  number  of 
troops  for  operations  in  Germany.  But  England,  though  poor  com- 
pared with  the  England  of  our  time,  was  far  richer  than  any  country 
on  the  Continent.  The  amount  of  her  revenue  and  the  resources 
which  she  found  in  her  credit,  though  they  may  be  thought  small  by 
a  generation  which  has  seen  her  raise  a  hundred  and  thirty  millions 
in  a  single  year,  appeared  miraculous  to  the  politicians  of  that  age. 
A  very  moderate  portion  of  her  wealth,  expended  by  an  able  and 
economical  prince,  in  a  country  where  prices  were  low,  would  be 
sufficient  to  equip  and  maintain  a  formidable  army. 

Such  was  the  situation  in  which  Frederick  found  himself.  He  saw 
the  whole  extent  of  his  peril.  He  saw  that  ther*  was  still  a  faint 
possibility  of  escape  ;  and,  with  prudent  temerity,  he  determined  to 
strike  the  first  blow.  It  was  in  the  month  of  August,  175(5,  that  the 
great  war  of  the  Seven  Years  commenced.  The  king  demanded  of 
the  Empress-Queen  a  distinct  explanation  of  her  intentions,  and 
plainly  told  her  that  he  should  consider  a  refusal  as  a  declaration  of 
war.  "  I  want,''  he  said,  "  no  answer  in  the  style  of  an  oracle."  He 
received  an  answer  at  once  haughty  and  evasive.  In  an  instant,  the 
rich  e'ectorate  of  Saxony  was  overflowed  by  sixty  thousand  Prussian 


«  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

troops.  Augustus  with  Ins  army  occupied  a  strong  position  at  Pirn< 
The  Queen  of  Poland  was  at  Dresden.  In  a  few  days  Pirna  waa 
Mo<-k:i(k'(l  and  Dresden  was  taken.  The  object  of  Frederick  was  to 
obtain  possession  of  the  Saxon  State  Papers  ;  for  those  papers,  he  well 
knew,  contained  ample  proofs  that  though  apparently  an  aggressor, 
he  was  really  acting  in  self-defence.  The  Queen  of  Poland,  as  well 
acquainted  as  Frederick  with  the  importance  of  those  documents,  had 
packed  them  up,  had  concealed  them  in  her  bed-chamber,  and  was 
about  to  send  them  off  to  Warsaw,  when  a  Prussian  officer  made  his 
appearance.  In  the  hope  that  no  soldier  would  venture  to  outrage  a 
lady,  a  queen,  a  daughter  of  an  emperor,  the  mother-in-law  of  a 
dauphin,  she  placed  herself  before  the  trunk,  and  at  length  sat  down 
on  it.  But  all  resistance  was  vain.  The  papers  were  carried  to  Fred- 
erick, who  found  in  them,  as  he  expected,  abundant  evidence  of  the 
designs  of  the  coalition.  The  most  important  documents  were  in- 
stantly published,  and  the  effect  of  the  publication  was  great.  It 
was  clear  that,  of  whatever  sins  the  King  of  Prussia  might  formerly 
have  been  guilty,  he  was  now  the  injured  party,  and  had  merely  an- 
ticipated a  blow  intended  to  destroy  him. 

The  Saxon  camp  at  Pirna  was  in  the  mean  time  closely  invested  ; 
but  the  besieged  were  not  without  hopes  of  succor.  A  great  Austrian 
army  under  Marshal  Brown  \\as  about  to  pour  through  the  passes 
which  separate  Bohemia  from  Saxony.  Frederick  left  at  Pirna  a  force 
sufficient  to  deal  with  the  Saxons,  hastened  into  Bohemia,  encountered 
Brown  at  Lowositz,  and  defeated  him.  This  battle  decided  the  late 
of  Saxony.  Augustus  and  his  favorite,  Buhl,  fled  to  Poland.  The 
whole  army  of  the  electorate  capitulated.  From  that  time  till  the 
end  of  the  war,  Frederick  treated  Saxony  as  a  part  of  his  dominions, 
or,  rather,  he  acted  towards  the  Saxons  in  a  manner  which  may  serve 
to  illustrate  the  whole  meaning  of  that  tremendous  sentence — sub- 
jtrtnx  t/i/H/mtiit  KIIOS,  riles  tanqiiam  alienos.  Saxony  was  as  much  in 
his  power  as  Bradenburg  ;  and  he  had  no  such  interest  in  the  welfare 
ol  Saxony  as  he  had  in  the  welfare  of  Bradenburg.  He  accordingly 
levied  troops  and  exacted  contributions  throughout  the  enslaved  pro- 
vince, with  far  more  rigor  than  in  any  part  of  his  own  dominions. 
Seventeen  thousand  men  who  had  been  in  the  camp  at  Pirna  were 
half  compelled,  half  persuaded,  to  enlist  under  their  conqueror. 
Tims  within  a  few  weeks  from  the  commencement  of  hostilities, 
one  of  the  confederates  had  been  disarmed,  and  his  weapons  pointed 
against  the  rest. 

The  winter  put  a  stop  to  military  operations.  All  had  hitherto 
gone  well.  Mut  the  real  tug  of  war  was  still  to  come.  It  was  easy 
'to  foresee  that  the  year  1757  would  be  a  memorable  era  in  the  history 
of  Europe. 

The  scheme  for  the  campaign  was  simple,  bold,  and  judicious. 
The  Duke  of  Cumberland  with  an  English  and  Hanoverian  army  was 
in  Western  Germany,  and  might  be  able  to  prevent  the  French 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  43 

troops  from  attacking  Prussia.  The  Russians,  confined  -by  their 
snows,  would  probably  not  stir  till  the  spring  was  far  advanced. 
Saxony  was  piostrated.  Sweden  could  do  nothing  very  important. 
During-  &  1'ew  months  Frederick  would  have  to  deal  with  Austria 
alone.  Even  thus  the  odds  were  against  him.  But  ability  and  cour- 
age have  often  triumphed  against  odds  still  more  formidable. 

Early  in  1757  the  Prussian  army  in  Saxony  began  to  move. 
Through  four  defiles  in  the  mountains  they  came  pouring  into  Bo- 
,  hernia.  Prague  was  his  first  mark  ;  but  the  ulterior  object  was  prob- 
ably Vienna.  At  Prague  lay  Marshal  Brown  with  one  great  army. 
Daun,  the  most  cautious  and  fortunate  of  the  Austrian  captains,  was 
advancing  with  another.  Frederick  determined  to  overwhelm  Brown 
before  Daun  should  arrive.  On  the  sixth  of  May  was  fought,  under 
those  walls  which  a  hundred  and  thirty  years  before  had  witnessed 
the  victory  of  the  Catholic  league  and  the  flight  of  the  unhappy  Pala- 
tine, a  battle  more  bloody  than  any  which  Europe  saw  during  the 
long  interval  between  Malplaquet  and  Eylau.  The  king  and  Prince 
Ferdinand  of  Brunswick  were  distinguished  on  that  day  by  their  valor 
and  exertions.  But  the  chief  glory  was  with  Schwerin.  When  the 
Prussian  infantry  wavered,  the  stout  old  marshal  snatched  the  colors 
from  an  ensign,  and,  waving  them  in  the  air,  led  back  his  regiment 
to  the  charge.  Thus  at  seventy-two  years  of  age  he  fell  in 
the  thickest  of  the  battle,  still  grasping  the  standard  which  bears  the 
black  eagle  on  the  field  argent.  The  victory  remained  with  the  king. 
But  it  had  been  dearly  purchased.  Whole  columns  of  his  bravest 
warriors  had  fallen.  He  admitted  that  he  had  lost  eighteen  thousand 
men.  Of  the  enemy,  twenty-four  thousand  had  been  killed,  wounded, 
or  taken. 

Part  of  the  defeated  army  was  shut  up  in,  Prague.  Part  fled  to  join 
the  troops  which,  under  the  command  of  Daun,  were  now  close  at 
hand.  Frederick  determined  to  play  over  the  same  game  which  had 
succeeded  at  Lowosit/..  He  left  a  large  force  to  besiege  Prague,  and 
at  the  head  of  thirty  thousand  men  he  marched  against  Daun.  The 
cautious  marshal,  though  he  had  great  superiority  in  numbers,  would 
risk  nothing.  He  occupied  at  Kolin  a  position  almost  impregnable, 
and  awaited  the  attack  of  the  king. 

It  was  the  18th  of  June — a  day  which,  if  the  Greek  superstition 
still  retained  its  influence,  would  be  held  sacred  to  Nemesis — a  day 
on  which  the  two  greatest  princes  and  soldiers  of  modern  times  were 
taught  by  terrible  experience  that  neither  skill  nor  valor  can  fix  the 
inconstancy  of  fortune^  The  battle  began  before  noon  ;  and  part  of 
the  Prussian  army  mamtained  the  contest  till  after  the  midsummer 
sun  had  gone  down.  But  at  length  the  king  found  that  his  troops, 
having  been  repeatedly  driven  back  with  frightful  carnage,  could  no 
longer  be  led  to  the  charge.  He  was  with  diiliculty  persuaded  to  quit 
the  field.  The  officers  of  his  personal  staff  were  under  the  necessity 
of  expostulating  with  him,  and  one  of  them  took  the  liberty  t»  say, 


44  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT\ 

"  Does  your  Majesty  mean  to  storm  the  batteries  alone?"  Thirteen 
thousand  of  his  bravest  followers  had  perished.  Nothing  remained 
for  him  but  to  retreat  in  good  order,  to  raise  the  siege  of  Prague,  and 
to  hurry  his  army  by  different  routes  out  of  Bohemia. 

This  stroke  seemed  to  be  final.  Frederick's  situation  had  at  best 
been  such,  that  only  an  uninterrupted  run  of  good  luck  could  save 
him,  as  it  seemed,  from  ruin.  And  now,  almost  in  the  outset  of  the 
contest,  he  had  met  with  a  check  which,  even  in  a  war  between  equal 
powers,  would  have  been  felt  as  serious.  He  had  owed  much  to  the 
opinion  which  all  Europe  entertained  of  his  army.  Since  his  acces- 
sion, his  soldiers  had  in  many  successive  battles  been  victorious  over 
the  Austrians.  But  the  glory  had  departed  from  his  arms.  All 
•whom  his  malevolent  sarcasms  had  wounded  made  haste  to  avenge 
themselves  by  scoffing  at  the  scoffer.  His  soldiers  had  ceased  to  con- 
fide in  his  star.  In  every  part  of  his  camp  his  dispositions  were 
severely  criticised.  Even  in  his  own  family  he  had  detractors.  His 
next  brother  William,  heir-presumptive,  or  rather,  in  truth,  heir-ap- 
parent to  the  throne,  and  great-grandfather  of  the  present  king, 
could  not  refrain  from  lamenting  his  own  fate  and  that  of  the  house 
of  Hohenzollern,  once  so  great  and  so  prosperous,  but  now,  by  the 
rash  ambition  of  its  chief,  made  a  by- word  to  all  nations.  These  com- 
plaints, and  some  blunders  which  William  committed  during  the  re- 
treat from  Bohemia,  called  forth  the  bitter  displeasure  of  the  inex- 
orable king.  The  prince's  heart  was  broken  by  the  cutting  reproaches 
of  his  brother  ;  he  quitted  the  army,  retired  to  a  country  seat,  and  in  a 
short  time  died  of  shame  and  vexation. 

It  seemed  that  the  king's  distress  could  hardly  be  increased.  Yet 
at  this  moment  another  blow  not  less  terrible  than  that  of  Kolin  fell 
upon  him.  The  French  under  Marshal  D'Estrees  had  invaded  Ger- 
many. The  Duke  of  Cumberland  had  given  them  hat-tie  at  Hasteiu- 
beck,  and  had  been  defeated.  In  order  to  save  the  Electorate  of  1  Inn- 
over  from  entire  subjugation,  he  had  made,  at  Clostern  Severn,  an  ar- 
rangement with  the  French  generals,  which  left  them  at  liberty  to 
turn  their  arms  against  the  Prussian  dominions. 

That  nothing  might  be  wanting  to  Frederick's  distress,  he  lost  his 
mother  just  at  this  time  ;  and  he  appears  to  have  felt  the  loss  more 
tliau  was  to  be  expected  from  the  hardness  and  severity  of  his  char- 
acter. In  truth,  his  misfortunes  had  now  cut  to  the  quick.  The 
mocker,  the  tyrant,  the  most  rigorous,  the  most  imperious,  the  most 
cynical  of  men,  was  very  unhappy.  His  face  was  so  haggard  and 
his  Conn  so  thin,  that  when  on  his  return  from  Bohemia  he  passed 
through  Leipsic,  the  people  hardly  knew  him  again.  His  sleep  was 
broken  ;  the  ti-urs  in  spite  of  himself  often  started  into  his  eyes  ;  and 
the  gravo  begun  to  present  itself  to  his  agitated  mind  as  the 'best  ref- 
uge from  misery  and  dishonor.  His  resolution  was  fixed  never  to  be 
taken  alive,  and  never  to  make  peace  on  condition  of  descending  from 
his  place  among  the  powers  of  Europe.  He  saw  nothing  left  for  him 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  45 

•xcept  to  die  ;  and  lie  deliberately  chose  his  mode  of  death.  He 
always  carried  about  with  him  a  sure  and  speedy  poison  in  a  small 
glass  case  ;  and  to  the  few  in  whom  he  placed  confidence  he  made  no 
mystery  of  his  resolution. 

But  we  should  very  imperfectly  describe  the  state  of  Frederick's 
mind,  if  we  left  out  of  view  the  laughable  peculiarities  which  con- 
t  rust  ( -d  so  singularly  with  the  gravity,  energy,  and  harshness  of  his 
character.  It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  the  tragic  or  the  comic  pre- 
dominated in  the  strange  scene  which  was  then  acted.  In  the  midst 
of  all  the  great  king's  calamities,  Ms  passion  for  writing  indifferent 
poetry  grew  stronger  and  stronger.  Enemies  all  around  him,  despair 
in  his  heart,  pil.s  of  corrosive  sublimate  hidden  in  his  clothes,  he 
poured  forth  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  lines,  hateful  to  gods  and 
men — the  insipid  dregs  of  Voltaire's  Hippocrene — the  faint  echo  of 
the  lyre  of  Chaulieu.  It  is  amusing  to  compare  what  he  did  during 
the  last  months  of  1757  with  what  he  wrote  during  the  same  time. 
It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  equal  portion  of  the  life  of  Hannibal, 
of  Caesar,  or  of  Napoleon,  will  bear  a  comparison  with  that  short 

?-riod,  the  most  brilliant  in  the  history  of  Prussia  and  of  Frederick. 
et  at  tliis  very  time  the  scanty  leisure  of  the  illustrious  warrior  was 
employed  in  producing  odes  and  epistles,  a  little  better  than  Cibber's, 
and  a  little  worse  than  Ilayley's.  Here  and  there  a  manly  sentiment, 
which  deserves  to  be  in  prose,  makes  its  appearance  in  company  with 
Prometheus  and  Orpheus,  Elysium  and  Acheron,  the  plaintive  Philo- 
mel, the  poppies  of  Morpheus,  and  all  the  other  frippery  which,  like  a 
robe  tossed  by  a  proud  beauty  to  her  waiting-women,  has  long  IK -en 
contemptuously  abandoned  by  genius  to  mediocrity.  We  hardly 
know  any  instance  of  the  strength  and  weakness  of  human  nature  so 
striking  and  so  grotesque  as  the  character  of  this  haughty,  vigilant, 
resolute,  sagacious  blue-stocking,  half  Mithridates  and  half  Trissotin, 
bearing  up  against  a  world  in  arms,  with  an  ounce  of  poison  in  one 
pocket  and  a  quire  of  bad  verses  in  the  other. 

Frederick  had  some  time  before  made  advances  towards  a  recon- 
ciliation with  Voltaire,  and  some  civil  letters  had  passed  between 
them.  After  the  battle  of  Kolin  their  epistolary  intercourse  became, 
at  least  in  seeming,  friendly  and  confidential.  We  do  not  know  any 
collection  of  letters  which  throw  so  much  light  on  the  darkest  and 
most  intricate  parts  of  human  nature  as  the  correspondence  of  these 
strange  beings  after  they  had  exchanged  forgiveness.  Both  felt  that 
the  quarrel  had  lowered  them  in  the  public  estimation.  They  ad- 
mired each  other.  They  stood  in  need  of  each  other.  The  great 
king  wished  to  be  handed  down  to  posterity  by  the  great  writer. 
The  great  writer  felt  himself  exalted  by  the  homage  of  the  great 
king.  Yet  the  wounds  which  they  had  inflicted  on  each  other 
were  too  deep  to  be  effaced,  or  even  perfectly  healed.  Not  only  did 
the  scars  remain  ;  the  sore  places  often  festered  and  bled  afresh. 
The  letters  consisted  for  tlie  most  part  of  compliments,  th*nks, 


46  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

offers  of  service,  assurances  of  attachment.  But  if  anything  brought 
back  to  Kn-derick's  recollection  the  cunning  and  mischievous  pTenks 
In  which  Voltaire  had  provoked  him,  some  expression  of  contempt 
and  displriisurc  broke  forth  in  the  midst  of  his  eulogy.  It  was  much 
worse  when  anything  recalled  to  the  mind  of  Voltaire  the  outrages 
wlurh  he  and  his  kinswoman  had  suffered  at  Frankfort.  All  at  once 
liis  (lowing  panegyric  is  turned  into  invective.  "  Remember  how  you 
Iwhavedto  me.  For  your  sake  I  have  iost  Jie  favor  of  my  king. 
For  your  sake  I  am  an  exile  from  my  country.  I  loved  you.. 
1  i  rusted  myself  to  you.  I  had  no  wish  but  to  end  my  life  in 
your  service.  And  what  was  my  reward?  Stripped  of  all  you 
hud  bestowed  on  me,  the  key,  the  order,  the  pension,  I  was  forced  to 
fly  from  your  territories.  1  was  hunted  as  if  I  had  been  a  deserter 
from  your  grenadiers.  I  was  arrested,  insulted,  plundered.  My 
niece  was  dragged  in  the  mud  of  Frankfort  by  your  soldiers  us  if  she 
had  been  some  wretched  follower  of  your  camp.  You  have  great 
talents.  You  have  good  qualities.  But  you  have  one  odious  vice. 
You  delight  in  the  abasement  of  your  fellow-creatures.  You  have 
brought  disgrace  on  the  name  of  philosopher.  You  have  given  some 
color  to  the  slanders  of  the  bigots  who  say  that  no  confidence  can  bo 
placed  in  the  justice  or  humanity  of  those  who  reject  the  ( 'hristian 
faith."  Then  the  king  answers  with  less  heat,  but  with  equal  sever- 
ity :  "  You  know  that  you  behaved  shamefully  in  Prussia.  It  is  well 
for  you  that  you  had  to  deal  with  a  man  so  indulgent  to  the  infirm- 
ities of  genius  as  lam.  You  richly  deserved  to  see  the  inside  of  a 
dungeon.  Your  talents  are  not  more  widely  known  than  your  faith- 
lessness and  your  malevolence.  The  grave  itself  is  no  asylum  from 
your  spite.  Maupertuis  is  dead;  but  you  still  go  on  calumniating 
and  deriding  him,  as  if  you  had  not  made  him  miserable  enough  while 
he  was  living.  Let  us  have  no  more  of  this.  And,  above  all,  let  me 
hear  no  more  of  your  niece.  I  am  sick  to  death  of  her  name.  1  can 
bear  with  your  faults  for  the  sake  of  your  merits  ;  but  she  has  not 
written  Mahomet  or  Merope." 

An  explosion  of  this  kind,  it  might  be  supposed,  would  necessarily 
put  an  end  to  all  amicable  communication.  But  it  was  not  so.  After 
(•very  outbreak  of  ill-humor  this  extraordinary  pair  became  more  lov- 
ing than  before,  and  exchanged  compliments  and  assurances  of  mutual 
regard  with  a  wonderful  air  of  sincerity. 

It  may  well  be  supposed  that  men  "who  wrote  thus  to  each  other 
were  not  wry  guarded  in  what  they  said  of  each  other.  The  English 
ambassador.  .Mitchell,  who  knew  that  the  King  of  Prussia  was  con- 
stantly writing  to  Voltaire  with  the  greatest  freedom  on  the  most  im- 
portamt  subjects,  was  amazed  to  hear  His  Majesty  designate  this 
highly-favored  correspondent  as  a  bad-hearted  fellow,  the  greatest 
rascal  on  th«  face  of  the  earth.  And  the  language  which  the  poet 
held  about  the  king  was  not  much  more  respectful. 

It  would  probably  have  puzzled  Voltaire  himself  to  say  what  was 


FREDERICK  THE   GREAT.  47 

lite  real  feeling  towards  Frederick.  It  was  compounded  of  all  senti- 
ments, from  enmity  to  friendship,  and  from  scorn  to  admiration  ;  and 
the  proportions  in  which  these  elements  were  mixed  Changed  every 
moment.  The  old  patriarch  resembled  the  spoilt  ehild  who  screams, 
stamps,  cuffs,  laughs,  kisses,  and  cuddles  within  one-quarter  of  an 
hour.  His  resentment  was  not  extinguished  ;  yet  he  was  not  without 
'sympathy  for  his  old  friend.  As  a  Frenchman,  he  wished  success  to 
the  arms  of  his  country.  As  a  philosopher,  IK;  was  anxious  for  the 
stability  of  a  throne  on  which  a  philosopher  sat.  He  longed  both  to 
save  and  to  humble  Frederick.  There  was  one  way,  and  only  one,  in 
which  all  his  conflicting  feelings  could  at  once  be  gratified.  If  Fred- 
erick were  preserved  by  the  interference  of  France,  if  it  were  known 
thaffor  that  interference  he  was  indebted  to  the  mediation  of  Vol- 
taire, this  would  indeed  be  delicious  revenge  ;  this  would  indeed  be  to 
heap  coals  of  fire  on  that  haughty  head.  Nor  did  the  vain  and  rest- 
less poet  think  it  impossible  that  he  might,  from  his  hermitage  near 
the  Alps,  dictate  peace  to  Europe.  D'Estrees  had  quitted  Hanover, 
and  the  command  of  the  French  army  had  been  entrusted  to  the  Duke 
of  Richelieu,  a  man  whose  chief  distinction  was  derived  from  his 
MI  cress  in  gallantry.  Richelieu  was,  in  truth,  the  most  eminent  of 
that  race  of  seducers  by  profession  who  furnished  Crebillion  the 
younger  and  La  Clos  with  models  for  their  heroes.  In  his  earlier 
days,  the  royal  house  itself  had  not  been  secure  from  his  presumptu- 
ous love.  He  was  believed  to  have  carried  his  conquests  into  ihe 
family  of  Orleans  ;  and  some  suspected  that  he  was  Hot  unconcerned 
in  the  mysterious  remorse  which  imbitterecl  the  last  hours  of  the 
charming  mother  of  Louis  the  Fifteenth.  But  the  duke  was  now  fifty 
years  old.  With  a  heart  deeply  corrupted  by  vice,  a  head  long  ac- 
customed to  think  only  on  trifles,  an  impaired  constitution,  an  im- 
paired fortune,  and,  worst  of  all,  a  very  red  nose,  he  was  entering  on 
a  dull,  frivolous,  and  unrespected  old  age.  Without  one  qualification 
for  military  command  except  that  personal  courage  which  was  com- 
mon to  him  and  the  whole  nobility  of  France,  he  had  been  placed  at 
the  head  of  the  army  of  Hanover  ;  and  in  that  situation  he  did  his 
best  to  repair,  by  extortion  and  corruption,  the  injury  which  he  had 
done  to  his  property  by  a  life  of  dissolute  profusion. 

The  Duke  of  Richelieu  to  the  end  of  his  life  hated  the  philosophers 
as  a  sect — not  for  those  parts  of  their  system  which  a  good  and  wise 
man  would  have  condemned,  but  for  their  virtues,  for  their  spirit  of 
free  inquiry,  and  for  their  hatred  of  those  social  abuses  of  which  he 
was  himself  the  personification.  But  he,  like  many  of  those  who 
thought  with  him,  excepted  Voltaire  from  the  list  of  proscribed 
writers.  He  frequently  sent  flattering  letters  to  Ferney.  He  did  the 
patriarch  the  honor  to  borrow  money  of  him,  and  even  carried  his 
condescending  friendship  so  far  as  to  forget  to  pay  interest.  Voltaire 
thought  that  it  might  be  in  his  power  to  bring  the  duke  and  the  King 
of  Prussia  into  communication  with  each  other.  He  wrote  earnestly 


48  FREDERICK  T.iE   GREAT. 

<x>  both  ;  and  he  so  far  succeeded  that  a  correspondence  between  them 
was  commenced 

But  it  was  to  very  different  means  that  Frederick  was  to  owe  his  de- 
liverance. At  the  beginning  of  November,  the  net  seemed  to  have 
closed  completely  round  him.  The  Russians  were  in  the  field,  and 
were  spreading  devastation  through  his  eastern  provinces.  Silesia 
was  overrun  by  the  Austrians.  A  great  French  army  was  advancing 
from  the  west  under  the  command  of  Marshal  Soubise,  a  prince  of  the 
great  Armorican  house  of  Rohan.  Berlin  itself  had  been  taken  and 
plundered  by  the  Croatians.  Such  was  the  situation  from  which 
Frederick  extricated  himself,  with  dazzling  glory,  in  the  short  space 
of  thirty  days.  » 

He  marched  first  against  Soubise.  On  the  5th  of  November  the 
armies  met  at  Rosbach.  The  French  were  two  to  one  ;  but  they  \\ere 
ill-disciplined,  and  their  general  was  a  dunce.  The  tactics  of  Freder- 
ick and  the  well-regulated  valor  of  the  Prussian  troops  obtained  a 
eomplete  victory.  Seven  thousand  of  the  invaders  were  made  pris- 
oners. Their  guns,  their  colors,  their  baggage,  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  conquerors.  Those  who  escaped  fled  as  confusedly  as  a  mob  scat- 
tered by  cavalry.  Victorious  in  the  west,  the  king  turned  his  anus 
towards  Silesia.  In  that  quarter  everything  seemed  to  be  lost.  Bres- 
lau  had  fallen  ;  and  Charles  of  Lorraine,  with  a  mighty  power,  held 
the  whole  province.  On  the  5th  of  December,  exactly  one  month  af- 
ter the  battle  of  Rosbach,  Frederick,  with  forty  thousand  men,  and 
Prince  Charles,  at  the  head  of  not  less  than  sixty  thousand,  met  at 
Leuthen  hard  by  Breslau.  The  king,  who  was,  in  general,  perluqw 
too  much  inclined  to  consider  the  common  soldier  as  a  mere  machine, 
resorted,  on  this  great  day,  to  means  resembling  those  which  Bona- 
parte afterwards  employed  with  such  signal  success  for  the  purpose 
of  stimulating  military  enthusiasm.  The  principal  officers  were  con- 
voked. Frederick  addressed  them  with  great  force  and  pathos,  and 
directed  them  to  speak  to  their  men  as  he  had  spoken  to  them.  When 
the  armies  were  set  in  battle  array,  the  Prussian  troops  were  in  a 
state  of  fierce  excitement ;  but  their  excitement  showed  itself  after 
the  fashion  of  a  grave  people.  The  columns  advanced  to  the  attack 
chanting,  to  the  sound  of  drums  and  fifes,  the  rude  hymns  of  the  old 
Saxon  Herhholds.  They  had  never  fought  so  well  ;  nor  had  the 
genius  of  their  chief  ever  been  so  conspicuous.  "That  battle,"  said 
^apoleon,  "was  a  masterpiece.  Of  itself  it  is  sufficient  to  entitle 
Frederick  to  a  place  in  the  first  rank  among  generals."  The  victory 
was  complete.  Twenty-seven  thousand  Austrians  were  killed,  wounded 
or  taken  ;  fifty  stand  of  colors,  a  hundred  guns,  four  thousand  wagons, 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Prussians.  Breslau  opened  its  gates  ;  Si- 
lesia was  reconquered  ;  Charles  of  Lorraine  retired  to  hide  las  shame 
and  sorrow  at  Brussels ;  and  Frederick  allowed  his  troops  to  take 
gome  repose  in  winter  quarters,  after  a  campaign  to  the  vicissitudes 
of  which  it  will  be  difficult  to  tad  any  parallel  in  an«i«nt  or  modern 
history. 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  40 

The  king's  fame  filled  all  the  world.  He  liad,  during  the  last  year, 
maintained  a  contest,  on  terms  of  advantage,  against  three  powers, 
the  weakest  of  which  had  more  than  three  times  his  resources.  He 
had  fought  four  great  pitched  battles  against  superior  forces.  Three 
of  these  battles  he  had  gained  ;  and  the  defeat  of  Koliu,  repaired  as 
it  had  been,  rather  raised  than  lowered  his  military  renown.  The 
victory  of  Leutheu  is,  to  this  day,  the  proudest  on  the  roll  of  Prus- 
sian fame.  Leipsic,  indeed,  and  Waterloo,  produced  more  important 
consequences  to  mankind.  But  the  glory  or  Leipsic  must  be  shared 
by  the  Prussians  with  the  Austriaus  and  Russians  ;  and  at  Waterloo 
the  British  infantry  bore  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day.  The  vic- 
tory of  Rosbach  was,  in  a  military  point  of  view,  less  honorable  than 
that  of  Leuthen,  for  it  was  gained  over  an  incapable  general  and  a 
disorganized  army.  But  the  moral  effect  which  it  produced  was  im- 
mense. All  the  preceding  triumphs  of  Frederick  had  been  triumphs 
over  Germans,  and  could  excite  no  emotions  of  natural  pride  among 
the  German  people.  It  was  impossible  that  a  Hessian  or  a  Hanoverian 
could  feel  any  patriotic  exultation  at  hearing  that  Pomeranians 
slaughtered  Moravians,  or  that  Saxon  banners  had  been  hung  in  the 
churches  of  Berlin.  Indeed,  though  the  military  character  of  the 
Germans  justly  stood  high  throughout  the  world,  they  could  boast  of 
no  great  day  which  belonged  to  them  as  a  people  ; — of  no  Agincourt, 
of  no  Baunockburn.  Most  of  their  victories  had  been  gained  over 
each  other  ;  and  their  most  splendid  exploits  against  foreigners  1  ad 
been  achieved  under  the  command'  of  Eugene,  who  was  himself  a 
foreigner. 

The  news  of  the  battle  of  Rosbach  stirred  the  blood  of  the  whole 
of  the  mighty  population  from  the  Alps  to  the  Baltic,  and  from  the 
borders  of  Courtland  to  those  of  Lorraine.  Westphalia  and  Lower 
Saxony  had  been  deluged  by  a  great  host  of  strangers,  whose  speech 
was  unintelligible,  and  whose  petulant  and  licentious  manners  had 
excited  the  strongest  feelings  of  disgust  and  hatred.  That  great  host 
had  been  put  to  flight  by  a  small  band  of  German  warriors,  led  by  a 
prince  of  German  blood  on  tluvside  of  father  and  mother,  and  marked 
by  the  fair  hair  and  the  clear  blue,  eye  of  Germany.  •  Never  since  the 
dissolution  of  the  empire  of  Charlemagne  had  the  Teutonic  race  won 
such  a  field  against  the  French.  The  tidings  called  forth  a  general 
burst  of  delight  and  pride  from  the  whole  of  the  great  family  which 
spoke  the  various  dialects  of  the  ancient  language  of  Arminius.  The 
fame  of  Frederick  began  to  supply,  in  some  degree,  the  place  of  a 
common  government  and  of  a  common  capital.  It  became  a  rallying 
point  for  all  true  Germans — a  subject  of  mutual  congratulations  to 
the  Bavarian  and  the  Westphalian,  to  the  citizen  of  FrankfWt  and  the 
citizen  of  Nuremburg.  Then  first  it  was  manifest  that  the  Germans 
were  truly  a  nation.  Then  first  was  discernible  that  patriotic  spirit 
which,  in  1813,  achieved  the  great  deliverance  of  central  Europe,  and 
which  still  guards,  and  long  will  guard  against  foreign  ambition,  the 
old  freedom  of  the  Rhine. 


60  FREDERICK   THK   (IREAT. 

Nor  were  the  effects  produced  by  that  celebrated  day  merely  politi 
cal.  The  greatest  masters  of  German  poetry  and  eloquence  have  ad- 
mitted that,  though  the  great  king  neither  valued  nor  understood  his 
native  language,  though  he  looked  on  France  as  the  only  seat  of  taste 
and  philosophy,  yet,  in  his  own  despite,  he  did  much  to  emancipate 
the  genius  of  his  countrymen  from  the  foreign  yoke;  and  that,  in 
the  act  of  vanquishing"  Soubise,  he  was  unintentionally  rousing  the 
spirit  which  soon  began  to  question  the  literary  precedence  of  Boileau 
and  Voltaire.  So  strangely  do  events  confound  all  the  plans  of  man  ! 
A  prince  who  read  only  French,  who  wrote  only  French,  who  ranked 
as  a  French  classic,  became,  quite  unconsciously,  the  means  of  liberat- 
ing half  the  Continent  from  the  dominion  of  that  French  criticism  <>f 
which  he  was  himself  to  the  end  of  his  life  a  slave.  Yet  even  the 
enthusiasm  of  Germany  in  favor  of  Frederick  hardly  equalled  the 
enthusiasm  of  England.  The  birthday  of  our  ally  was  celebrated 
with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  that  of  our  own  sovereign,  and  at  night 
the  streets  of  London  were  in  a  blaze  with  illuminations.  Portraits 
of  the  Hero  of  Rosbach,  with  his  cocked  hat  and  long  pigtail,  were 
in  every  house.  An  attentive  observer  will,  at  this  day,  find  in  the 
parlors  of  old-fashioned  inns,  and  in  the  portfolios  of  printsellers, 
twenty  portraits  of  Frederick  for  one  of  George  II.  The  sign-paint- 
ers were  everywhere  employed  in  touching  up  Admiral  Vernon  into 
the  King  of  Prussia.  Some  young  Englishmen  of  rank  proposed  to 
visit  Germany  as  volunteers,  for  the  purpose  of  learning  the  art  of 
war  under  the  greatest  of  commanders.  This  last  proof  of  British 
attachment  and  admiration  Frederick  politely  but  firmly  declined. 
His  cam])  was  no  place  for  amateur  students  of  military  science.  The 
Prussian  discipline  was  rigorous  even  to  cruelty.  The  officers,  while 
in  the  field,  were  expected  to  practice  an  abstemiousness  and  self-de- 
nial such  as  was  hardly  surpassed  by  the  most  rigid  monastic  orders. 
However  noble  their  birth,  however  high  their  rank  in  the  service, 
they  were  not  permitted  to  eat  from  anything  better  than  pewter.  It 
was  a  high  crime  even  in  a  count  and  field-marshal  to  have  a  single 
silver  spoon  among  his  baggage.  Gay*young  Englishmen  of  twenty 
thousand  a  year,  accustomed  to  liberty  and  to  luxury,  would  not  easi- 
ly submit  to  these  Spartan  restraints.  The  king  could  not  venture 
to  keep  them  in  order  as  he  kept  his  own  subjects  in  order.  Situ- 
ated as  he  was  with  respect  to  England,  he  could  not  well  imprison 
or  shoot  refractory  Howards  and  Cavendishes.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  example  of  a  few  fine  gentlemen,  attended  by  chariots  and  livery 
servants,  eating  in  plate,  and  drinking  champagne  and  toky,  was 
enough  to  corrupt  his  whole  army.  He  thought  it  best  to  make  a 
stand  at  first,  and  civilly  refused  to  admit  such  dangerous  companions 
among  his  troops. 

The  help  of  England  was  bestowed  in  a  manner  far  more  useful 
and  more  acceptable.  An  annual  subsidy  of  near  seren  hundred 
thousand  pounds  enabled  the  king  to  add  probably  more  than  fifty 


FREDERICK  THE  GREA^.  51 

thousand  men  to  his  army.  Pitt,  now  at  the  height  of  power  and 
popularity,  undertook"  the  task  of  defending  Western  Germany 
against  France,  and  asked  Frederick  only  for  the  loan  of  a  general. 
The  general  selected  was  Prince  Ferdinand  of  Brunswick,  who  had 
attained  high  distinction  in  the  Prussian  service.  He  was  put  at  the 
head  of  an  army,  partly  English,  partly  Hanoverian,  partly  composed 
of  mercenaries  hired  from  the  petty  princes  of  the  empire.  He  soon 
vindicated  the  choice  of  the  two  allied  courts,  and  proved  himself  the, 
second  general  of  the  age. 

Frederick  passed  the  winter  at  Breslau,  in  reading,  writing,  and 
preparing  for  the  next  campaign.  The  havoc  which  the  war  had 
made  among  his  troops  was  rapidly  repaired,  and  in  the  spring  of 
1758  he  was  again  ready  for  the  conflict.  Prince  Ferdinand  kept  the 
French  in  check.  The  king,  in  the  mean  time,  after  attempting 
against  the  Austrians  some  operations  which  led  to  no  very  important 
result,  marched  to  encounter  the  Russians,  who,  slaying,  burning,' 
and  wasting  whatever  they  turned,  had  penetrated  into  the  heart  of 
his  realm.  He  gave  them  battle  at  Zorndorf,  near  Frankfort  on  the 
Oder.  The  tight  was  long  and  bloody.  Quarter  was  neither  given 
nor  taken  ;  for  the  Germans -and  Scythians  regarded  each  other  with 
bitter  aversion,  and  the  sight  of  the  ravages  committed  by  the  half- 
savage  invaders  had  incensed  the  king  and  his  army.  The  Russians 
were  overthrown  with  great  slaughter,  and  for  a  few  months  no  fur- 
ther danger  was  to  be  apprehended  from  the  east. 

A  day  of  thanksgiving  was  proclaimed  by  the  king,  and  was  cele- 
brated with  pride  and  delight  by  his  people.  The  rejoicings  in  Eng- 
land were  not  less  enthusiastic  or  less  sincere.  This  may  be  selected 
as  the  point  of  time  at  which  the  military  glory  of  Frederick  reached 
the  zenith.  In  the  short  space  of  three-quarters  of  a  year  he  had 
won  three  great  battles  over  the  armies  of  three  mighty  and  warlike 
monarchies — France,  Austria,  and  Russia. 

But  it  was  decreed  that  the  temper  of  that  strong  mind  should  be 
tried  by  both  extremes  of  fortune  in  rapid  succession.  Close  upon 
this  bright  series  of  triumphs  came  a  series  of  disasters,  such  as  would 
have  blighted  the  fame  and  Itroken  the  heart  of  almost  any  other 
commander.  Yet  Frederick,  in  the  midst  of  his  calamities,  was  still 
an  object  of  admiration  to  his  subjects,  his  allies,  and  his  enemies.- 
Overwhelmed  by  adversity,  sick  of  life,  he  still  maintained  the  con- 
test, greater  in  defeat,  in  flight,  and  in  what  seemed  hopeless  ruin, 
than  on  the  fields  of  kis  proudest  victories. 

Having  vanquished  the  Russians,  he  hastened  into  Saxony  to  op- 
pose the  troops  of  the  Empress-Queen,  commanded  by  Daun,  the 
most  cautious,  and  Laudohn,  the  most  inventive  and  enterprising  of 
her  generals.  These  two  celebrated  commanders  agreed  on  a  scheme, 
in  which  the  prudence  of  the  one  and  the  vigor  of  the  other  seem  to 
have  happily  combined.  At  dead  of  night  they  surprised  the  king  im 
his  camp  at  Hochkirchen.  His  presence  of  mind  saved  his  troops 


83  FREDERICK  THE 

from  destruction,  but  nothing  could  save  them  from  defeat  and  severe 
]<>ss.  Marshal  Keith  was  among  the  slain.  The  first  roar  of  the  guna 
roused  the  noble  exile  from  his  rest,  and  he  was  instantly  in  the  front 
of  the  battle.  He  received  a  dangerous  wound,  but  refused  to  quit 
the  field,  and  was  in  the  act  of  rallying  his  broken  troops,  when  an 
Austrian  bullet  terminated  his  checkered  and  eventful  life. 

The  misfortune  was  serious.  But,  of  all  generals,  Frederick  un- 
derstood best  how  to  repair  defeat,  and  Daun  understood  least  how  to 
iin i trove  victory.  In  a  few  days  the  Prussian  army  was  as  formid- 
able as  before  the  battle.  The  prospect  was,  however,  gloomy.  An 
Austrian  army  under  General  Harsch  had  invaded  Silesia,  and  in- 
vested the  fortress  of  Neisse.  Daun,  after  his  success  at  Hochkirchen, 
had  \vrittentoHarsch  in  very  confident  terms:  "Go  on  with  your 
operations  against  Neisse.  Be  quite  at  ease  as  to  the  king.  I  will 
give  you  a  good  account  of  him."  In  truth,  the  position  of  the  Prus- 
sians was  full  of  difficulties.  Between  them  and  Silesia  lay  the  vic- 
torious army  of  Daun.  It  was  not  easy  for  them  to  reach  Silesia  at 
all.  If  they  did  reach  it,  they  left  Saxony  exposed  to  the  Austrians. 
But  the  vigor  and  activity  of  Frederick  surmounted  every  obstacle. 
He  made  a  circuitous  march  of  extraordinay  rapidity,  passed  Daun, 
hastened  into  Silesia,  raised  the  seige  of  Neisse,  and  drove  Harsch 
into  Bohemia.  Daun  availed  himself  of  the  king's  absence  to  attack 
Dresden.  The  Prussians  defended  it  desperately.  The  inhabitants 
of  that  wealthy  and  polished  capital  begged  in  vain  for  mercy  from 
the  garrison  within  and  from  the  beseigers  without.  The  beautiful 
suburbs  were  burned  to  the  ground.  It  was  clear  that  the  town,  if  won 
at  all,  would  be  won  street  by  street  by  the  bayonet.  At  this  con- 
juncture came  news  that  Frederick,  having  cleared  Silesia  of  his  ene- 
mies, was  returning  by  forced  marches  into  Saxony.  Daun  retired 
from  before  Dresden  and  fell  back  into  the  Austrian  territories.  The 
king,  over  heaps  of  ruins,  made  his  triumphant  entry  into  the  un- 
hajipy  metropolis,  which  had  so  cruelly  expiated  the  weak  and  perfid- 
ious policy  of  its  sovereign.  It  was  now  the  20th  of  November. 
The  cold  weather  suspended  military  operations,  and  the  king  again 
took  up  his  winter-quarters  at  Breslau. 

The  third  of  the  seven  terrible  years  was  over,  and  Frederick  still 
.stood  his  ground.  He  had  been  recently  tried  by  domestic  as  well  as 
by  military  disasters.  On  the  14th  of  October,  the  day  on  which  he 
was  drt'eated  at  Hochkirchen,  the  day  on  the  anniversary  of  which, 
forty -eight  years  later,  a  defeat  far  more  tremendous  laid  the  Prus- 
sian monarchy  in  the  dust,  died  Wilhelmina,  Margravine  of  Ban? nth. 
From  the  portraits  which  we  have  of  her,  by  her  own  han  ,  and  by 
ihe  hands  of  the  most  discerning  of  her  contemporaries,  we  should 
pronounce  her  to  have  been  coarse,  indelicate,  and  a  good  hater,  but 
n  't  destitute  of  kind  and  generous  feelings.  Her  mind,  naturally 
strong  and  observant,  had  been  highly  cultivated  ;  and  she  was,  and 
deserved  to  be,  Frederick's  favorite  sister  He  felt  the  loss  as  nmclj 


FREDERICK   THE  GREAT.  53 

as  it  was  in  his  iron  nature  to  feel  the  loss  of  anything  but  a  province 
or  a  battle. 

At  Breslau  during  the  winter  he  was  indefatigable  in  his  poetical 
labors.  The  most  spirited  lines  perhaps  that  he  ever  wrote  are  to  b« 
found  in  a  bitter  lampoon  on  Louis  and  Madame  de  Pampadour, 
which  he  composed  at  this  time  and  sent  to  Voltaire.  The  verses 
were,  indeed,  so  good,  that  Voltaire  was  afraid  that  he  might  himself 
be  suspected  of  having  written  them,  or  at  least  of  having  corrected 
them  ;  and  partly  from  fright — partly,  we  fear,  from  love  of  mischief 
— sent  them  to  the  Duke  of  Choiseul,  then  prime  minister  of  France. 
Ohoiseul  very  wisely  detennined  to  encounter  Frederick  at  Freder- 
ick's own  weapons,  and  applied  for  assistance  to  Palissot,  who  had 
some  skill  as  a  versifier,  and  who,  though  he  had  not  yet  made  him- 
self famous  by  bringing  Rousseau  and  Helvetius  on  the  stage,  was 
known  to  possess  some  little  talent  for  satire.  Palissot  produced  some 
very  stinging  lines  on  the  moral  and  literary  character  of  Frederick, 
and  these  lines  the  duke  sent  to  Voltaire.  This  war  of  couplets,  fol- 
lowing close  on  the  carnage  of  Zorndorf  and  the  conflagration  of 
Dresden,  illustrates  well  the  strangely  compounded  character  of  the 
King  of  Prussia. 

At  this  moment  he  was  assailed  by  a  new  enemy.  Benedict  XIV., 
the  best  and  wisest  of  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  successors  of  St. 
Peter,  was  no  more.  During  the  short  interval  between  his  reign  and 
that  of  his  disciple  Ganganelli,  the  chief  seat  in  the  Church  of  Rome 
was  filled  by  Rezzonico,  who  took  the  name  of  Clement  XIII.  This 
absurd  priest  determined  to  try  w  at  the  weight  of  his  authority 
could  effect  in  favor  of  the  orthodox  Maria  Theresa  against  a  heretic 
king.  At  the  high  mass  on  Christmas-day,  a  sword  with  a  rich  belt 
and  scabbard,  a  hat  of  crimson  velvet  lined  with  ermine,  and  a  dove 
of  pearls,  the  mystic  symbol  of  the  Divine  Comforter,  were  solemnly 
blessed  by  the  supreme  pontiff,  and  were  sent  with  great  ceremony  to 
Marsha]  Daun,  the  conqueror  of  Kolin  and  Hochkirchen.  This  mark 
of  favor  had  more  than  once  been  bestowed  by  the  Popes  on  the  great 
champions  of  the  faith.  Similar  honors  had  been  paid,  more  than  six 
centuries  earlier,  by  Urban  II.  to  Godfrey  of  Bouillon.  Similar  hon- 
ors had  been  conferred  «n  Alba  for  destroying  the  liberties  of  the  Low 
Countries,  and  on  John  Sobiesky  after  the  deliverance  of  Vienna. 
But  the  presents  which  were  received  with  profound  reverence  by  the 
Baron  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  in  the  eleventh  century,  and  which  had 
not  wholly  lost  their  value  even  in  the  seventeenth  century,  appeared 
inexpressibly  ridiculous  to  a  generation  which  read  Montesquieu  and 
Voltaire.  Frederick  wrote  sarcastic  verses  on  the  gifts,  the  giver,  and 
the  receiver.  But  the  public  wanted  no  prompter  ;  and  a  universal 
roar  of  laughter  from  Petersburg  to  Lisbon  reminded  the  Vatican  that 
the  age  of  crusades  was  over. 

The  fourth  campaign,  the  most  disastrous  of  all  the  campaigns  of 
this  fearful  war,  had  now  opened.  The  Austrians  filled  Saxony,  and 


54  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

m«iaced  Berlin.  The  Russians  defeated  the  king's  grnorr.ls  on  th« 
Oder,  threatened  Silesia,  effected  a  junction  with  Laiulohn,  and  im- 
trenchcd  themselves  strongly  at  Kunersdorf.  Frederick  hastened  to 
attack  them.  A  great  battle  was  fought.  During  the  earlier  part  of 
the  day  everything  yielded  to  the  impetuosity  of  the  Prussians,  and 
to  the  skill  of  their  chief.  The  lines  were  forced.  Half  the  Russian 
guns  were  taken.  The  king  sent  off  a  courier  to  Berlin  with  two 
lines,  announcing  a  complete  victory.  But,  in  tho  mean  time,  the 
stubborn  Russians,  defeated  yet  unbroken,  had  taken  up  their  stand 
in  an  almost  impregnable  position,  on  an  eminence  where  the  Jews  of 
Frankfort  were  wont  to  bury  their  dead.  Here  the  battle  re-om- 
menced.  The  Prussian  infantry,  exhausted  by  six  hours  of  hard 
fighting,  under  a  sun  which  equalled  the  trophical  heat,  were  yet 
brought  up  repeatedly  to  the  attack,  but  in  ^ain.  The  king  led  three 
charges  in  person.  Two  horses  were  killed  ruder  him.  The  officers 
of  his  staff  fell  all  around  him.  His  coat  was  pierced  by  several 
bullets.  All  was  in  vain.  His  infantry  wai  driven  back  with  fright- 
ful slaughter.  Terror  began  to  spread  fast  from  man  to  man.  At 
that  moment,  the  fiery  cavalry  of  Laudolm,  still  fresh,  rushed  on  the 
wavering  ranks.  Then  followed  a  universal  rout.  Frederick  him- 
self was  on  the  point  of  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  conquerors, 
and  was  with  difficulty  saved  by  a  gallant  officer,  who,  at  the  head  of 
a  handful  of  Hussars,  made  good  a  diversion  of  a  few  minutes. 
Shattered  in  body,  shattered  in  min^,  the  king  reached  that  night  a 
village  which  the  Cossacks  had  plundered  ;  and  there,  in  a  ruined  and 
deserted  farm-house,  flung  himself  on  a  heap  of  straw.  He  had 
sent  to  Berlin  a  second  dispatch  very  different  from  his  first  :  "  Let 
the  royal  family  leave  Berlin.  Send  the  archives  to  Potsdam.  The 
town  may  make  terms  with  tV  enemy." 

The  defeat  was  in  truth  overwhelming.  Of  fifty  thousand  men, 
who  had  that  morning  marched  under  the  black  eagles,  not  three 
thousand  remained  together.  The  king  bethought  him  again  of  his 
corrosive  sublimate,  and  wrote  to  bid  adieu  to  his  friends,  and  to  give 
directions  as  to  the  measures  to  be  taken  in  the  event  of  his  death; 
'  I  have  no  resource  ]»ft" — such  is  the  language  of  one  of  his  let- 
tors — "  all  is  lost.  I  will  not  survive  the  ruin  of  my  country.  Fare- 
well, forever." 

Hut  the  mutual  jealousies  of  the  confederates  prevented  them  from 
following  up  their  victory.  They  lost  a  few  days  in  loitering  an  1 
Squabbling  ;  and  a  few  days  improved  by  Frederick  were  worth" more 
than  the  years  of  other  men.  On  the 'morning  after  the  battle,  ho 
had  got  together  eighteen  thousand  of  his  troops.  Very  soqn  his 
fonv  amounted  to  thirty  thousand.  Guns  were  procured  from  the 
neighboring  fortresses  ;  and  there  was  again  an  army.  Berlin  was, 
for  I  lie  present,  safe  ;  but  calamities  came  pouring  on  the  king  in  un- 
interrupted succession.  One  of  his  generals,  with  a  large  body  of 
troops,  was  taken  at  Maxeu  ;  another  was  defeated  at  Meiseu  ;"auj 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  &5 

when  at  length  the  campaign  of  1759  closed,  in  the  midsft  of  a  rig 
orous  winter,  the  situation  of  Prussia  appeared  desperate.  The  only 
consoling  circumstance  was,  that  in  the  West  Ferdinand  of  Brims 
wick  had  been  more  fortunate  than  his  master  ;  and  by  a  series  of  ex- 
ploits, of  which  the  battle  of  Minden  was  the  most  glorious,  had  re 
moved  all  apprehension  of  danger  on  the  side  of  France. 

The  fifth  year  was  now  about  to  commence.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  the  Prussian  terri  ories,  repeatedly  devasted  by  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  invaders,  could  longer  support  the  contest.  But  the  king  car 
ried  on  war  as  no  European  power  has  ever  carried  on  war,  except  the 
Committee  of  Public  Safety  during  the  great  agony  of  the  French 
Revolution,  lie  governed  his  kingdom  as  he  would  have  governed  a 
besieged  town,  not  caring  to  what  extent  property  was  destroyed,  or 
the  pursuits  of  civil  life  suspended,  so  that  he  did  but  make  head 
against  the  enemy  As  long  as  there  was  a  man  left  in  Prussia,  that 
man  might  carry  a  musket — as  long  as  there  was  a  horse  left,  that 
horse  might  draw  artillery  The  coin  was  debased,  the  civil  function- 
aries were  left  unpaid  ,  in  some  provinces  civil  government  altogether 
ceased  to  exist.  But  there  were  still  rye-bread  and  potatoes  ;  there 
were  still  lead  and  gunpowder  ;  and,  while  the  means  of  sustaining 
and  destroying  life  remained,  Frederick  was  determined  to  fight  it 
out  to  the  very  last. 

The  earlier  part  of  the  campaign  of  1760  was  unfavorable  to  him. 
Berlin  was  again  occupied  by  the  enemy.  Great  contributions  were 
levied  on  the  inhabitants,  an  1  the  royal  palace  was  plundered.  But 
at  length,  after  two  years  of  calamity,  victory  came  back  to  his  arms. 
At  Lignitz  he  gained  a  great  battle  over  Laudohn  ;  at  Torgau,  after  a 
day  of  horrible  carnage,  he  triumphed  over  Daun.  The  fifth  year 
closed  and  still  the  event  was  in  suspense.  In  the  countries  where 
the  war  had  raged,  the  misery  and  exhaustion  were  more  appalling 
than  ever ;  but  still  there  were  left  men  and  beasts,  arms  and  food, 
and  still  Frederick  fought  on.  In  truth  he  had  now  been  baited  into 
savageness.  His  heart  was  ulcerated  with  hatred.  The  implara!  le 
resentment  with  which  his  enemies  persecuted  him,  though  originally 
provoked  by  his  own  unprincipled  ambition,  excited  in  him  a  thirst 
for  vengeance  which  he  did  not  even  attempt  to  conceal.  "It  is 
hard,"  he  says  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  for  a  man  to  bear  what  I  bear. 
I  begin  to  feel  that,  as  the  Italians  say,  revenge  is  a  pleasure  for  the 
gods  My  philosophy  is  worn  out  by  suffering.  I  am  no  saint  like 
those  of  whom  we  read  in  the  legends  ;  and  I  will  own  that  I  should 
die  content  if  only  I  could  first  inflict  a  portion  of  the  misery  which 
I  endure." 

Borne  up  by  such  feelings,  he  strugglad  with  various  success,  but 
ponstant  glory,  through  the  campaign  of  1761.  On  the  whole,  the 
result  of  this  campaign  was  disastrous  to  Prussia.  No  great  battle 
was  gained  by  the  enemy  ;  but,  in  spite  of  the  desperate  bounds  of 
the  hunted  tiger,  the  circle  of  pursuers  was  fast  closing  round  him. 


56  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

Laudohn  had  surprised,  the  important  fortress  of  Schweidnitz.  Wrtli 
that  fortress,  half  of  Silesia  and  the  command  of  the  most  important 
defiles  through  the  mountains,  had  been  transferred  to  the  Austrians. 
The  Russians  had  overpowered  the  king's  generals  in  Pomerania. 
The  country  was  so  completely  desolated  that  he  began,  by  his  own 
confession,  to  look  round  him  with  blank  despair,  unable  to  imagine 
where  recruits,  horses,  or  provisions  were  to  be  found. 

Just  at  this  time  two  great  events  brought  on  a  complete  change  in 
the  relations  of  almost  all  the  powers  of  Europe.  One  of  those 
events  was  the  retirement  of  Mr.  Pitt  from  office  ;  the  other  was  the 
death  of  the  Empress  Elizabeth  of  Russia. 

The  retirement  of  Pitt  seemed  to  be  an  omen  of  utter  ruin  to  the 
House  of  Brandenburg.  His  proud  and  vehement  nature  was  incapable 
of  anything  Lhat  looked  like  either  fear  or  treachery.  He  had  often 
declared  that  while  he  was  in  power,  England  should  never  make  a 
peace  of  Utrecht — should  never,  for  any  selfish  object,  abandon  an 
ally  even  in  the  last  extremity  of  distress.  The  continental  war  was 
liis  own  war.  He  had  been  bold  enough — he  who  in  former  times 
had  attacked,  with  irresistible  powers  of  oratory,  the  Hanoverian 
policy  of  Carteret,  and  the  German  subsidies  of  Newcastle — to  de- 
clare that  Hanover  ought  to  be  as  dear  to  us  as  Hampshire,  and  that 
he  would  conquer  America  in  Germany,  He  had  fa.len  ;  and  the 
power  which  he  had  exercised,  not  always  with  discretion,  but  always 
with  vigor  and  genius,  had  devolved  on  a  favorite  who  was  the  rep- 
ative  of  the  Tory  party — of  the  party  which  had  thwarted  Wil- 
liam, which  had  persecuted  Maryborough,  and  which  had  given  up 
the  ( 'atalans  to  the  vengeance  of  Philip  of  Anjou.  To  make  peace 
with  France — to  shake  off  with  all,  or  more  than  all,  the  speed  com- 
patible with  decency,  every  Continental  connection,  these  were  among 
the  chief  objects  of  the  new  minister.  The  policy  then  followed  in- 
spired Frederick  with  an  unjust,  but  deep  and  bitter  aversion  to  the 
English  name  ;  and  produced  effects  which  are  still  felt  throughout 
the  civilized  world.  To  that  policy  it  was  owing  that,  some  years 
Kngland  could  not  find  on  the  whole  Continent  a  single  ally  to 
stand  by  her  in  her  extreme  need  against  the  House  of  Bourbon. 
To  that  policy  it  was  owing  that  Frederick,  alienated  from  England, 
was  compelled  to  connect  himself  closely  during  his  later  years  with 
Russia  ;  and  was  induced  reluctantly  to  assist  in  that  great  crime, 
the  fruitful  parent  of  other  great  crimes — the  first  partition  of  Poland. 

Scarcely  had  the  retreat  of  Mr.  Pitt  deprived  Prussia  of  her  only 
friend,  wlwn  the  death  of  Elizabeth  produced  an  entire  revolution  in' 
lite  politics  of  the  North.  The  Grand  Duke  Peter,  her  nephew,  who 
now  ascended  the  Russian  throne,  was  not  merely  free  from  the  prejudi- 
ces which  his  aunt  had  entertained  against  Frederick,  but  was  a  wor- 
shipper, a  servile  imitator,  a  Boswell,  of  th«  great  king.  The  days 
of  the  new  czar's  government  were  few  and  evil,  but  sufficient  to 
produce  a  change  in  the  whole  state  of  Christendom,  lie  set  the 


FREDERICK, THE 

Prussian  prisoners  at  liberty,  fitted  them  out  decently,  and  sent  theia 
back  to  their  mastoi  ,  he  withdrew  his  troops  from  the  provinces 
which  Elizabeth  had  decided  on  incorporating  with  her  dominions, 
and  absolved  all  those  Prussian  subjects,  who  had  been  compelled  to 
swear  fealty  to  Russia,  from  their  engagements. 

Not  content  with  concluding  peace  on  terms  favorable  to  Prussia, 
he  solicited  rank  in  the  Prussian  service,  dressed  himself  in  a  Prus- 
feian  uniform,  wore  the  Black  Eagle  of  Prussia  on  his  breast,  made 
([preparations  for  visiting  Prussia,  in  order  to  have  an  interview  with 
'the  object  of  his  idolatry,  and  actually  sent  fifteen  thousand  excel- 
lent troops  to  reinforce  the  shattered  army  of  Frederidck.  Thus 
strengthened,  the  king  speedly  repaired  the  losses  of  the  preceding 
year,  reconquered  Silesia,  defeated  Daun  at  Buckersdorf,  invested 
and  retook  Schweidnitz,  and,  at  the  close  of  the  year,  presented  to 
the  forces  of  Maria  Theresa  a  front  as  formidable  as  before  the  great 
reverses  of  1759.  Before  the  end  of  the  campaign,  his  friend  the 
Emperor  Peter  having,  by  a  series  of  absurd  insults  to  the  in- 
stitutions, manners,  and  feelings  of  his  people,  united  them  in 
hostility  to  his  person  and  government,  was  deposed  and  murdered. 
The  empress,  who  under  the  title  of  Catherine  the  Second,  now  as- 
sumed the  supreme  power,  was  at  the  commencemen^of  her  admin- 
istration, by  no  means  partial  to  Frederick,  and  refused  to  permit 
her  troops  to  remain  under  his  command.  But  she  observed  the 
peace  made  by  her  husband  ;  and  Prussia  was  no  longer  threatened 
by  danger  from  the  East. 

England  and  France  at  the  same  time  paired  off  together.  They 
concluded  a  treaty  by  which  they  bound  themselves  to  observe  neu- 
irality  with  respect  to  the  German  war.  Thus  the  coalitions  on  both 
"rides  were  dissolved  ;  and  the  original  enemies,  Austria  and  Prussia, 
remained  alone  confronting  each  other. 

Austria  had  undoubtedly  by  far  greater  means  than  Prussia,  and 
was  less  exhausted  by  hostilities  ;  yet  it  seemed  hardly  possible  that 
Austria  could  effect  alone  what  she  had  in  vain  attempted  to  effect 
when  supported  by  France  on  the  one  side,  and  by  Russia  on  the  other. 
Danger  also  began  to  menace  the  imperial  house  from  another  quarter. 
The  Ottoman  Porte  held  threatening  language,  and  a  hundred  thou 
sand  Turks  were  mustered  on  the  frontiers  of  Hungary.  The  proud 
and  revengeful  spirit  of  the  Empress-Queen  at  length  gave  way  ; 
and,  in  February,  1763,  the  peace  of  Hubertsburg  put  an  end  to  the 
conflict  which  had,  during  seven  years,  devastated  Germany.  The 
king  ceded  nothing.  The  whole  Continent  in  arms  had  proved  una- 
ble to  tear  Silesia  from  that  iron  grasp. 

The  war  was  over.  Frederick  was  safe.  His  glory  was  beyond  the 
reach  of  envy.  If  he  had  not  made  conquests  as  vast  as  those  of  Al- 
exander, of  Caesar,  of  Napoleon — if  he  had  not,  on  field  of  battle,  en. 
joyed  the  constant  success  of  Marlborough  and  Wellington — he  had 
yet  given  an  example  unrivalled  in  history  of  what  capacity  a»d  res 


58  FREDERICK   THE   OTIEAT. 

olution  can  effect  against  the  greatest  superiority  of  power  and  the 
utmost  spite  of  fortune.  He  entered  Berlin  in  triumph,  after  an  ab- 
seoce  of  more  than  six  years.  The  streets  were  brilliantly  lighted 
up,  and  as  he  passed  along  in  an  open  carriage,  with  Ferdinand  of 
Brunswick  at  his  side,  the  multitude  saluted  him  with  loud  praises 
and  blessing-.  He  was  moved  by  those  marks  of  attachment,  and  re- 
peatedly exclaimed,  "  Long  live  my  dear  people  !  Long  live  my  chil- 
dren !  "  Yet,  even  in  the  midst  of  that  gay  spectacle,  he  could  not 
but  perceive  everywhere  the  traces  of  destruction  and  decay.  T ho 
city  had  been  more  than  once  plundered.  The  population  had  con 
siderably  diminished.  Berlin,  however,  had  suffered  little  when  com- 
pared with  most  part-;  of  the  kingdom.  The  ruin  of  private  fortunes, 
(he  distress  of  all  ranks,  was  such  as  might  appal  the  firmest  mind. 
Almost  every  province  had  been  the  seat  of  war,  and  of  war  conducted 
with  merciless  ferocity.  Clouds  of  Croatians  had  descended  on  Si- 
lesia. Tens  of  thousands  of  Cossacks  had  been  let  loose  on  Pome- 
ran  ia  and  Brandenburg.  The  mere  contributions  levied  by  the  inva- 
ders amounted,  it  was  said,  to  more  than  a  hundred  millions  of  dol- 
lars ;  and  the  value  of  what  they  extorted  was  probably  much  less 
than  the  value  of  what  they  destroyed.  The  fields  lay  uncultivated. 
The  very  see^corn  had  been  devoured  in  the  madness  of  hunger. 
Famine  and  contagious  maladies,  the  effect  of  famine,  had  swept 
away  the  herds  and  nocks  ;  and  there  was  a  reason  to  fear  that  a  great 
pestilence  among  the  human  race  was  likely  to  follow  in  the  train  of 
that  tremendous  war.  Near  fifteen  thousand  houses  had  been  burned 
to  the  ground. 

The  population  of  the  kingdom  had  in  seven  years  decreased  to  the 
frightful  extent  o^ten  per  cent.  A  sixth  of  the  males  capable  of 
bearing  arms  had  actually  perished  on  the  field  of  battle.  In  some 
districts  no  laborers  except  women  were  seen  in  the  fields  at  harvest; 
time.  In  others,  the  traveller  passed  shuddering  through  a  succession 
of  silent  villages,  in  which  not  a  single  inhabitant  remained.  The 
currency  had  been  debased  ;  the  authority  of  laws  and  magistrates 
had  been  suspended;  the  whole  social  system  was  deranged.  For, 
during  that  convulsive  struggle,  everything  that  was  not  military  vio- 
lence \vas  anarchy.  Even  the  army  was  disorganized.  Some  great 
generals  and  a  crowd  of  excellent  officers  had  fallen,  and  it  had  been 
impossible  to  supply  their  places.  The  difficulty  of  finding  recruits 
had.  towards  the  close  of  the  war,  been  so  great,  that  selection  and 
rejection  were  impossible.  Whole  battalions  were  composed  of'de- 
serters  or  of  prisoners.  It  was  hardly  to  be  hoped  that  thirty  years 
of  repose  and  industry  would  repair  the  ruin  produced  by  seven  years 
of  havoc.  One  consolatory  circumstance,  indeed,  there  was.  No 
debt  had  been  incurred.  The  burdens  of  the  war  had  been  terrible, 
almost  insupportable  ;  but  no  arrear  was  left  to  embarrass  the  finances 
in  the  time  of  peace.* 

*  The  reader  will  not  need  to  be  reminded  that  the  narrative  of  Macaulay  end* 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  59 

It  remains  for  us,  in  order  to  become  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
the  man,  to  contemplate  Frederick's  character  in  peace. 

The  first  and  most  immediate  object  of  Frederick's  attention  and 
anxiety  was  the  re-establishment  of  his  army,  in  order  that  no  enemy 
might  hope  to  reap  advantage  from  a  sudden  renewal  of  hostilities. 
In  order  to  bring  the  recently  levied  troops  upon  a  par  with  his  vet- 
eran, well-trained  warriors — of  whom,  however,  but  a  very  small 
number  still  remained — military  exercise  and  drilling  were  enforced 
with  the  most  rigorous  exactness.  But  the  illustrious  monarch  him- 
self, when  he  beheld  the  whole  of  Europe  adopt  his  military  tactics, 
was  deceived  in  the  over-estimation  of  their  value.  The  system  of 
maintaining  standing  armies  was  carried  to  the  highest  point,  and  be- 
came the  principal  object  in  the  administration  of  every  State  ;  grave 
utility  degenerated  into  mere  display,  until  a  grand  convulsion  of  the 
world  made  its  vanity  and  puerility  but  too  apparent. 

The  care  taken  by  Frederick  to  effect  the  restoration  of  his  over 
whelmed  country  was  a  much  more  beneficent  employment  of  his 
energies,  and  was  productive  of  incalculable  good.  It  formed  the 
most  imperishable  leaf  in  his  wreath  of  glory.  The  corn  which  was 
already  bought  up  for  the  next  campaign  he  bestowed  upon  the  most 
destitute  of  his  people,  as  seed  for  sowing,  together  with  all  his  su- 
perfluous horses.  The  taxes  were  remitted  for  six  months  in  Silesia, 
and  for  two  years  in  Pomerania  and  Neumark,  which  were  completely 
devastated.  Nay,  the  king,  in  order  to  encourage  agriculture  and  in- 
dustry, appropriated  large  sums  of  money  for  that  purpose  in  pro- 
portion to  the  greatness  of  the  exigency,  and  these  various  sums 
amounted  altogether  during  the  four-and- twenty  years  of  his  reign, 
after  the  peace  of  Hubertsburg,  to  no  less  than  twenty-four  millions 
of  dollars.  Such  noble  generosity  redounds  still  more  to  the  glory  of 
Frederick,  inasmuch  as  it  was  only  practicable  through  the  exercise  of 
great  economy,  and  to  promote  which  he  subjected  himself  to  every 
personal  sacrifice.  His  maxim  was  that  his  treasure  belonged  not  to 
himself,  but  to  the  people  who  supplied  it ;  and  while  many  other 
princes — not.  hearing  in  mind  the  heavy  drops  of  sweat  which  ad- 
hered to  each  of  the  numerous  gold  pieces  wrung  from  their  subjects 
— only  thought  of  dissipating  the  entire  mass  in  the  most  unlicensed 
prodigality  and  waste,  he  lived  in  a  style  so  simple  and  frugal,  that 
out  of  the  sum  appropriated  to  the  maintenance  of  his  court  he  saved 
annually  nearly  a  million  of  dollars. 

lie  explained  on  one  occasion  to  M.  de  Launay,  the  assessor  of  in- 
direct taxes,  the  principles  by  which  ho  was  actuated  in  this  respect, 
in  clear  and  distinct  terms  :  "Louis  XV.  and  I,"  he  sai4»,"are  born 

here.  Tile  descent  from  th^  sunny  uplands  of  his  style  is  sudden  and  painful,  but 
there  is  no  lu-lp  for  it.  Ilerr  Kohlrauf-ch  goes  on  honestly  enou>  h,  and  we  must  let 
him  finish  the  story  or  po  without  it  altogether.  Patience  ;  it  will  soon  be  over,  and 
as  n  sugarplum  "or  'rood  children,  we  promise  younear  the  close  a  gorgeous  picture 
of  the  great  king  in  liis  old  aye,  by  Carlyle. 


«0  FREDERICK   THE  GREAT. 

more  needy  than  the  poorest  of  our  subjects  ;  for  there  are  bnt  few 
among  them  who  do  not  possess  a  small  inheritance,  or  who  cannot  at 
least  earn  it  by  their  labor  and  industry  ;  while  he  and  I  possess  noth- 
ing, neither  can  we  earn  anything  but  what  must  belong  to  the  State. 
We  are  merely  the  stewards  appointed  for  the  administration  of  the 
general  fund  ;  and  if,  as  such,  we  were  to  apply  to  our  own  personal 
expenditure  more  than  is  reasonably  necessary,  we  should,  by  such 
proceeding,  not  only  bring  down  upon  ourselves  severe  condemnation 
in  the  first  place  for  extravagance,  but  likewise  for  having  fraudu- 
lently taken  possession  of  that  which  was  confided  to  our  charge  for 
the  public  weal." 

The  particular  care  and  interest  shown  by  the  king  in  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  soil,  produced  its  speedy  improvement.  Large  tracts  of 
'land  were  rendered  arable,  fresh  supplies  of  laborers  were  procured 
from  other  countries,  and  where  formerly  marsh  and  moor  were  gen- 
erally prevalent,  fertile,  flourishing  cornfields  were  substituted  instead. 
These  happy  results,  which  greeted  the  eye  of  Frederick  whenever  he 
took  his  regularly- appointed  journeys  throughout  his  dominions,  were 
highly  grateful  to  his  feelings  ;  while  during  these  tours  of  survey 
nothing  escaped  his  acutely  observing  mind  ;  so  much  so,  that  few 
sovereigns  could  boast  of  such  a  thorough  knowledge  of  their  domains 
->-even  to  the  most  trifling  details — as  the  King  of  Prussia  acquired  of 
his  own  estates  through  continual  and  indefatigable  application  to  this 
one  object.  Silesia,  which  had  suffered  so  much,  was  especially  dear 
to  his  feelings,  and  to  that  territory  he  devoted  particular  attention  ; 
when,  therefore,  upon  a  general  census  in  the  year  1777,  he  found 
it  contained  180,000  more  inhabitants  than  in  the  year  1756,  when  the 
war  commenced  ;  and  when  he  perceived  the  losses  sustained  during 
that  war  thus  amply  repaired,  and  the  glorious  results  produced  by 
agricultural  labor  and  commercial  enterprise,  he,  in  the  gladness  at 
his  heart,  expressed,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Jordan,  the  sensations 
he  felt  at  beholding  the  flourishing  state  of  a  province,  the  condi- 
tion of  which  was  but  a  short  time  before  so  sadly  depressed  and 
miserable. 

Industry  is  indispensable  in  a  people  who  depend  on  their  energy 
and  activity  for  their  rank  among  nations  ;  but  this  rank  is  not  the 
only  attendant  advantage  :  a  benefit  far  greater  is  the  fresh,  healthy 
vigor  it  imparts  to  the  people.  And  in  this  respect  Frederick  the 
Great  was  a  striking  example,  truly  worthy  of  imitation  by  all  his 
subjects  ;  for  even  during  the  early  period  of  his  life  he  already  wrote 
to  his  friend  Jordan  thus  :  "  You  are  quite  right  in  believing  that  I 
work  hard  ;  I  do  so  to  enable  me  to  live,  for  nothing  so  nearly  ap- 
proaches the  likeness  of  death  as  the  half -slumbering,  listless  state  of 
idleness."  And,  subsequently,  when  he  had  become  old  and  feeble, 
this  feeling  still  retained  its  power,  and  operated  with  all  its  original 
influence  upon  his  mind,  for  in  another  letter  to  the  same  friend  he 
wys  •.  "  I  still  feel  as  formerly  the  same  anxiety  for  action  ;  as  then.. 


FREDERICK   THE  GREAT.  til 

I  no?  still  long  to  work  and  be  busy,  and  my  mind  and  body  are  iu 
continual  «ontention.  It  is  no  longer  requisite  that  I  should  live,  un- 
less I  can  live  and  work." 

And  truly,  in  making  a  profitable  use  of  his  time,  King  Frederick 
displayed  a  perseverance  which  left  him  without  a  rival ;  and  even  in 
his  old  age  he  never  swerved  from  the  original  plan  he  had  laid  down 
and  followed  from  his  earliest  manhood,  for  even  on  the  very  day 
before  his  death  he  was  to  be  seen  occupied  with  the  business  of  his 
government.  Each  hour  had  its  occupation,  and  the  one  grand  prin- 
ciple which  is  the  soul  of  all  industry — viz.,  to  leave  over  from  to-duy 
nothing  for  the  morrow — passed  with  Frederick  as  the  inviolable  law 
of  his  whole  life.  The  entire  day — commencing  at  the  hour  of  four 
in  the  morning  and  continuing  until  midnight,  accordingly  five- 
sixths  of  the  day — was  devoted  to  some  occupation  of  the  mind  or 
heart,  for  in  order  that  even  the  hour  of  repast  might  not  be  wholly 
monopolized  by  the  mere  gratification  of  the  stomach,  Frederick 
assembled  around  him  at  midday  and  in  the  evening  a  circle  of  intel- 
lectual men,  and  these  conversaziones — in  which  the  king  himself  took 
an  important  share — were  of  such  an  animated  and  enlivening  nature 
that  they  were  not  inaptly  compared  to  the  entertainments  of  Socrates 
himself.  Unfortunately,  however,  according  to  the  taste  of  that  age, 
nothing  but  witticisms  and  humorous  sallies  were  made  the  subject  of 
due  appreciation  and  applause.  Vivacity  of  idea  promptly  expressed 
and  strikingly  ttpr^pttn  allusions  wore  the  order  of  the  day,  while 
profundity  of  thought  and  subjects  of  more  grave  and  serious  discus- 
siim  were  banished  as  ill-timed  and  uncalled  for — a  necessary  conse- 
quence arising  from  the  exclusive  adoption  of  the  French  language, 
which  formed  the  medium  of  communication  at  these  reunions  of 
Frederick  the  (ireat.  The  rest  of  the  day  was  passed  in  the  perusal 
of  official  dispatches,  private  correspondence,  and  ministerial  docu- 
ments, to  each  of  which  he  added  his  replies  and  observations  in  the 
margin.  After  having  gone  through  this  all-important  business 
routine  of  the  day,  he  directed  his  attention  to  the  more  recreative 
occupations  of  his  pleasure-grounds  and  literary  compositions,  of 
which  latter  Frederick  has  left  behind  him  a  rich  collection;  and 
finally,  as  a  last  resource  of  amusement,  he  occasionally  devoted  a 
few  stolen  moments  to  his  flute,  upon  which  he  was  an  accomplished 
performer.  This,  his  favorite  instrument,  indeed,  like  an  intimate 
and  faithful  friend,  served  often  to  allay  the  violent  excitements  of 
his  spirit  ;  and  while  he  strolled  with  it  through  his  suite  of  rooms, 
often  for  hours  together,  his  thoughts,  as  he  h^nself  relates,  became 
more  and  more  collected,  and  his  mind  better  prepared  for  calm  and 
serious  meditation.  Nevertheless,  he  never  permitted  affairs  of  state 
to  be  neglected  for  the  sake  of  the  enjoyments  he  sought  both  in 
music  and  in  poetry  ;  and  in  this  point  of  view  Frederick's  character 
must  ever  command  respect  and  admiration. 

The  government  of  Frederick  was  despotic  in  the  strictest  sense  of 


«g  FREDERICK   THE   GREAT. 

the  word  ;  everything  emanated  from  the  king,  and  everything  r» 
verted  to  him  again.  He  never  accorded  any  share  in  the  administra- 
tion to  an  assembly  of  States,  nor  even  to  the  State  Council,  which, 
composed  of  the  most  enlightened  men,  would  have  been  able  to  have 
presented  to  their  sovereign,  in  a  clear  and  comprehensive  light,  the 
bearings  of  the  intricate  questions  connected  with  government.  He 
felt  in  himself  the  power  to  govern  alone,  seconded  by  the  strongest 
desire  of  making  his  people  happy  and  great.  Thence  it  appeared  to 
his  mind  that  the  predominant  strength  of  a  State  was  based  upon  the 
means  which  are  the  readiest  and  the  most  efficacious  in  the  hands  of  one 
person,  viz.,  in  his  army  and  in  the  treasury.  His  chief  aim,  therefore, 
was  to  manage  that  these  two  powerful  implements  of  government 
should  be  placed  in  the  most  favorable  condition  possible  ;  and  thus  we 
find  that  Frederick  often  sought  the  means  to  obtain  this,  his  grand  ob- 
ject, without  sufficiently  taking  into  consideration  the  effect  they  might, 
subsequently  produce  upon  the  disposition  and  morality  of  the  nation. 
In  accordance  with  this  principle,  he,  in  the  year  1764,  invited  a  dis- 
tinguished fermier-general  of  France,  Helvetius,  to  Berlin,  in  order  to 
consult  him  upon  the  means  of  augmenting  the  revenues  of  the  State  ; 
lind  in  consequence  of  his  suggestions,  measures  were  adopted  which 
were  extremely  obnoxious  to  the  public,  and  caused  many  to  defraud, 
instead  of  co-operating  with,  the  government.  At  the  same  time, 
however,  by  these  and  other  means  resorted  to  by  the  king,  the  reve 
nues  of  the  kingdom  were  increased  considerably.  It  must,  however, 
be  advanced  in  Frederick's  vindication,  firstly,  that  he  adopted  these 
measures,  not  for  his  own  individual  advantage,  but  for  the  benefit  of 
all ;  and  necondly — we  must  again  repeat  it — that  the  great  errors  of 
the  age  completely  obscured  his  own  view.  With  what  eagerness 
would  not  his  clear  mind  have  caught  at  the  enlightenment  produced 
by  reform,  had  he  but  lived  in  a  time  when  freedom  of  thought  was 
more  appreciated — for  to  him  this  freedom  of  thought  was  so  dear 
that  he  never  attacked  the  public  expression  of  opinion.  His  subjects 
enjoyed  under  his  reign,  among  other  privileges,  that  of  the  liberty 
of  the  press  ;  and  he  himself  gave  free  scope  to  the  shafts  of  censure 
and  ridicule  aimed  against  his  public  and  private  character,  for  the 
consciousness  of  his  own  persevering  endeavors  in  the  service  of  his 
country,  and  of  his  sincere  devotion  to  his  duties,  elevated  him  beyond 
ell  petty  susceptibility.  The  chief  object  of  the  king's  care  was  a 
warch  into  truth  and  enlightenment,  as  it  was  then  understood.  But 
this  enlightenment  consisted  in  a  desire  to  understand  everything  ;  to 
iimly/e,  dissect,  and — demolish.  Whatever  appeared  inexplicable 
u:is  nt  once  rejected  ;  faith,  love,  hope,  and  filial  respect — all  those 
feelings  which  have  their  seat  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  soul — wera 
destroyed  in  their  germination. 

But  this  annihilating  agency  was  not  confined  to  the  State  ;  it  ma&. 
ifested  itself  also  in  science,  in  art,  and  even  in  religion.  The  Frencb 
were  the  promoters  of  this  phenomenon,  and  in  this  they  wer«  eveu* 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  68 

Kftlly  imitated  throughout  the  world,  but  more  especially  in  Ger- 
many. Superficial  ornament  passed  for  profound  wisdom,  and  witty, 
sarcastic  phraseology  assumed  the  place  of  soundness  and  sincerity  of 
expression.  Nevertheless,  even  at  this  time  there  were  a  few  chosen 
men  who  were  able  to  recognize  that  which  was  true  and  just,  and 
raised  their  voices  accordingly  ;  and,  in  the  world  of  intellect,  the 
names  of  Lessing,  Klopstock,  Goethe,  etc  ,  need  alone  be  mentioned, 
being,  as  they  were,  the  founders  of  a  more  sterling  age.  They  wero 
joined  by  many  others,  and,  thus  united,  they  constituted  an  intellec- 
tual phalanx  in  opposition  to  the  progress  made  by  the  sensual  French 
school.  These  intellectual  reformers  were  soon  strengthened  by  such 
auxiliaries  as  Kant,  Fichtj,  Jacobi,  etc.,  who  advanced  firmly  under 
the  banner  of  science  ;  and  from  such  beginnings  grew,  by  degrees, 
that  powerful  mental  reaction  which  has  already  achieved  such 
mighty  things,  and  led  the  way  to  greater  results  still. 

This  awakening  of  the  Geraian  mind  was  unnoticed  by  King  Fred- 
erick ;  he  lived  in  the  world  of  French  refinement,  separate  and  soli- 
tary, as  on  an  island.  The  waves  of  the  new,  rushing  stream  of  lif» 
passed  without  approaching  him,  and  struck  against  the  barriers  by 
which  he  was  enclosed.  His  over-appreciation  and  patronage  of  for- 
eigners, however,  impelled  the  higher  classes  of  society  to  share  in 
his  sentiments,  equally  as  much  as  his  system  of  administration  had 
served  as  a  model  for  other  rulers  to  imitate.  Several  among  his 
contemporaries  resolved,  like  him,  to  reign  independently,  but  with- 
out possessing  the  same  commanding  genius,  whence,  however  well- 
intentioned,  they  were  wrecked  in  their  career — among  whom  may  bm 
more  especially  included  Peter  III.  of  Russia,  Gustavus  III.  of  Swe- 
den, and  Joseph  II.  of  Germany. 

In  the  year  1765  Joseph  II.  was  acknowledged  as  successor  to  his 
father,  Francis  I.,  who  died  in  the  same  year,  but  whose  acts  as  em- 
peror present  little  or  nothing  worthy  of  record.  His  son,  however, 
was  on  this  very  account  the  more  anxious  to  effect  great  changes  — 
to  transform  ancient  into  modern  institutions,  and  to  devote  the  great 
and  predominating  power  with  which  he  was  endowed  towards  re- 
modelling the  entire  condition  of  his  States.  All  his  projects,  how- 
ever, were  held  in  abeyance  until  the  death  of  his  mother,  Maria 
Theresa,  in  1780,  who,  ever  wise  and  active,  had,  even  to  the  last 
moments  of  her  existence,  exercised  all  her  power  and  influence  in 
the  administration  of  affairs  ;  and  accordingly  her  maternal  authority 
operated  effectually  upon  his  feelings  as  a  son,  and  served  for  a  time 
to  suspend  the  accomplishment  of  his  desires.  Meantime,  in  the  in- 
terval between  the  years  1765  and  1780,  various  events  took  place 
which  exercised  an  important  influence  upon  the  last  ten  years  of  his 
mgn.  Among  the  rost  may  be  more  especially  mentioned  the  dis- 
memberment of  Poland  in  1773,  and  the  war  of  the  Bavarian  tuccas- 
*on  in  1778. 

Augustus  III  ,  King  of  Poland,   died  in  the  year  1765,  leaving  be- 

A.B.— 8 


54  FREDERICK  TEH   GREAT. 

hind  him  a  grandson,  only  as  yet  a  minor  ;  consequently  tlie  house  of 
Saxony,  which  had  held  possession  of  the  throne  of  Poland  during  a 
spnceof  sixty-six  years,  now  lost  it.  Both  Russia  and  Prussia  stepped 
forward  forthwith,  and  took  upon  themselves  the  arrangement  of  the 
affairs  of  Poland  :  an  interference  which  that  nation  was  now  unable 
to  resist,  for,  strong  and  redoubtable  as  it  had  been  formerly,  dissen- 
sion hud  so  much  reduced  its  resources  that  it  was  at  this  moment 
wholly  incapable  of  maintaining  or  even  acting  for  itself.  .Both 
powers  required  that  Poland  should  choose  for  her  sovereign  a  native- 
born  prince,  and  an  army  of  ten  thousand  Russians  which  suddenly 
advanced  upon  Warsaw,  and  an  equal  number  of  Prussian  troops  as- 
sembled upon  the  frontiers,  produced  the  election  of  Stanislaus  Ponia- 
towski  to  the  throne.  Henceforth  there  was  no  longer  an  imperial 
diet  held  at  which  foreigners  did  not  endeavor  to  bring  into  effect  all 
their  influence. 

Shortly  after  this  event,  a  war  took  place  between  Russia  and  Tur- 
key, in  which  the  former  took  possession  of  Moldavia  and  Walla- 
chia,  which  that  power  was  extremely  desirous  of  retaining.  This, 
however,  Austria  opposed  most  strenuously,  lest  Russia  should  be- 
come too  powerful,  and  Frederick  the  Great  found  himself  in  a 
dilemma  how  to  maintain  the  balance  between  the  two  parties.  The 
most  expedient  means  of  adjustment  appeared  in  the  end  to  be  the 
spoliation  of  a  country  which  was  the  least  able  to  oppose  it  ;  viz., 
Poland;  and,  accordingly,  a  portion  of  its  territory  was  seized  and 
shared  between  the  three  powers— Russia,  Prussia,  and  Austria. 
With  whom  this  idea  first  originated  has  not  been  clearly  ascertained, 
but  it  is  easy  to_see  that  it  was  quite  in  accordance  with  the  character 
of  the  times.  For  as  the  wisdom  of  that  age  only  based  its  calcula- 
tions upon  the  standard  of  the  senses,  and  estimated  the  power  of 
States  merely  by  their  square  miles,  amount  of  population,  soldiers, 
and  revenue,  the  grand  aim  of  the  then  State  policy  was  to  devote 
•Tory  effort  towards  aggrandizement;  nothing  was  held  more  desir- 
able than  some  fresh  conquest,  which  might  advantageously  round 
off  a  kingdom,  while  all  consideration  of  equity  and  justice  was  forced 
to  yield  before  this  imperious  principle.  When  one  of  the  larger 
States  affected  such  an  acquisition,  the  others,  alarmed,  considered 
the  balance  of  Europe  compromised  and  endangered. 

In  this  case,  however,  the  three  kingdoms  bordering  upon  Poland,- 
having  shared  between  them  the  spoil,  were  each  augmented  in  pro- 
portion, whence  all  fear  of  danger  was  removed.  This  system  had 
Lecome  so  superficial,  so  miserable  and  absurd,  that  they  lost  sight 
(altogether  of  the  principle  that  a  just  equilibrium  and  th»  permanent 
•afety  of  all  can  only  be  secured  by  the  inviolable  preservation  of  the 
ights  of  nations.  The  partition  of  Poland  was  the  formal  remmcia- 
If  of  that  system  of  equipoise,  and  served  as  the  precursor  of 
ill  those  great  revolutions,  dismemberments,  and  transformations  to- 
gether with  all  those  ambitious  attempts  at  universal  monarchy, 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT.  65 

Curing  a  space  of  fivo-and-twenty  years,   were  tlie  means  of 
iOg  Europe  to  her  very  foundations. 

The  ]wopk  of  Poland,  menaced  as  they  were  in  tkree  quarters,  were 
forced  iu  the  Autumn  of  1778  to  submit  to  the  dismemberment  of 
their  country,  of  which,  accordingly,  three  thousand  square  miles  were 
forthwith  divided  between  Russia,  Prussia,  and  Austria. 

Maximilian  Joseph,  elector  of  Bavaria,  having  died  in  1777  without 
issue,  the  inheritance  of  his  estates  and  electoral  dignity  came  into 
the  hands  oi'  the  elector  palatine.  The  emperor.  Joseph,  however, 
with  his  usual  rashness,  resolved  to  avail  himself  of  this  inheritance 
in  favor  of  Austria  :  he  accordingly  raked  up  old  claims  and  marched 
suddenly  with  his  army  into  Bavaria,  of  which  he  took  immediate 
possession.  1\e  pacific  palatine,  Charles  Theodore,  thus  surprised 
and  overawed,  signed  a  treaty  by  which  he  ceded  two-thirds  of  Bava- 
ria to  the  housj-  of  Austria  in  order  to  secure  to  himself  possession  of 
at  least  the  oll.^r  third.  The  conduct  of  Austria  on  this  occasion,  to- 
gether with  thtt,  part  she  had  previously  taken  in  the  dismemberment 
of  ill-fated  Poland,  was  the  more  unexpected  inasmuch  as  she  was  the 
only  one  of  all  the  superior  States  which  had  hitherto  abstained  from 
similar  acts  of  aggression.  But  the  mutability  of  the  age  had  now 
destroyed  likewise  in  Austria  the  uniform  pacific  bearing  for  which, 
she  had  so  long  been  distinguished. 

These  proceedings  gave  rise  to  serious  commotions  in  various  parts 
of  the  empire,  and  Frederick  the  Great  more  especially  felt  he  could 
not  and  ought  not  to  remain  an  inactive  observer  of  what  was  pass- 
ing. Accordingly  he  entered  the  lists  against  Austria  at  once,  and 
commenced  oper&uons  as  protector  of  the  heir  of  Charles  Theodore, 
the  Duke  of  Deux  Pouts,  who-  protested  against  the  compact  signed 
by  the  former  witl*  Austria,  and  claimed  the  assistance  of  the  King 
of  Prussia.  The  j  oung  and  hot-headed  emperor  Joseph  accepted  the 
Challenge  forthwith,  and  taking  up  a  position  in  Bohemia,  he  there 
awaited  the  king  ;  the  latter,  who  had  already  crossed  th«  mountains, 
finding  him,  however,  so  strongly  intrenched,  was  reluctant  to  hazard 
an  attack  under  *uch  difficult  circumstances,  and  withdrew  from 
Bohemia.  After  a  few  unimportant  skirmishes  between  the  light 
troops  of  both  sidr!S,  peace  was  signed  by  the  mediation  of  France  and 
Russia,  at  Tesche;i,  on  the  loth  of  May,  1779,  even  before  the  end  of 
the  first  year  of  the  war.  The.  empress  Maria  Theresa,  now  advanced 
in  vcars,  by  no  nwans  shared  in  her  son's  taste  for  war,  but,  on  the) 
contrary,  earnestly  desired  p.iace  ;  while  Frederick  himself,  who  had 
nothing  to  gain  {vrsonally  by  this  campaign,  was  equally  anxious  for 
a  reconciliation.  Moreover,1  he  was  likewise  far  advanced  in  years, 
and  possessed  an  eye  sufficiently  penetrating  to  perceive  that  the 
former  original  spirit  and  energy  of  the  army,  which  had  performed 
such  prodigies  of  valor  in  the  war  of  Seven  Years,  had  now  almost 
disappeared,  although  the  discipline  under  which  it  was  still  placed 
•was  equally  severe  and  tyrannical  as  in  former  times.  Under  these 


(6  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

»nd  other  circumstances,  therefore,  peace  was  preferable  to  war.  By 
Ihe  treaty  now  concluded,  Austria  restored  to  the  palatine  house  all 
the  ^states  of  Bavaria,  except  the  circle  of  Burgau,  and  the  succes- 
eion  was  secured  to  the  Duke  of  Deux- Fonts. 

After  the  death  of  Maria  Theresa,  in  1780,  Joseph  II.  strove  with 
nil  the  impetuosity  of  his  fiery  and  enterprisng  nature,  to  bring  into 
immediate  execution  the  great  and  ambitious  plans  he  had  formed, 
ami  to  give  to  the  various  nations  spread  over  the  boundless  surface 
vf  his  vast  possessions,  one  unique  and  equal  form  of  government, 
after  a  model  such  as  he  had  himself  formed  within  his  own  mind. 

Joseph  adopted  as  his  model  the  absolute  principles  of  Frederick  in 
his  system  of  government  ;  but  Frederick  occupied  himself  more  with 
external  arrangements,  with  the  administration  of  the  State,  the  pro- 
motion of  industry,  and  the  increase  of  the  revenue,  interfering  very 
little  with  the  progress  of  intellectual  culture,  which  followed  its  par- 
ticular course,  often  altogether  without  his  knowledge;  while  in  this 
respect  Joseph,  by  his  new  measures,  often  encroached  upon  the 
dearest  privileges  of  liis  subjects.  He  insisted  certainly  upon  liberty 
of  conscience  and  freedom  of  thought ;  but  he  did  not  bear  in  mind, 
at  the  same  time,  that  the  acknowledgment  of  this  principle  depended 
upon  that  close  conviction  which  cannot  be  forced,  and  can  only  exist 
in  reality  when  the  light  of  truth  has  gradually  penetrated  to  the 
depth  of  the  heart.  . 

The  greatest  obstacles,  however,  thrown  in  the  way  of  Joseph's  in- 
irovations  proceeded  from  the  church  ;  for  his  grand  object  was  to 
confiscate  numerous  monasteries  and  spiritual  institutions,  and  to 
change  at  once  the  whole  ecclesiastical  constitution  ;  that  is,  he  con- 
templated obtaining  during  the  first  year  of  his  reign,  what  would  of 
itself  have  occurred  in  the  space  of  half  a  century. 

By  this  confiscation  of  ecclesiastical  possessions  more  than  one 
»( Ighboring  prince  of  the  empire,  such  as  the  bishop  of  Passau  and 
the  archbishop  of  Salzburg,  found  themselves  attacked  in  their  rights, 
and  did  not  hesitate  to  complain  loudly  ;  and  in  the  same  way  in  other 
matters,  various  other  princes  found  too  much  reason  to  condemn  the 
ttaperor  for  treating  with  contempt  the  constitution  of  the  empire. 
Their  apprehensions  were  more  especially  increased  when  the  em- 
peror, in  the  year  1785,  negotiated  a  treaty  of  exchange  of  territory 
with  the  electoral  prince-palatine  of  Bavaria,  according  to  which  the 
latter  was  to  resign  his  country  to  Austria,  for  which  he  was  to  re- 
ceive in  return  the  Austrian  Netherlands  under  the  title  of  anew 
kingdom  of  Burgundy  :  an  arrangement  by  which  the  entire  south  of 
Germany  would  have  come  into  the  exclusive  possession  of  Austria. 
The  prince-palatine  was  not  at  all  indisposed  to  make  the  exchange, 
«nd  France  as  well  as  Russia  at  first  favored  it  in  its  principle  ;  but 
Frederick  II.  once  more  stepped  forward  and  disconcerted  their  plans, 
In  which  he  succeeded  likewise  in  bringing  Russia  to  co-operate  with 
Xim. 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT.  67 

The  commotions,  however,  produced  by  these  efforts  made  by 
Joseph  to  bring  his  rash  projects  into  immediate  operation,  caused 
the  old  King  of  Prussia  to  form  the  idea  of  establishing  an  alliance  of 
the  German  princes  for  the  preservation  of  the  imperial  constitution, 
similar  in  character  to  the  unions  formed  in  previous  times  for  mutual 
defence.  Such  at  least  was  to  be  the  unique  object  of  this  alliance 
according  to  the  king's  own  words  ;  and  this  league  was  accordingly 
effected  in  the  year  1785,  between  Prussia,  Saxony,  Hanover,  the 
Dukes  of  Saxony,  Brunswick,  Mecklenburg,  and  Deux-Ponts,  the 
Landgrave  of  Hesse,  and  several  other  princes,  who  were  soon  joined 
by  the  Elector  of  Mentz.  This  alliance  was  based  upon  principles  in 
their  nature  less  inimical  than  strictly  surveillant  ;  nevertheless,  it 
effected  the  object  contemplated  by  acting  as  a  check  .upon  the  house 
of  Austria  in  the  various  innovations  threatened  by  the  emperor, 
while  it  operated  as  a  lesson  indicating  to  that  house  that  its  real  dis 
tinction  among  the  other  nations  of  Europe  was  to  preserve  the  pre- 
sent order  of  things,  to  protect  all  rights  and  privileges,  to  oppose  the 
spirit  of  conquest,  and  thus  to  constitute  itself  the  bulwark  of  uni- 
versal liberty  ;  but  failing  in  all  this,  it  must  iaevitably  lose  at  once 
all  public  confidence.  This  alliance  of  princes,  however,  produced 
little  or  no  important  results  for  th»  advantage  of  Germany,  owing 
partly  to  the  death  of  Frederick  II.,  which  took  place  in  the  following 
year,  and  partly  to  the  circumstances  of  the  successors  of  Joseph  11. 
happily  returning  to  the  ancient  hereditary  principles  of  the  house, 
both  in  its  moderation  and  circumspection  ;  and  finally,  owing  to  the 
unheard  of  events  which  transpired  in  Europe  during  the  last  ten 
years  of  this  century,  and  which  soon  produced  too  mucfi.  cause  for 
forget  ting  sill  previous  minor  grievances. 

This  alliance  of  the  princes  of  the  empire  was  the  last  public  act  of 
the  great  Frederick  of  any  consequence  ;  and  he  died  in  the  following 
year.  He  continued  active  and  full  of  enterprise  to  the  last,  in  spite 
of  his  advanced  age,  but  his  condition  becam/  gradually  more  isolated, 
inasmuch  as  all  the  companions  of  his  former  days  had  in  turns  dis- 
appeared and  sunk  into  their  last  resting-place  before  himself,  the 
last  among  them  being  the  brave  old  warrior,  Ziethen,  who  died  in 
the  January  previous  to  the  same  year  as  his  royal  master,  at  the  age 
of  eighty-seven  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  heaven  had  not  blessed  him 
with  :ny  family,  and  thus  he  was  debarred  from  the  endearing  enjoy- 
ment experienced  by  a  father,  when  he  sees  himself  growing  young 
again,  and  revivified  in  his  posterity.  At  the  same  time,  he  was 
wanting  in  all  those  feelings  conducive  to  this  state  of  life — a  state 
against  which  his  whole  nature  recoiled.* 

*  "  About  fourscore  years  ago,  there  used  to  be  seen  ^atintering  on  the  terraces  of 
8an$Souci,  for  a  short  time  in  the  afternoon,  or  you  mijjht  have  met  him  elsewhere 
at  an  earlier  hour,  riding  or  driving  in  ST;ipid,  business  manner  on  the  open  roads 
or  Uirouirli  t.hej3crag<*y  woods  and  ayemies  of  that,  intricate,  amphibious  Potsdam 
region,  a  highly  interesting,  lean,  little  old  mail,  of  alert  though  slightly  stooping 


«8  FREDERICK   TME   GREAT. 

His  mind,  with  scarcely  any  interruption,  retained  all  its  power 
during  the  long  spare  of  seventy-four  years,  although  his  body  had 
latterly  become  much,  reduced  and  enfeebled.  Through  the  extrava- 
gant use  he  had  always  made  of  strong  spices  and  French  dishes,  he 
dried  up  the  springs  of  life,  and  after  suffering  severely  from  dropsy, 
he  departed  this  lii'e  on  the  17th  of  August,  1786,  and  was  buried  in 
Potsdam,  under  the  pulpit  of  the  church  belonging  to  the  garrison. 

In  his  last  illness  Frederick  displayed  great  mildness  and  patience, 
and  acknowledged  with  gratitude  the  trouble  and  pain  he  caused! 
those  around  him.  During  one  of  his  sleepless  nights  he  called  to 
the  page  who  kept  watch  in  the  room,  and  asked  him  what  o'clock  it 
was.  The  man  replied  it  had  just  struck  two.  "Ah,  then  it  is  still 
too  soon  !"  exclaimed  the  king,  "but  I  cannot  sleep.  See  whether 

figure ;  whose  name  among  strangers  was  King  Friedrich  the  Second,  or  Frederick 
the  Great  of  Prussia,  and  at  home  amongthe  common  people,  who  much  loved  ami 
esteemed  him,  was  Voter  Fritz— Father  Fred— a  name  of  familiarity  which  had  not 
bred  contempt  in  that  instance.  He  is  a  king  every  inch  of  him,  though  without 
the  trappings  of  a  king.  Presents  himself  in  a  Spartan  simplicity  of  vesture  ;  no 
crown  but  an  old  military  cocked-hat— generally  old,  or  trampled  and  kneaded  into 
absolute  soft  ness  it  new— no  sceptre  but  one  like  Agamemnon'",  a  walking-stick 
cut.  from  the  woods,  which  serves  also  as  a  riding-stick  (with  which  he  hits  the  horse 
•between  the  ears,1  say  authors);  and  for  royal  robes,  a  mere  soldier's  blue 
coat  with  red  facings,  coat  likely  to  be  old,  and  sure  to  have  a  good  deal  of  Spanish 
snuff  on  the  breast  of  it  ;  rest  of  the  apparel  dim,  unobtrusive  in  color  or  cut.  end- 
ing in  high,  over-knee,  military  boots,  which  may  be  brnshe  1  (and,  I  hope,  kept 
soft  with  an  underhand  suspicion  of  oil),  bnt  are  not  permitted  to  be  blackened  or 
varnished  ;  Day  and  Martin  with  their  soot-pots  forbidden  to  approach. 

"  The  mail  is  not  of  godlike  physiognomy,  any  more  than  of  imposing  stature  or 
costume :  close-shut  mouth  with  thin  lips,  prominent  jaws  and  noso,  receding 
brow,  by  no  means  of  Olympian  height ;  head,  however,  is  of  long  form,  and  has 
superlative  gray  eyes  in  it.  Not  what  is  called  a  beautiful  man  ;  nor  yet,  by  all  ap- 
pearance, what  is  called  a  happy.  On  the  contrary,  the  face  bears  evidence  of  many 
sorrows,  as  they  are  termed,  of  much  hard  labor  done  in  this  world  ;  and  seems  to 
anticipate  nothing  but  more  still  coming.  Quiet  stoicism,  capable  enough  of  what 
joy  there  were,  but  not  expecting  any  worth  mention  ;  great  unconscious  and  some 
conscious  pride,  well  tempered  with  a  cheery  mockery  of  humor— are  written  on 
that  old  face ;  which  carries  its  chin  well  forward,  in  spite  of  the  .slight  stoop 
about  the  neck  ;  snuffy  nose  rather  flung  into  the  air.  under  its  old  cocked-hat— 
like  an  old  snuffy  lion  on  the  watch  ;  and  such  a  pair  of  eyes  as  no  man  or  lion  or 
lynx  of  that  century  bore  elsewhere,  according  to  all  the  testimony  we  have.  '  Those 
eyes,  saysMirabeau  'which,  at  the  bidding  of  his  great  soul,  fascinated  yon  with  se- 
duction or  with  terror  (portaienf,  ait  gredason  ame  heroique,  la  seduction  o>i  la  ter- 
reur).  Most  excellent,  potent,  brilliant  eyes,  swift-darting  as  the  stars,  steadfast  aa 
the  sun  :  gray,  we  said,  of  the  azure-gray  color;  large  enough,  not  of  glaring  size,  the 
habitual  expression  of  them  vigilance  and  penetrating  sense,  rapidity  resting  on 
depth.  Which  is  an  excellent  combination  ;  i  ml  gives  us  the  notion  o'f  a  lambent 
outer  radiance  springing  from  some  great  inner  scaof  light  and  fire  in  the  man.  The 
voice,  if  bespeak  to  you,  is  of  similar  physiognomy:  clear,  melodious,  and  sonorous; ; 
all  tones  are  in  it,  f  om  that  of  the  ingenuous  inquiry,  graceful  sociality,  light-flow- 
ing banter  (rather  prickly  for  most  part),  up  to  definite  word  of  command,  np  to 
desolating  word  of  rebuke  and  reprobation  ;  a  voice  '  the  clearest  and  most  agree- 
able in  conversation  I  ever  heard,  says  witty  Dr.  Moore.  '  He  speaks  a  great  deal,' 
continues  the  doctor,  '  yet  those  who  hear  him  regret  that  he  does  not  speak  a 
groat  deal  more.  His  observations  are  always  lively,  very  often  just ;  and  few  men 
the  fa)fpt  of  repartee  iu  greater  perfection'  " 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  60 

fcny  of  the  other  attendants  arn  awake,  but  do  not  disturb  them  if 
they  are  s'.ill  sleeping,  for,  poor  fellows,  they  are  tired  enough.  But 
if  you  find  Neuman  (his  favorite  yager)  Stirring,  say  to  him  you  be- 
lieve the  king  wishes  soon  to  rise.  But  mind,  do  not  awaken  any 
one  !  " 

Although  the  news  of  Frederick's  death  at  such  an  advanced  age 
(excited  no  very  great  astonishment,  it  nevertheless  produced  aronsid- 
lerable  sensation  throughout  the  whole  of  Europe.  He  left  to  his  suc- 
(cessor  a  well-regulated  State,  containing  a  population  of  six  millions 
of  inhabitants  ;  a  powerful,  strictly  organized  army,  and  a  treasury 
well  provided  ;  the  greatest  treasure,  however,  he  left,  was  the  recol- 
lection of  his  heroic  and  glorious  acts,  which  iv-  subsequent  times  has 
continued  to  operate  upon  his  nation  with  all  its  awakening  power 
and  heart- stirring  influence. 


crro. 


LIFE    OF    BURNS. 


PART  FIRST. 


ROBERT  BURNS,  the  national  bard  of  Scotland,  was  born  on  the  25th 
at'  January,  1759,  in  a  clay-built  cottage  about  two  miles  south  of  the 
town  of  Ayr.  He  was  the  eldest  son  of  Willipin  Burnes,  or  Harness, 
who,  at  the  period  of  Robert's  birth,  was  gardener  and  overseer  to  a 
gentleman  of  small  estate  ;  but  resided  on  a  few  acres  of  land  which 
he  had  on  lease  from  another  person.  The  father  was  a  man  of  strict 
religious  principles,  and  also  distinguished  for  that  penetration  and 
knowledge  of  mankind  which  was  afterwards  so  conspicuous  in  his 
sou.  The  mother  of  the  poet  was  likewise  a  very  sagacious  woman, 
and  possessed  an  inexhaustible  store  of  ballads  and  legendary  talcs, 
with  which  she  nourished  the  infant  imagination  of  him  whose  own. 
productions  were  destined  to  excel  them  all. 

These  worthy  individuals  labored  diligently  for  the  support  of  an 
increasing  family  ,  nor  in  the  midst  of  harassing  struggles  did  they 
neglect  the  mental  improvement  of  their  offspring — a  characteristic 
of  Scottish  parents,  even  under  the  most  depressing  circumstances. 
In  his  sixth  year,  Robert  was  put  under  the  tuition  of  one  Campbell, 
and  subsequently  under  Mr  John  Murdoch,  a  very  faithful  and 
pains-taking  teacher.  With  this  individual  he  remained  for  a  few 
years,  and  was  accurately  instructed  in  the  first  principles  of  com- 
position. The  poet  and  his  brother  Gilbert  were  the  aptest  pupils  in 
the  school,  and  were  generally  at  the  head  of  the  class.  Mr.  Mur 
doch,  in  afterwards  recording  the  impressions  which  the  two  brothers 
made  on  him,  says  :  '•  Gilbert  always  appeared  to  me  to  possess  a 
more  lively  imagination,  and  to  be  more  of  the  wit,  than  Robert.  I 
attempted  to  teach  them  a  little  church  music.  Here  they  were  left 
far  bt-liind  by  all  the  rest  of  the  school.  Robert's  ear,  in  particular, 
was  remarkably  dull,  and  his  voice  untunable  It  was  long  before  I 
could  get  them  to  distinguish  one  tune  from  another.  Robert's  coun- 
tenance was  generally  grave,  and  expressive  of  a  serious,  contemplu 
live,  and  thoughtful  mind.  Gilbert's  face  said,  Mirth,  with  thee  1 
mean  to  lice ;  and  certainly,  if  any  person  who  knew  the  two  boya 
had  been  asked  which  of  them  was  the  most  likely  to  court  the  muses, 
would  never-  aavc  ai eased  that  Robert  had  a  propensity  of  that 

-,*,*.  (1) 


I  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

Besides  the  tuition  of  Mr.  Murdoch,  Burns  received  instructions 
from  liis  father  in  writing  und  arithmetic.  Under  their  joint  care, 
lie  made  rapid  progress,  and  was  remarkable  for  the  ease  with  which 
he  committed  devotional  poetry  to  memory.  The  following  extract 
from  his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  in  1787,  is  interesting,  from  the  light 
which  it  throws  upon  his  progress  as  a  scholar,  and  on  the  formation 
of  his  character  as  a  poet : — "  At  those  years,"  says  he,  "I  was  by  no 
means  a  favorite  with  anybody.  I  was  a  good  deal  noted  for  a  reten 
live  memory,  a  stubborn,  sturdy  something  in  my  disposition,  and  :ri 
enthusiastic  idiot  piety.  I  say  idiot  piety,  because  I  was  then  but  a 
child.  Though  it  cost  the  schoolmaster  some  thrashings,  I  made  an 
excellent  scholar  ;  and  by  the  time  I  was  ten  or  eleven  years  of  age,  1 
was  a  critic  in  substantives,  verbs,  and  particles.  In  my  infant  and 
boyish  days,  too,  I  owed  much  to  an  old  woman  who  resided  in  the 
family,  remarkable  for  her  ignorance,  credulity,  and  superstition, 
hhe  had,  I  suppose,  the  largest  collection  in  the  country  of  tales  and 
Mougs,  concerning  devils,  ghosts,  fairies,  brownies,  witches,  warlocks, 
gpunkies,  kelpies,  elf  candles,  deadlights,  wraiths,  apparitions,  can- 
trips, giants,  enchanted  towers,  dragons,  and  other  trumpery.  This 
cultivated  the  latent  seeds  of  poetry  •  but  had  so  strong  an  effect  upon 
my  imagination,  that  to  this  hour,  in  my  nocturnal  rambles,  I  some 
limes  keep  a  sharp  look-out  in  suspicious  places  ;  and  though  nobody 
can  bo  more  skeptical  than  I  am  in  such  matters,  yet  it  often  takes  an 
rffort  of  philosophy  to  shake  off  these  idle  terrors.  The  earliest  coin- 
position  that  I  recollect  taking  pleasure  in,  was,  The  Vision  of  Mir:.!*., 
and  a  hymn  of  Addison's,  beginning,  '  How  are  thy  xe  remits  blent,  0 
Lord!"  I  particularly  remember  one  half  stanza,  which  was  music 
to  my  boyish  ear  ; 

For  though  on  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
High  on  the  broken  wave.' 

1  met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason's  English  Collection,  one  of  my 
school  books.  The  first  two  books  I  ever  read  in  private,  and  which 
gave  me  more  pleasure  than  any  two  books  I  ever  read  since,  were, 
The  Life  of  Hannibal  andTY/e  History  of  Sir  William  Wallace.  Han 
nibal  gave  my  young  ideas  such  a  turn,  that  I  used  to  strut  in  rap 
tu  res  up  and  down  after  the  recruiting  drum  and  bagpipe,  and  wish 
myself  tall  enough  to  be  a  soldier  ;  while  the  story  of  Wallace  poured 
a  tide  of  Scottish  prejudice  into  my  veins,  which  will  boil  along  there 
till  the  flood  gates  of  life  shut  in  eternal  rest." 

Mr.  Murdoch's  removal  from  Mount  Oliphant  deprived  Burns  of  his 
instructions  ;  but  they  were  still  continued  by  the  father  of  the  bard. 
About  the  age  of  fourteen,  he  was  sent  to  school  every  alternate  week 
for  the  improvement  of  his  writing.  In  the  mean  while,  he  was 
busily  employed  upon  the  operations  of  the  farm  .  and,  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  was  considered  as  the  principal  laborer  upon  it.  About  a  year 


sLlFE  OF  BURN&  * 

tfter  this  lie  gained  three  weeks  of  respite,  which  he  spent  with  hia 
eld  tutor,  Murdoch,  at  Ayr,  in  revising  the  English  grammar,  and  in 
studying  the  French  lang'uage,  in  which  he  made  uncommon  progress. 
Ere  his  sixteenth  year  elapsed,  he  had  considerably  extended  his 
reading.  The  vicinity  of  Mount  Oliphant  to  Ayr  afforded  him  facil- 
ities for  gratifying  what  had  now  become  a  passion.  Among  the 
books  which  he  had  perused  were  some  plays  of  Shakspeare,  Pope 
the  works  of  Allan  Ramsay,  and  a  collection  of  songs,  which  consti 
tuted  his  V(ule  mccum.  "I  pored  over  them,"  says  he,  "driving  nif 
cart  or  walking  to  labor,  song  by  song,  verse  by  verse,  careful U 
noticing  the  true,  tender,  or  sublime,  from  affectation  and  fustian." 
So  early  did  he  evince  his  attachment  to  the  lyric  muse,  in  which  he 
was  destined  to  surpass  all  who  have  gone  before  or  succeeded  him. 

At  this  period  the  family  removed  to  Lochlea,  in  the  parish  of  Tar- 
bolton.  Some  time  before,  however,  he  had  made  his  first  attempt  in 
poetry.  It  was  a  song  addressed  to  a  rural  beauty,  about  his  own 
age,  and,  though  possessing  no  great  merit  as  a  whole,  it  contains  some 
lines  and  ideas  which  would  have  done  honor  to  him  at  any  age. 
After  the  removal  to  Lochlea,  his  literary  zeal  slackened,  for  he  was 
thus  cut  off  from  those  acquaintances  whose  conversation  stimulated 
his  powers,  and  whose  kindness  supplied  him  with  books.  For  about 
three  years  after  this  period  he  was  busily  employed  upon  the  farm, 
but  at  intervals  he  paid  his  addresses  to  the  poetic  muse,  and  with  no 
common  success.  The  summer  of  his  nineteenth  year  was  spent  in 
the  study  of  mensuration,  surveying,  etc.,  at  a  small  sea-port  town, 
a  good  distance,  from  home.  He  returned  to  his  father's  considerably 
improved.  "My  reading,"  says  he,  "was  enlarged  with  the  very  im- 
portant addition  of  Thomson's  and  Shenstone's  works.  I  had  seen 
human  nature  in  a  new  phasis  ;  and  1  engaged  several  of  my  school 
fellows  to  keep  up  a  literary  correspondence  with  me.  This  improved 
me  in  composition.  I  had  met  with  a  collection  of  letters  by  the  wits 
of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  I  pored  over  them  most  devoutly  ;  I  kept 
copies  of  any  of  my  own  letters  that  pleased  me,  and  a  comparison 
between  them  and  the  composition  of  most  of  my  correspondents 
Battered  my  vanity.  I  carried  this  whim  so  far,  that,  though  1  had 
ot  three  farthings'  worth  of  business  in  the  world,  yet  almost  every 
post  brought  me  as  many  letters  as  if  I  had  been  a  broad,  plodding 
son  of  day-book  and  ledger." 

His  mind,  peculiarly  susceptible  of  tender  impressions,  was  contin- 
ually the  slave  of  some  rustic  charmer.  In  the  "  heat  and  whirlwind 
of  his  love,"  he  generally  found  relief  in  poetry,  by  which,  as  by  a 
safety-valve,  his  turbulent  passions  were  allowed  to  have  vent.  He 
formed  the  resolution  of  entering  the  matrimonial  state  ;  but  his  cir- 
cumscribed means  of  subsistence  as  a  farmer  preventing  his  taking  that 
step,  he  resolved  on  becoming  a  flax-dresser,  for  which  purpose  he  re- 
moved tothe  town  of  Irvine,  in  1781.  The  speculation  turned  out  un- 
3uccessful  ;  for  the  sliop,  catching  li  re,  was  burnt,  and  tke  poet  returned 


4  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

to  his  father  without  a  sixpence.  During  his  stay  at  Irvine  he  had  mei 
with  Ferguson's  poems.  This  circumstance  was  of  some  importance 
to  Burns,  for  it  roused  his  poetic  powers  from  the  torpor  into  which 
they  had  fallen,  and  in  agreat  measure  finally  determined  the  Scottish 
character  of  his  poetry.  He  here  also  contracted  some  friendships, 
which  he  himself  says* did  him  mischief  ;  and,  by  his  brother  Gilbert's 
account,  from  this  date  there  was  a  serious  change  in  his  conduct. 
The  venerable  and  excellent  parent  of  the  poet  died  soon  after  his 
son's  return.  The  support  of  the  family  now  devolving  upon  Burns, 
in  conjunction  with  his  brother  he  took  a  sub  lease  of  the  farm  of 
Mossgiel,  in  the  parish  of  Mauchline.  The  four  years  which  he  re- 
sided upon  this  farm  were  the  most  important  of  his  life.  It  was 
here  he  felt  that  nature  had  designed  him  for  a  poet;  and  here, 
accordingly,  his  genius  began  to  develop  its  energies  in  those  strains 
which  will  make  his  name  familiar  to  all  future  times,  the  admiration 
of  every  civilized  country,  and  the  glory  and  boast  of  his  own. 

The  vigor  of  Burns's  understanding,  and  the  keenness  of  his  wit, 
as  displayed  more  particularly  at  masonic  meetings  and  debating 
Hubs,  of  which  he  formed  one  at  Mauchline,  began  to  spread  his 
fame  as  a  man  of  uncommon  endowments.  He  now  could  number  as 
his  acquaintance  several  clergymen,  and  also  some  gentlemen  of  sub- 
stance ;  amongst  whom  was  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton,  writer  in  Mauch- 
line, one  of  his  earliest  patrons.  One  circumstance  more  than  any 
other  contributed  to  increase  his  notoriety.  "Polemical  divinity," 
says  he  to  Dr.  Moore  in  1787,  "  about  this  time  was  putting  the  coun- 
try lialf  mad  ;  and  I,  ambitious  of  shining  in  conversation-parties  on 
Sundays,  at  funerals,  etc.,  used  to  puzzle  Calvinism  with  so  much 
heat  and  indiscretion,  that  I  raised  a  hue-and  cry  of  heresy  against 
me,  which  lias  not  ceased  to  this  hour."  The  farm  which  he  |><>s 
Bessed  belonged  to  the  Earl  of  London,  but  the  brothers  held  it  in 
sub-lease  from  Mr.  Hamilton.  This  gentleman  was  at  open  lend 
Vith  one  of  the  ministers  at  Mauchline,  who  was  a  rigid  Calvinist, 
rtlr.  Hamilton  maintained  opposite  tenets;  and  it  is  not  matter  of 
surprise  that  the  young  farmer  should  have  espoused  his  cause,  and 
brought  all  the  resources  of  his  genius  to  bear  upon  it.  The  result 
was  The  Holy  Fair,  The  Ordination,  Holy  Witt-it's  />/•<///<•>•,  and  other 
satires,  as  much  distinguished  for  their  coarse  severity  and  bitterness 
as  for  their  genius. 

The  applause  which  greeted  these  pieces  emboldened  the  poet,  and 
encouraged  him  to  proceed.  In  his  life,  by  his  brother  Gilbert,  a 
very  interesting  account  is  given  of  the  occasions  which  gave  rise  to 
the  poems,  and  the  chronological  order  in  which  they  were  produced. 
The  ex<|uisite  pathos  and  humor,  the  strong  manly  sense,  the  mas- 
terly command  of  felicitous  language,  the  graphic  power  of  delineat- 
ing scenery,  manners,  and  incidents,  which  appear  so  conspicuously 
in  his  various  poem*,  could  not  fail  to  call  forth  the  admiration  of 
ihotw  who  were  favored  with  a  perusal  of  tkem.  But  the  clouds  «f 


LIFE  OF  BURNS.  i 

misfortune  were  gatJiering  darkly  above  the  head  of  him  wh»  was 
thus  giving  delight  to  a  large  and  widening  circle  of  friends.  The 
farm  of  Mossgiel  proved  a  losing  concern  ;  and  an  amour  with  Miss 
Jane  Armour,  afterwards  Mrs.  Burns,  had  assumed  so  serious  a$ 
aspect,  that  lie  at  first  resolved  to  fly  from  the  scene  of  his  disgrace 
and  misery.  One  trait  of  his  character,  however,  must  be  men. 
tioned.  Before  taking  any  steps  for  his  departure,  he  met  Miss  Ar. 
mour  by  appointment,  and  gave  into  her  hands  a  written  acknowledg- 
ment of  marriage,  which,  when  produced  by  a  person  in  her  situation, 
is,  according  to  the  Scots'  law,  to  be  accepted  as  legal  evidence  of  an 
irregular  marriage  having  really  taken  place.  This  the  lady  burned, 
at  the  persuasion  or  her  father,  who  was  adverse  to  a  marriage  ;  and 
Burns,  thus  wounded  in  the  two  most  powerful  feelings  of  his  mind, 
his  love  and  pride,  was  driven  almost  to  insanity.  Jamaica  was  his 
destination  ;  but,  as  he  did  not  possess  the  money  necessary  to  defray 
the  expense  of  his  passage  out,  he  resolved  to  publish  some  of  his 
best  poems,  in  order  to  raise  the  requisite  sum.  These  views  were 
warmly  promoted  by  some  of  his  more  opulent  friends ;  and  »  suffi- 
ciency of  subscribers  having  been  procured,  one  of  the  finest  volumes 
of  poems  that  ever  appeared  in  the  world  issued  from  the  provincial 
press  of  Kilmarnock. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  imagine  with  what  eager  admiration  and 
delight  they  were  everywhere  received.  They  possessed  in  an  emi- 
nent degree  all  those  qualities  which  invariably  contribute  to  render 
any  literary  work  quickly  and  permanently  popular.  They  were 
written  in  a  phraseology  of  which  all  the  powers  were  universally 
felt,  and  which,  being  at  once  antique,  familiar,  and  now  rarely  writ- 
ten, was  therefore  ^fitted  to  serve  all  the  dignified  and  pictureSqu* 
uses  of  poetry,  without  making  it  unintelligible.  The  imagery  and 
the  sentiments  were  at  once  natural,  impressive,  and  interesting. 
Those  topics  of  satire  and  scandal  in  which  the  rustic  delights  ;  that 
humorous  imitation  of  character,  and  that  witty  association  of  ideas, 
familiar  and  striking,  yet  not  naturally  allied  to  one  another,  which 
has  force  to  shake  his  sides  with  laughter  ;  those  fancies  of  supersti- 
tion at  which  one  still  wonders  and  trembles;  those  affecting  senti- 
ments and  images  of  true  religion  which  are  at  once  dear  and  awful 
to  the  heart,  were  all  represented  by  Burns  with  the  magical  power 
of  true  poetry.  Old  and  young,  high  and  low,  grave  and  gay,  learned 
and  ignorant,  all  were  alike  surprised  and  transported. 

In  the  mean  time  a  few  copies  of  these  fascinating  poems  found 
their  way  to  Edinburgh,  and  having  been  read  to  Dr.  Blacklock,  ob- 
tained his  warmest  approbation  ;  and  he  advised  the  author  to  repair 
to  Edinburgh.  Burns  lost  no  time  in  complying  with  this  request ; 
and  accordingly,  towards  the  end  of  the  year  178(5,  he  set  out  for  the 
capital,  where  he  was  received  by  Dr.  Blacklock  with  the  most  flat- 
tering kindness,  and  introduced  to  every  person  of  taute  among  that 
exceLLent  man's  friends.  Multitudes  now  vied  with  wush  other  ia 


t>  LIFE  OP  BURKS. 

patronizing  the  rustic  poet.  Those  who  possessed  at  once  true  tast« 
and  ardent  philanthropy  were  soon  united  in  his  praise  ;  those  v.-ho 
were  disposed  to  favor  any  good  thing  belonging  to  Scotland,  purely 
because  it  was  Scottish,  gladly  joined  the  cry  ;  while  those  who  had 
hearts  and  understandings  to  be  charmed  without  knowing  why, 
when  they  saw  their  native  customs,  manners,  and  language  made 
the  subjects  and  the  materials  of  poesy,  could  not  suppress  that  iin 
pulse  of  feeling  which  struggled  to  declare  itself  in  favor  of  Burns. 

Thus  did  Burns,  ere  he  had  been  many  weeks  in  Edinburgh,  find 
himself  the  object  of  universal  curiosity,  favor,  admiration,  and  foncl- 
ness.  He  was  sought  after,  courted  with  attentions  the  most  respect- 
ful and  assiduous,  feasted,  nattered,  caressed,  and  treated  by  all  rank'* 
as  the  great  boast  of  his  country,  whom  it  was  scarcely  possible  to 
honor  and  reward  in  a  degree  equal  to  his  merits. 

A  new  edition  of  his  poems  was  called  for,  and  the  public  mind 
was  directed  to  the  subject  by  Henry  Mackenzie,  who  dedicated  A 
paper  in  the  Lvunger  to  a  commendatory  notice  of  the  poet.  This 
circumstance  will  ever  be  remembered  to  the  honor  of  that  polished 
writer,  not  only  for  the  warmth  of  the  eulogy  he  bestowed,  but  be- 
cause it  was  the  first  printed  acknowledgment  which  had  been  made 
to  the  genius  of  Burns.  The  copyright  was  sold  to  Creech  for  £100  ; 
but  the  friends  of  the  poet  advised  him  to  forward  a  subscription. 
The  patronage  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt,  a  very  influential  body,  was 
obtained.  The  list  of  subscribers  rapidly  rose  to  1,500,  many  gentle- 
men paying  a  great  deal  more  than  the  price  of  the  volume ;  and  it 
was  supposed  that  the  poet  derived  from  the  subscription  and  the  sale 
of  his  copyright  a  clear  profit  of  .at  least  £700. 

The  conversation  of  Burns,  according  to  the  testimony  of  all  the 
eminent  men  who  heard  him,  was  even  more  wonderful  than  his 
poetry.  He  affected  no  soft  air  nor  graceful  motions  of  politeness, 
which  might  have  ill  accorded  with  the  rustic  plainness  of  his  native 
manners.  Conscious  superiority  of  mind  taught  him  to  associate 
with  the  great,  the  learned,  and  the  gay,  without  being  overawed 
into  any  such  bashfulness  as  might  have  rendered  him  confused  in 
thought  or  hesitating  in  elocution.  He  possessed  withal  an  extraor- 
dinary share  of  plain  common  sense,  or  mother- wit,  which  prevented 
him  from  obtruding  upon  persons,  of  whatever  rank,  with  whom  he 
was  admitted  to  converse,  any  of  those  effusions  of  vanity,  envy,  or 
Belf-conceit  in  which  authors  who  have  lived  remote  from  the  general 
practice  of  life,  and  whose  minds  have  been  almost  exclusively  con 
fined  to  contemplate  their  own  studies  and  their  own  works,  are  hut 
too  prone  to  indulge.  In  conversation  he  displayed  a -sort,  of  intuitive 
quickness  and  rectitude  of  judgment,  upon  every  subject  that  arose. 
The  sensibility  of  his  heart  and  the  vivacity  of  his  fancy  gave  a 
rich  coloring  to  whatever  opinions  he  was  disposed  to  advance  ,  and 
his  language  was  thus  not  less  happy  in  conversation  than  in  his 
writings.  Hence  those  who  had  met  and  conversed  with  him  ones 
were  pleased  to  meet  and  to  converse  with  him  again  and  again. 


LIFE  OF  BURNS.  1 

For  some  time  he  associated  only  with  the  virtuous,  the  learned, 
and  the  wise,  and  the  purity  of  his  morals  remained  uncontaminated. 
But  unfortunately  he  fell,  as  others  have  fallen  in  similar  circum- 
stances, lie  .suffered  himself  to  be  surrounded  by  persons  who  were 
proud  to  tell  that  they  had  been  in  company  with  Burns,  and  had 
seen  Burns  as  loose  and  as  foolish  as  themselves.  He  now  also  began 
to  contract  something  of  arrogance  in  conversation.  Accustomed  to 
be  among  his  associates  what  is  vulgarly  but  expressively  called  "tho 
cock  of  the  company,"  he  could  scarcely  refrain  from  indulging  in  a 
similar  freedom  and  dictatorial  decision  of  talk,  even  in  the  presence 
of  persons  who  could  less  patiently  endure  presumption. 

After  remaining  some  months  in  the  Scottish  metropolis,  basking 
in  the  noontide  sun  of  a  popularity  which,  as  Dugald  Stewart  well 
remarks,  would  have  turned  any  head  but  his  own,  he  formed  a  reso 
lution  of  returning  to  the  shades  whence  he  had  emerged,  but  not 
before  he  had  perambulated  the  southern  border.  On  the  6th  of  May, 
17^7,  he  set  out  on  his  journey,  and,  visiting  all  that  appeared  inter 
esting  on  the  north  of  the  Tweed,  proceeded  to  Newcastle  and  othei 
places  on  the  English  side.  lie  returned  in  about  two  months  to  his 
family  at  Mauchline  ,  but  in  a  short  period  he  again  set  out  on  an  ex 
cursion  to  the  north,  where  he  was  most  flatteringly  received  by  all 
the  great  families.  On  his  return  to  Mossgiel  he  completed  his  mar 
riage  with  Miss  Armour.  He  then  concluded  a  bargain  with  Mr. 
Miller  of  Dalswintou  for  a  lease  of  the  farm  of  Elliesland,  on  adra,i 
tageous  terms. 

Burns  entered  on  possession  of  this  farm  at  Whitsunday,  1788. 
lie  had  formerly  applied  with  success  for  an  excise  commission,  and 
during  six  weeks  of  this  year  he  had  to  attend  to  the  business  of  that 
profession  at  Ayr.  His  'life  for  some  time  was  thus  wandering  and 
unsettled  ;  and  Dr.  t'urrie  mentions  this  as  one  of  his  chief  mis  for 
tunes.  Mrs.  Burns  came  home  to  him  towards  the  end  of  the  year, 
and  the  poet  was  accustomed  to  say  that  the  happiest  period  of  his 
life  was  the  first  winter  spent  in  Elliesland.  The  neighboring  farm 
ers  and  gentlemen,  pleased  to  obtain  fora  neighbor  the  poet  by  whose- 
works  they  had  been  delighted,  kindly  sought  his  company,  and  in- 
vited him  to  their  houses.  Burns,  however,  found  an  inexpressible 
charm  in  sitting  down  beside  his  wife,  a*  his  own  fireside  ;  in  wan 
dering  over  his  own  grounds  ;  in  once  more  putting  his  hand  to  the 
spade  and  the  plough  ;  in  farming  his  enclosures  and  managing  his 
cattle.  For  some  months  he  felt  almost  all  that  felicity  which  fancy 
had  taught  him  to  expect  in  his  new  situation.  He  had  been  for  a 
time  idle,  but  his  muscles  were  not  yet  unbraced  for  rural  toil.  He 
now  seemed  to  find  a  joy  in  being  the  husband  of  the  mistress  of  hia 
affections,  and  in  seeing  himself  the  father  of  children  such  as  prom 
ised  to  attach  him  forever  to  that  modest,  humble,  and  domestic  life 
n  which  alone  he  could  hope  to  be  permanently  happy.  Even  his 
•"•ragements  in  the  service  of  excise  did  not,  at  first,  threaten  eiths* 
w  oontAininate  the  poet  or  to  ruin  the  farmer. 


b  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

From  various  causes,  the  farming  speculation  did  not  succeed. 
Indeed,  from  the  time  he  obtained  a  situation  under  government,  ho 
gradually  began  to  sink  the  fanner  in  the  excisem  in  Occasionally 
In'  .'insisted  iii  the  rustic  occupations  of  Elliesland,  but  for  the  niot>1 
part  In:  was  engaged  in  very  different  pursuits  In  his  professional 
perambula  ions  over  the  moors  of  Dumfriesshire  he  h..d  to  encounter 
temptations  which  a  mind  and  temperament  like  his  found  it  difficult 
to  resist.  His  immortal  works  had  made  him  universally  known  and 
enthusiastically  admired  ;  and  accordingly  he  was  a  welcome  guest 
at  every  house,  from  the  most  princely  mansion  to  the  lowest  country 
inn.  In  the  latter  he  was  too  frequently  to  be  found  as  the  presiding 
genius  and  master  of  the  orgies.  However,  he  still  continued  at  in- 
tervals to  cultivate  the  muse  ;  and,  besides  a  variety  of  other  pieces, 
he  produced  at  this  period  the  inimitable  poem  of  Tarn  O'Shanter. 
Johnson's  Miscellany  was  also  indebted  to  him  for  the  finest  of  its 
lyrics.  One  pleasing  trait  of  his  character  must  not  be  overlooked 
ile  superintended  the  formation  of  a  subscription  library  in  the  par 
isli,  and  took  the  whole  management  of  it  upon  himself.  These 
institutions,  though  common  now,  were  not  so  at  the  period  of  which 
we  write  ;  and  it  should  never  be  forgotten  that  Burns  was  amongst  the 
first,  if  not  the  very  first,  of  their  founders  in  the  rural  districts  of 
southern  Scotland. 

Towards  the  close  of  1791  he  finally  abandoned  his  farm  ;  and,  ob- 
taining an  appointment  to  the  Dumfries  division  of  excise,  he  re- 
paired to  that  town  on  a  salary  of  £70  per  annum.  All  his  principal 
biographers  concur  in  stating  that  after  settling  in  Dumfries  his 
moral  career  was  downwards.  Heron,  who  had  some  acquaintance 
with  the  mutter,  says:  "His  dissipation  became  still  more  deeply 
habitual ;  he  was  here  more  exposed  than  in  the  country  to  be  soli- 
cited to  share  the  revels  of  the  dissolute  and  the  idle  ;  foolish  young 
men  flocked  eagerly  about  him,  and  from  time  to  time  pressed  him  to 
drink  with  them,  that  they  might  enjoy  his  wit.  The  Caledonia 
Club,  too,  and  the  Dumfriesshire  and  Galloway  Hunt,  had  occasional 
meetings  in  Dumfries  after  Burns  went  to  reside  there  ;  and  the  poet 
was  of  course  invited  to  share  their  conviviality,  and  hesitated  not  to 
accept  the  invitation.  In  the  intervals  between  his  different  fits  of 
intemperance,  he  suffered  the  keenest  anguish  of  remorse  and  horri 
My  afflictive  foresight.  His  Jane  behaved  with  a  degree  of  conjugal 
and  maternal  tenderness  and  prudence  which  made  him  feel 'more 
bitterly  the  evil  of  his  misconduct,  although  they  could  not  reclaim 
him." 

This  is  a  dark  picture— perhaps  too  dark.     The  Rev.  Mr.  Gray, 
who   as  the  teacher  o;  his  son,  was  intimately  acquainted  with  Burns, 
had  Frequent  opportunities  of  judging  of  his  general  character 
and  deportment,  gives  a  more  amiable  portrait  of  the  bard      Being 
rye  witness,  the  testimony  of  this  gentleman  must  be  allowed  to 
o  Rome  weight.     ''The  truth  is,"  says  he.  "Burns  was  seldom 


LIFE   OF   BURNS.  8 

intoxicated.  The  drunkard  soon  becomes  besotted,  and  is  shunned 
even  by  the  convivial.  Had  he  been  so,  he  could  not  have  long  con- 
tinned  the  idol  of  every  party."  This  is  strong  reasoning;  and  ho 
goes  on  to  mention  other  circumstances  which  seem  to  confirm  thu 
truth  of  liis  position.  In  balancing  these  two  statements,  a  juslcr 
estimate  of  the  moral  deportment  of  Burns  ma/  be  formed. 

In  the  year  1792  party  politics  ran  to  a  great  height  in  Scotland,  and 
the  liberal  and  independent  spirit  of  Burns  did  certainly  betray  him 
into  some  indiscretions.  A  general  opinion  prevails,  that  he  so  far 
lost  the  good  graces  of  his  superiors  by  his  conduct  as  to  consider  all 
prospects  of  future  promotion  as  hopeless.  But  this  appears  not  to 
have  been  the  case  ;  and  the  face  that  he  acted  as  supervisor  before 
his  death  is  a  strong  proof  to  the  contrary.  Of  his  political  verses, 
few  have  as  yet  been  published.  But  in  these  he  warmly  espoused 
the  cause  of  the  Whigs,  which  kept  up  the  spleen  of  the  other  party, 
already  sufficiently  provoked  ;  and  this  may  in  some  measure  account 
for  the  bitterness  with  which  his  own  character  was  attacked. 

Whatever  opinion  may  be  formed  of  the  extent  of  his  dissipation  in 
Dumfries,  one  fact  is  unquestionable,  that  his  powers  remained  unim- 
puiyed  to  the  last ;  it  was  there  he  produced  his  finest  lyrics,  and  they 
are  the  finest,  as  well  as  the  purest,  that  ever  delighted  maul; i nil. 
Besides  Johnson's  Museum,  in  which  he  took  an  interest  to  the  lust, 
and  to  which  he  contributed  most  extensively,  he  formed  a  connection 
with  Mr.  George  Thomson,  of  Edinburgh.  This  gentleman  had 
conceived  the  laudable  design  of  collecting  the  national  melodies  of 
Scotland,  with  accompaniments  by  the  most  eminent  composers,  and 
poetry  by  the  best  writers,  in  addition  to  those  words  which  were 
originally  attached  to  them.  From  the  multitude  of  songs  which 
Burns  wrote,  from  the  year  1792  till  the  commencement  of  his  illness, 
it  is  evident  that  few  days  could  have  passed  without  his  producing 
some  stanzas  for  the  work.  The  following  passage  from  his  cor- 
respondence, Avhich  was  also  most  extensive,  proves  that  his  songs 
were  not  hurriedly  got  up,  but  composed  with  the  utmost  care  and 
attention.  "  Until  I  am  complete  master  of  a  tune  in  my  own  singing, 
such  as  it  is,"  says  he,  "  I  can  never  compose  for  it.  My  way  is  this  : 
I  consider  the  poetic  sentiment  correspondent  to  my  idea  of  the  musical 
expression — then  choose  my  theme — compose  one  stanza.  When  that 
is  composed,  which  is  gene'rally  the  most  difficult  part  of  the  business, 
I  walk  out — sit  down  now  and  then — look  out  for  objects  in  nature 
round  me  that  are  in  unison  or  harmony  with  the  cogitations  of  ins- 
fancy  and  workings  of  my  bosom — humming  every  now  and  then  the 
air,  with  the  verses  I  have  framed.  When  I  feel  niy  muse  beginning 
to  jade,  I  retire  to  the  solitary  fireside  of  my  study,  and  there  commit 
my  effusions  to  paper  ;  swinging  at  intervals  on  the  hind  legs  of  my 
elbow-chair,  by  way  of  calling  forth  my  own  critical  strictures,  as  my 
pen  goes.  Seriously,  this,  at  home,  is  almost  invariably  my  way." 
This  is  not  only  interesting  for  th«  light  which  it  throws  upon  his 


10  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

method  of  composition,  but  it  proves  that  conviviality  had  not  as  yet 
greater  charms  for  him  than  the  muse. 

From  his  youth  Burns  had  exhibited  ominous  symptoms  of  a  radical 
disorder  in  his  constitution.  A  palpitation  of  the  heart  and  a  derange 
mcnt  of  the  digestive  organs  were  conspicuous.  These  were,  doubt- 
less, increased  by  his  indulgences,  which  became  more  frequent  as  ho 
div\v  towards  the  close  of  his  career.  In  the  autumn  of  170.3  he  lost 
an  only  daughter,  which  was  a  severe  blow  to  him.  Soon  afterwards 
he  was  seized  with  a  rheumatic  fever;  and  "long  the  die  spun 
doubtful,"  says  he,  in  a  letter  to  his  faithful  friend  Mrs.  Dun  lap, 
"  until,  after  many  weeks  of  a  sick  bed,  it  seems  to  have  turned  up 
life,  and  I  am  beginning  to  crawl  across  my  room."  The  cloud  behind 
which  his  sun  was  destined  to  be  eclipsed  at  noon  had  begun  to  darken 
above  him.  Before  he  had  completely  recovered,  he  had  the  im- 
prudence to  join  'a  festive  circle  ;  and,  on  his  return  from  it,  he 
caught  a  cold,  which  brought  back  his  trouble  upon  him  with  redoubled 
si  'verity.  Sea-bathing  was  had  recourse  to,  but  with  no  ultimate 
success.  He  lingered  until  the  21st  of  July,  1796,  when  he  expired. 
The  interest  which  the  death  of  Burns  excited  was  intense.  All 
differences  were  forgotten  ,  his  genius  only  was  thought  of.  On  tlr; 
2(ith  of  the  same  month  he  was  conveyed  to  the  grave,  followed  by 
about  ten  thousand  individuals  of  all  ranks,  many  of  whom  had  come 
from  distant  parts  of  the  country  to  witness  the  solemnity.  He  was 
interred  with  military  honors  by  the  Dumfries  volunteers,  to  which 
body  he  had  belonged.  , 

Thus,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven,  an  age  when  the  mental  powers 
of  man  have  scarcely  reached  their  climax,  died  Robert  Burns,  one  of 
the  greatest  poets  whom  his  country  has  produced.  It  is  unnecessary 
to  enter  into  any  lengthened  analysis  of  his  poetry  or  character.  His 
works  are  universally  known  and  admired,  and  criticism  has  b:-cu 
drawn  to  the  dregs  upon  the  subject ;  and  that,  too  by  the  greatest 
masters  who  have  appeared  since  his  death — no  mean  test  of  the  great, 
merits  of  his  writings.  He  excels  equally  in  touching  the  heart  by 
the  exquisiteness  of  his  pathos,  and  exciting  the  risible  faculties  by 
the  breadth  of  his  humor.  His  lyre  had  many  strings,  and  he  had 
equal  command  over  them  all,  striking  each,  and  frequently  in 
chords,  with  the  skill  an^l  power  of  a  master.  That  his  satire  some- 
times degenerates  into  coarse  invective  cannot  be  denied  ;  but  where 
personality  is  not  permilted  to  interfere,  his  poems  of  this  description 
may  take  their  place  beside  anything  of  the  kind  which  has  ever 
been  produced,  without  being  disgraced  by  the  comparison.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  re  echo  the  praises  of  his  best  pieces,  as  there  is  no 
ppitliet  of  admiration  which  lias  not  been  bestowed  upon  them. 
Those  who  had  best  opportunities  of  judging  are  of  opinion  that  his 
works,  stamped  as  they  are  with  the  impress  of  sovereign  genius, 
fall  short  of  the  powers  he  possessed  It  is  therefore  to  be  lamented 
that  he  undertook  no  great  work  of  fictioa  or  invention  Had  circum- 


LIFE   OF   BUIl^S.  ll 

stances  permitted,  lie  would  prob^jly  have  done  so  ;  but  his  excise 
duties,  and  without  doubt  his  own  follies,  prevented  him  His 
passions  were  strong,  and  his  capacity  of  enjoyment  corresponded 
with  them.  These  continually  precipitated  him  into  the  variety  of 
pleasure,  where  alone  they  could  be  gratified ;  and  the  reaction 
consequent  upon  such  indulgences  (for  lie  possessed  the  nnest  dis- 
crimination between  right  and  wrong)  threw  him  into  }ow  spirits,  to 
which  also  he  was  constitutionally  liable  His  mind,  being  thus 
never  for  any  length  of  time  in  an  equable  tone,  could  scarcely  pursue 
with  steady  regularity  a  work  of  any  length  His  Aioral  aberrations, 
as  detailed  by  some  of  his  biographers,  have  1-ieen  exaggerated,  as 
already  noticed.  This  has  been  proved  by  the  testimony  of  many 
witnesses  from  whose  authority  there  can  bo  Tio  appeal  ;  for  they  had 
the  best  opportunities  of  judging.  In  fine  It  may  be  doubted  whether 
ho  has  not,  by  his  writings,  exercised  a  greater  power  over  the  minds 
of  men  and  the  general  system  of  Iif3  than  has  been  exercised  by 
any  other  modern  poet.  A  complete  edition  of  his  works,  in  four 
volumes,  8vo.,  with  a  life,  was  puMished  by  Dr.  Currie,  of  Liverpool, 
for  the  benefit  of  his  family,  to  whom  it  realized  a  handsome  sum. 
Editions  have  been  sirx;e  multiplied  beyond  number  ;  and  several 
excellent  bi^gmpHiei*  of  eke  poet  have  been  published,  particular1^ 
that  by  Ivl t.  Lockuart. 


LIFE   OF   BURNS.* 


PART  SECOND. 


Tx  the  modern  arrangements  of  society,  it  is  no  uncommon  thinj; 
that  a  man  of  genius  must,  like  Butler,  "  ask  for  bread  and  receive  H 
ST., ne  ;  "  for,  in  spite  of  our  grand  maxim  of  supply  and  demand,  it 
is  by  no  means  the  highest  excellence  that  men  are  most  forward  to 
recognize  The  inventor  of  a  spinning-jenny  is  pretty  sure  of  his 
reward  in  his  own  day  ;  but  the  writer  of  a  true  poem,  like  the 
apostle  of  a  true  religion,  is  nearly  as  sure  of  the  contrary.  We  do 
not  know  whether  it  is  not  an  aggravation  of  the  injustice,  that  then- 
is  generally  a  posthumous  retribution.  Robert  Burns,  in  the  course 
of  nature,  might  yet  have  been  living  ;  but  his  short  life  was  spent 
jn  toil  and  penury  ;  and  he  died,  in  the  prime  of  his  manhood,  mis- 
erable and  neglected  ;  and  yet  already  a  brave  mausoleum  shines  over 
his  dust,  and  more  than  one  splendid  monument  has  been  reared  in 
other  places  to  his  fame  :  the  street  where  he  languished  in  poverty 
Is  called  by  his  name  ;  the  highest  personages  in  our  literature  have 
been  proud  to  appear  as  his  commentators  and  admirers,  and  here  is 
the  sixth  narrative  of  his  Life  that  has  been  given  to  the  world  ! 

Mr.  Lockhart  thinks  it  necessary  to  apologize  for  this  new  attempt  o 
(such  a  subject ;  but  his  readers,  we  believe,  will  readily  acquit  him 
or,  at  worst,  will  censure  only  the  performance  of  his  task,  notthechoiok 
of  it.  The  character  of  Burns,  indeed,  is  a  theme  that  cannot  easily 
become  either  trite  or  exhausted,  and  will  probably  gain  rather  than 
iose  in  its  dimensions  by  the  distance  to  which  it  is  removed  by  Time. 
No  man,  it  has  been  said,  is  a  hero  to  his  valet :  and  this  is  probably 
true  ;  but  the  fruit  is  at  least  as  likely  to  be  the  valet's  as  the  hero's  ; 
for  it  is  certain  that  to  the  vulgar  eye  few  things  are  wonderful  that 
an-  not  distant.  It  is  difficult  for  men  to  believe  that  the  man,  the 
mere  man  whom  they  see,  nay,  perhaps,  painfully  feel,  toiling  at 
tliejr  side  through  the  poor  jostlings  of  existence,  can  be  made  of 
finer  clay  than  themselves.  Suppose  that  some  dining  acquaintance 
of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's,  and  neighbor  of  John  a  Combe's,  had  snatched 
an  hour  or  two  from  the  preservation  of  his  game,  and  written  us 
a  Life  of  Shakesp  are!  What  dissertation  should  we  not  have  had 

*  Cwlyk's  review  of  "  Leckhart's  Life  of  Robert  Bums." 


OP  Btf&tfS.  IS 

i-not  on  Hamlet  and  JVi<?  Tempest,  but  on  the  wool-trade  and  deer- 
stealing,  and  the  libel  and  vagrant  laws  !  and  how  the  Poacher  be- 
came a  Player !  and  how  Sir  Thomas  and  Mr.  John  had  Christian 
bowels,  and  did  not  push  him  to  extremities  !  In  like  manner,  we 
believe,  with  respect  to  Burns,  that  till  the  companions  of  his  pil- 
grimage, the  honorable  Excise  Commissioners,  and  the  Gentlemen 
of  the  Caledonian  Hunt,  and  the  Dumfries  Aristocracy,  and  all  the 
Squires  and  Earls,  equ-.lly  with  the  Ayr  Writers,  and  the  New  and 
Old  Light  Clergy,  whom  he  had  to  do  with,  shall  have  become  invisi- 
ble in  the  darkness  of  the  Past,  or  visible  only  by  light  borrowed 
from  his  juxtaposition,  it  will  be  difficult  to  measure  him  by  any  true 
standard,  or  to  estimate  what  he  really  was  and  did,  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  for  his  country  and  the  world.  It  will  be  difficult, 
we  say,  but  still  a  fair  problem  for  literary  historians ;  arid  repeated 
attempts  will  give  us  repeated  approximations. 

His  former  biographers  have  done  something,  no  doubt,  but  by  no 
means  a  great  deal,  to  assist  us.  Dr.  Currie  and  Mr.  Walker,  the 
principal  of  these  writers,  have  both,  we  think,  mistaken  one  essen- 
tially important  thing :  their  own  and  the  world's  true  relation 
to  their  author,  and  the  style  in  which  it  became  such  men  to  think 
and  to  speak  of  such  a  man.  Dr.  Currie  loved  the  poet  truly  ;  more, 
perhaps,  than  he  avowed  to  his  readers,  or  even  to  himself ;  yet  he 
everywhere  introduces  him  with  a  certain  patronizing,  apologetic 
air,  as  if  the  polite  public  might  think  it  strange  and  half  unwarrant- 
able that  he,  a  man  of  science,  a  scholar,  and  gentleman,  should  do 
such  honor  to  a  rustic.  In  all  this,  however,  we  really  admit  that 
his  fault  was  not  want  of  love,  but  weakness  of  faith  ;  and  regret  that 
the  first  and  kindest  of  all  our  poet's  biographers  should  not  have 
seen  farther,  or  believed  more  boldly  what  he  saw.  Mr.  Walker 
offends <nore  deeply  in  the  same  kind  :  and  both  err  alike  in  present 
ing  us  with  a  detached  catalogue  of  his  several  supposed  attributes, 
virtues,  and  vices,  instead  of  a  delineation  of  the  resulting  character 
as  a  living  unity.  This,  however,  is  not  painting  a  portrait ;  but 
gauging  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  several  features,  and  jotting 
down  their  dimensions  in  arithmetical  ciphers.  Nay,  it  is  not  so 
much  as  this  :  for  we  are  yet  to  learn  by  wuat  ails  or  instruments  the 
mind  could  be  so  measured  and  gauged. 

Mr.  Lockhart,  we  are  happy  to  say,  has  avoided  both  these  errors. 
He  uniformly  treats  Burns  as  the  high  and  remarkable  man  the  pub- 
lic voice  has  now  pronounced  him  to  be :  and  in  delineating  him  lie 
has  avoided  the  method  of  separate  generalities,  and  rather  sought 
for  characteristic  incidents,  habits,  actions,  sayings;  in  a  word,  for 
aspects  which  exhibit  the  whole  man  as  he  looked  and  lived  among; 
his  fellows.  The  book  accordingly,  with  all  its  deficiencies,  give-n 
more  insig.it,  we  think,  into  the  true  character  of  Burns  than  any 
prior  biography;  though,  being  written  on  the  very  popular  and  con- 
lUmsed  scheme  of  an  article  for  Coturtable't  MlsceUwvy,  it  hag  k«3 


14  LIFE  OF  BUli.VS. 

depth  than  we  could  have  wished  and  expected  from  a  writer  of  suclt 
power,  and  contains  rather  more,  and  more  multifarious,  quotations 
than  belong  of  right  to  an  original  production.  Indeed,  Mr.  Lock- 
hart's  own  writing  is  generally  so  good,  so  cU.-ar,  direct,  and  nervous, 
that  we  seldom  wish  to  see  it  making  place  for  another  man's.  How- 
ever, the  spirit  of  the  work  is  throughout  candid,  tolerant,  and  anx- 
iously conciliating;  compliments  and  praises  are  liberally  distributed, 
on  all  hands,  to  great  and  small;  and,  a 3  Mr.  .Morris  Birkbeck  ol>- 
serves  of  the  society  in  the  backwoods  of  America,  "  the  courtesies  of 
polite  life  are  never  lost  sight  of  for  a  moment."  But  there  are  bet- 
ter things  than  these  in  the  volume ;  and  we  can  safely  testily,  not 
only  that  it  is  easily  and  pleasantly  read  a  first  time,  but  may  even 
be  without  difficulty  read  again. 

Nevertheless,  we  are  far  from  thinking  that  the  problem  of  Burns'? 
Biography  has  yet  been  adequately  solved  We  do  not  allude  so 
much  to  deficiency  of  facts  or  documents — though  of  these  we  are 
Ktill  every  day  receiving  some  fresh  accession — as  to  the  limited  and 
imperfect  application  of  them  to  the  great  end  of  Biography  Our 
notions  upon  this  subject  may  perhaps  appear  extravagant ;  but  if  an 
individual  is  really  of  consequence  enough  to  have  his  life  and 
character  recorded  for  public  remembrance,  wo  have  always  been  of 
opinion  that  the  public  ought  to  be  made  acquainted  with  all  the  inward 
springs  and  relations  of  his  character.  How  did  the  world  and  man's 
life,  from  his  particular  position,  represent  themselves  to  his  mind? 
How  did  coexisting  circumstances  modify  him  from  without?  how 
did  he  modify  these  from  within  ?  With  what  endeavors  and  what 
elliracy  rule  over  them?  with  what  resistance  and  what  suffering 
Kink  under  them?  In  one  word,  what  and  how  produced  was  the 
effect  of  society  on  him  ;  what  and  how  produced  was  his  effect  on 
society?  He  who  should  answer  these  questions,  in  regard  «to  any 
individual,  would,  as  we  believe,  furnish  a  model  of  perfection  iii 
biography.  Few  individuals,  indeed,  can  deserve  such  a  study  ;  and 
many  /ir>«  will  be  written,  and  for  the  gratification  of  innocent  curi- 
osity ought  to  be  written,  and  read,  and  forgotten,  which  are  not  in 
Ihis  sense  biographies.  But  Burns,  if  we  mistake  not,  is  one  of  thesn 
few  individuals  ;  and  such  a  study,  at  least  with  such  a  result,  he  has 
not  yet  obtained.  Our  own  contributions  to  it,  we  are  aware,  can  be 
but  scanty  and  feeble;  but  we  offer  them  with  goodwill,  and  trust 
that  they  may  meet  with  acceptance  from  those  for  whom  thev  aro 
intended. 

Burns  first  came  upon  the  world  as  a  prodigy  ;  and  was,  in  that 
character,  entertained  by  it  in  the  usual  fashion,  with  loud,  vague, 
tu mull  nous  wonder,  speedily  subsiding  into  censure  and  neglect  ;  till 
'nis  early  and  most  mournful  death  again  awakened  an  enthusiasm 
i'or  him,  which,  especially  as  there  was  now  nothing  to  be  done,  and 
much  to  bo  spoken,  has  prolonged  itself  even  to  our  own  time.  It  is 
true,  the  "nine  days"  have  long  since  elapsed  ;  and  the  very  con- 


LIFE  OF  BUKNS.  1ft 

tinuance  of  this  clamor  proves  that  Burns  was  no  vulgar  wondor. 
Accordingly,  even  in  sober  judgments,  where,  us  years  passed  by,  ho 
has  come  to  rest  more  and  more  exclusively  on  his  own  intrinsic 
merits,  and  may  now  be  well  nigh  shorn  of  that  casual  radiance,  ho 
appears  not  only  as  a  true  British  poet,  but  as  one  of  the  most 
considerable  British  msn  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Let  it  not 
be  objected  that  he  did  little  ,  he  did  much,  if  we  consider  where  and 
how.  If  the  work  performed  was  small,  we  must  remember  that  he 
had  his  very  materials  to  discover  ;  for  the  metal  he  worked  in  lay 
hid  under  the  desert,  where  no  eye  but  his  had  guessed  its  existence  ; 
and  we  may  almost  say,  that  with  his  own  hand  he  had  to  construct 
the  tools  for  fashioning  it.  For  he  found  himself  in  deepest  obscu 
rity,  without  help,  without  instruction,  without  model,  or  with 
models  only  of  the  meanest  sort.  An  educated  man  stands,  as,  it 
were,  in  the  midst  of  a  boundless  arsenal  and  magazine,  filled  with 
all  the  weapons  and  engines  which  man's  skill  has  been  able  to  de 
vise  from  the  earliest  time  ;  and  he  works,  accordingly,  with  a 
strength  borrowed  from  all  past  ages.  How  different  is  hits  state  who 
stands  on  the  outside  of  that  storehouse,  and  feels  that  its  gates  must 
be  stormed,  or  remain  forever  shut  against  him  ?  His  means  are  the 
commonest  and  rudest ;  the  mere  work  done  is  no  measure  of  his 
strength.  A  dwarf  behind  his  steam  engine  may  remove  mountains  ; 
but  no  dwarf  will  hew  them  down  with  the  pick-axe  ;  and  he  must 
be  a  Titan  that  hurls  them  abroad  with  his  arms. 
.  It  is  in  this  last  shape  that  Burns  presents  himself.  Born  in  an 
age  the  most  prosaic  Britain  had  yet  seen,  and  in  a  condition  tho 
most  advantageous,  where  his  mind,  if  it  accomplished  aught,  must 
accomplish  it  under  the  pressure  of  continual  bodily  toil,  nay,  of  pen- 
ury and  desponding  apprehension  of  the  Avorst  evils,  and  Avith  no 
furtheranse  but  such  knowledge  as  dwells  in  a  poor  man's  hut,  and 
the  rhymes  of  a  Ferguson  or  liamsay  for  his  standard  of  beauty,  ho 
sinks  not  under  all  these  impediments.  Through  the  fogs  and  dark- 
ness of  that  obscure  region,  his  eagle  eye  discerns  the  true  relations 
of  the  .world  and  human  life;  he  grows  into  intellectual  strength, 
and  trains  himself  into  intellectual  expertness.  Impelled  by  tho 
irrepressible  movement  of  his  inward  spirit,  ho  struggles  forward 
into  the  general  view,  and  with  haughty  modesty  lays'  down  before  us, 
as  the  fruit  of  his  labor,  a  gift,  which  Time  has  now  pronounced  im- 
perishable. Add  to  all  this,  that  his  darksome,  drudging  childhood 
and  youth  was  by  far  the  kindliest  era  of  his  Avhole  life,  and  that  he 
died  in  his  thirty-seventh  year ;  and  then  ask  if  it  be  strange  that 
his  poems  are  imperfect,  and  of  small  extent,  or  that  his  genius  at- 
tained no  mastery  in  its  art?  Alas,  his  sun  shone  as  through  a  tropi- 
cal tornado  ;  and  the  pale  shadow  of  death  eclipsed  it  at  noon  ! 
Shrouded  in  such  baleful  vapors,  the  genius  of  Burns  was  neA'er  Been 
jn  clear  azure  splendor,  enlightening  the  world  But  some  bourn » 
from  it  did,  by  fits,  pierce  through ;  and  it  tinted  those  clouds  Avith 


19  LIFE  OP  BURNS. 

rainbow  and  orient  colors  into  a  glory  and  stern  grandeur,  which  men 
silently  gazed  on  with  wonder  and  tears. 

\\  V  are  anxious  not  to  exaggerate  ;  for  it  is  exposition  rather  than 
admiration  that  our  readers  require  of  us  here  ;  and  yet  to  avoid  somt 
tendency  to  that  side  is  no  easy  matter.  We  love  Burns,  and  we 
pity  him;  and  love  and  pity  are  prone  to  magnify.  Criticism,  it  is 
sometimes  thought,  should  be  a  cold  business  ;  we  are  not  so  sure  ol. 
this  ;  but,  at  all  events,  our  concern  with  Burns  is  not  exclusively 
that  of  critics.  True  and  genial  as  his  poetry  must  appear,  it  is  not 
chit-fly  as  a  poet,  but  as  a  man,  that  he  interests  and  affects  us.  He 
was  often  advised  to  write  a  tragedy  :  time  and  means  were  not  lent 
him  for  this  ;  but  through  life  he  enacted  a  tragedy,  and  one  of  the 
deepest.  We  question  whether  the  world  has  since  witnessed  so 
u; teily  sad  a  scene;  whether  Napoleon  himself,  left  to  brawl  with 
Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  ant  perish  on  his  rock,  "  amid  the  melancholy 
main,"  presented  to  the  reflecting  mind  such  a  "  spectacle  of  pity  and 
fear"  as  di  I  this  intrinsically  nobler,  gentler,  and  perhaps  greater 
soul,  wasting  itself  away  in  a  hopeless  struggle  with  base  entangle- 
ments, which  coiled  closer  and  closer  round  him,  till  only  death 
opened  him  an  outlet.  Conquerors  are  a  race  with  whom  the  world 
could  well  dispense ;  nor  can  the  hard  intellect,  the  uusympathizing 
loftiness,  and  high  but  selfish  enthusiasm  of  such  persons  inspire  us 
in  general  with  any  affection  ;  at  best  it  may  excite  amazement  ;  and 
their  fall,  like  that  of  a  pyramid,  will  be  beheld  with  a  certain  sad- 
ness and  awe.  But  a  true  Poet,  a  man  in  whose  heart  resides  some 
cilluence  of  \Visdom,  some  tone  of  the  "  Eternal  Melodies,"  is  the 
most  precious  gift  that  can  be  bestowed  on  a  generation  :  we  see  in 
him  a  freer,  purer  development  of  whatever  is  noblest  in  ourse.ves; 
his  life  is  a  rich  lesson  to  us,  and  we  mourn  his  death,  as  that  of  a 
benefactor  who  loved  and  taught  us. 

Such  a  gift  had  Nature  in  her  bounty  bestowed  on  us  in  Robert 
Burns  ;  but  with  queen-like  indifference  she  cast  it  from  her  hand,  like 
a  thing  of  no  moment,  and  it  was  defaced  and  torn  asunder,  as  an  idle 
bauble,  before  we  recognized  it.  To  the  ill-starred  Burns  was  given 
the  power  of  making  man's  life  more  venerable,  but  that  of  wisely 
guiding  his  own  was  not  given.  Destiny — for  so  in  our  ignorance 
we  must  speak— his  faults,  the  faults  of  others,  proved  too  hard  for 
llini  :  :|II<1  ''"it  spirit,  which  might  have  soared  could  it  but  have 
walked,  soon  sank  to  the  dust,  its  glorious  facult.es  trodden  under 
foot  in  the  blossom,  and  died,  we  may  almost  say,  without  ever  hav- 
ing lived.  And  so  kind  and  warm  a  soul !  so  full  of  inborn  riches, 
of  love  to  all  living  and  lifeless  things  !  How  his  heart  flows  out  in 
sympathy  over  universal  Nature,  and  in  her  bleakest  provinces  dis- 
cerns a  beauty  and  a  meaning!  The  "Daisy "falls  not  unheeded 
Under  hi*  ploughshare  ;  nor  the  ruined  nest  of  that  "  wee,  cowering, 
timonm.s  beastie,"  cast  forth,  after  all  its  provident  pains,  to  "thole 
Uto  sleet?  dribble  and  cranreuch  cauld."  The  "hoar  visage"  of 


LIFE  OF  BURNS.  •*? 

Winter  delights  him  :  he  dwells  with  a  sad  and  oft-returning  fond- 
ness in  these  scenes  of  solemn  desolation  ;  but  tlu?  voice  of  the  tem- 
pest becomes  an  anthem  to  his  ears  ;  he  loves  to  walk  in  the  sounding 
woods,  for  "it  raises  his  thoughts  to  Him  that  walketh  on  t/ic  triiif/s 
ef  the  wind."  A  true  Poet-soul,  for  it  needs  but  to  be  struck,  and  the 
sound  it  yields  will  be  music  !  But  observe  him  chiefly  as  he  min- 
gles with  his  brother  men.  What  warm,  all-comprehending  fellow. 
feeling,  what  trustful,  boundless  love,  what  generous  exaggeration 
of  the  object  loved  !  His  rustic  friend,  his  nut-brown  maiden,  are 
no  longer  mean  and  homely,  but  a  hero  and  a  queen,  whom  he  pri/.es 
as  the  paragons  of  Earth.  The  rough  scenes  of  Scottish  life,  not 
seen  by  him  in  any  Arcadian  illusion,  but  in  the  rude  contradiction, 
in  the  smoke  and  soil  of  a  too  harsh  reality,  are  still  lovely  to  him  ; 
Poverty  is  indeed  his  companion,  but  Love  also,  and  Courage  ;  the 
simple  feelings,  the  worth,  the  nobleness,  that  dwell  under  the  straw 
ro<  >t  are  dear  and  venerable  to  his  heart ;  and  thus  over  the  lowest 
provinces  of  man's  existence  he  pours  the  glory  of  his  own  soul ;  and 
they  rise,  in  shadow  and  sunshine,  softened  and  brightened  into  a 
beauty  which  other  eyes  discern  not  in  the  highest.  He  has  a  just 
self-consciousness,  which  too  often  degenerates  into  pride  ;  yet  it  is  a 
noble  pride,  for  defence,  not  for  offence — no  cold,  suspicious  feeling, 
but  a  frank  and  social  one.  The  peasant  Poet  bears  himself,  we  might 
say,  like  a  King  in  exile ;  he  is  cast  among  the  low,  and  feels  himself 
e<|ual  to  the  highest ;  yet  he  claims  no  rank,  that  none  may  be  dis- 
puted to  him.  The  forward  he  can  repel,  the  supercilious  he  can 
subdue ,  pretensions  of  wealth  or  ancestry  are  of  no  avail  with  him  ; 
there  is  a  fire  in  that  dark  eye  under  which  the  "  insolence  of  conde- 
scension" cannot  thrive.  In  his  abasement,  in  his  extreme  need,  he 
forgets  not  for  a  moment  the  majesty  of  Poetry  and  Manhood.  A  nd 
yet,  far  as  he  feels  himself  above  common  men,  he  wanders  not  apart 
from  them,  but  mixes  warmly  in  their  interests  ;  nay,  throws  himself 
into  their  arms,  and,  as  it  were,  entreats  them  to  love  him.  It  is 
moving  to  see  how,  in  his  darkest  despondency,  this  proud  being  still 
seeks  relief  from  friendship  ;  unbosoms  himself,  often  to  the  unwor- 
thy ;  and,  amid  tears,  strains  to  his  glowing  heart  a  heart  that  knosvs 
only  the  name  of  friendship.  And  yet  he  was  "  quick  to  learn  ;  "  a 
man  of  keen  vision,  before  whom  common  disguises  afforded  no  con- 
cealment. His  understanding  saw  through  the  hollowness  even  of 
accomplished  deceivers  ;  but  there  was  a  generous  credulity  in  his 
Heart.  And  so  did  our  Peasant  show  himself  among  us;  "a  soul 
like  an  .<Eolian  harp,  in  whose  strings  the  vulgar  wind,  as  it  passed 
through  them,  changed  itself  into  articulate  melody."  And  this  was 
he  for  whom  the  world  found  no  fitter  business  than  quarrelling  with 
smugglers  and  vintners,  computing  excise  dues  upon  tallow,  and 
gauging  ale-barrels  !  In  such  toils  was  that  mighty  Spirit  sorrow- 
fully wasted  ;  and  a  hundred  years  may  pass  on  before  another  sucli 
is  given  us  to  waste. 


18  Ul'T,   OF    Bl'UNS. 

All  that  remains  of  Burns,  the  Writings  ho  has  left,  seem  to  us,  a* 
•we  hinted  above,  no  more  than  a  poor  mutilated  fraction  of  what  was 
in  him  ;  brief,  broken  glimpses  of  a  genius  that  could  never  show 
itself  complete,  that  wanted  all  tilings  for  completeness— culture,  lei- 
sure, true  effort,  nay,  even  length  of  life.  His  poems  are,  with 
scarcely  any  exception,  mere  occasional  effusions,  poured  forth  with 
little  premeditation,  expressing,  by  such  means  as  offered,  the  pas- 
sion, opinion,  or  humor  of  the  hour.  Never  in  one  instance  was  it 
permitted  him  to  grapple  with  any  subject  with  the  full  collection  of 
his  strength,  to  fuse  and  mould  it  in  the  concentrated  lire  of  his 
genius.  To  try  by  the  strict  rules  of  Art  such  imperfect  fragments 
would  be  at  once  unprofitable  and  unfair.  Nevertheless,  tlie.ro  is 
something  in  these  poems,  marred  and  defective  as  they  are,  which 
forbids  the  most  fastidious  student  of  poetry  to  pass  tin  m  by.  Some 
sort  of  enduring  quality  they  must  have  ;  for,  after  fifty  years  of  the 
wildest  vicissitudes  in  poetic  taste,  they  still  continue  to  be  read  ; 
nay,  are  read  more  and  more  eagerly,  more  and  more  extensively  ; 
and  this  not  only  by  literary  virtuosos,  and  that  class  upon  whom 
transitory  causes  operate  most  strongly,  but  by  all  classes,  down 
to  the  most  hard,  unlettered,  and  truly  natural  class,  who  read  little, 
and  especially  no  poetry,  except  because  they  find  pleasure  in  it. 
The  grounds  of  so  singular  and  wide  a  popularity — which  extends, 
in  a  literal  sense,  from  the  palace  to  the  hut,  and  over  all  regions 
where  the  English  tongue  is  spoken — are  well  worth  inquiring  into. 
After  every  just  deduction,  it  seems  to  imply  some  rare  excellence  in 
these  works.  What  is  that  excellen;  e  ? 

To  answer  this  question  will  not  lead  us  far.  The  excellence  of 
Burns  is,  indeed,  among  the  rarest,  whether  in  poetry  or  prose  ;  but, 
at  the  same  time,  it  is  plain  and  easily  recognized:  his  *sV//rv;v7//,  his 
indisputable  air  of  Truth.  Here  are  no  fabulous  woes  or  joys  ;  no 
hollow  fantastic  sentimentalities  ;  no  wire-drawn  refinings,  either  in 
thought  or  feeling  :  the  passion  that  is  traced  before  us  has  glowed  in 
a  living  heart ;  the  opinion  he  utters  has  risen  in  his  own  understand^ 
inir,  and  been  a  light  to  his  own  steps.  He  does  not  write  from  hear- 
say, but  from  sight  and  experience  ;  it  is  the  scenes  he  has  lived  and 
labored  amidst  that  he  describes:  those  scenes,  rude  and  humble  as 
they  are,  have  kindled  beautiful  emotions  in  his  soul,  noble  thoughts, 
and  definite  resolves  ;  and  he  speaks  forth  what  is  in  him,  not  from 
any  outward  call  of  vanity  or  interest,  but  because  his  heart  is  too  full 
to  be  silent.  He  speaks  it,  too,  with  such  melody  and  modulation  as 
he  can  ;  "in  homely  rustic  jingle  ;"  but  it  is  his  own,  and  genuine. 
This  is  the  grand  secret  for  finding  readers  and  retaining  them  :  let 
him  who  would  move  and  convince  others  be  first  moved  and  con- 
Tinced  himself.  Horace's  rule,  tit  vis  me  flere,  is  applicable  in  a  wider 
sense  than  the  literal  one.  To  every  poet,  to  every  writer,  we  might 
say  :  Be  true  if  you  would  be  believed.  Let  a  man  but  speak  forth 
with  genuinw  earnestness  the  thought,  the  emotion,  the  actual  condi- 


LIFE  OF  BURNS.  If 

tion  of  his  own  heart,  and  other  men,  so  strangely  are  we  all  knit 
together  by  the  tie  of  sympathy,  mnst  and  will  give  heed  to  him.  la 
culture,  in  extent  of  view,  we  may  stand  above  the  speaker,  or  below 
him  ;  but  in  either  case  his  words,  if  they  are  earnest  and  sincere, 
will  find  some  response  within  us  ;  for  in  spite  of  all  casual  varieties 
in  outward  rank,  or  inward,  as  face  answers  to  face,  so  does  the  heart 
of  man  to  man. 

This  may  appear  a  very  simple  principle,  and  one  which  Burns  had 
little  merit  in  discovering.  True,  the  discovery  is  easy  enough  ;  but 
the  practical  appliance  is  not  easy — is,  indeed,  the  fundamental  diffi- 
culty which  all  poets  have  to  strive  with,  and  which  scarcely  one  in 
the  'hundred  ever  fairly  surmounts.  A  head  too  dull  to  discriminate 
the  true  from  the  fake,  a  heart  too  dull  to  love  the  one  at  all  risks, 
and  to  hate  the  other  in  spite  of  all  temptations,  are  alike  fatal  to  a 
writer.  With  either,  or,  as  more  commonly  happens,  with  Iwth  of 
these  deficiencies,  combine  a  love  of  distinction,  a  wish  to  be  original, 
which  is  seldom  wanting,  and  we  have  Affectation,  the  bane  o!'  litera- 
ture, as  Cant,  its  elder  brother,  is  of  morals.  How  often  does  the  one 
and  the  other  front  us,  in  poetry,  as  in  life  !  Great  poets  themselves 
arc  not  always  free  of  this  vice  ;  nay,  it  is  precisely  on  a  certain  sort 
and  degree  of  greatness  that  it  is  most,  commonly  ingrafted.  A  strong 
effort  after  excellence  will  sometimes  solace  itself  with  a  mere  shadow 
of  success,  and  he  who  has  much  to  unfold  will  sometimes  unfold  it 
imperfectly.  Byron,  for  instance,  was  no  common  man;  yet  if  we 
examine  his  poetry  with  this  view,  we  shall  find  it  far  enough  from 
faultless.  Generally  speaking,  we  should  say  that  it  is  not  true.  He 
refreshes  us,  not  with  the  divine  fountain,  but  too  often  with  vulgar 
strong  waters — stimulating,  indeed,  to  the  taste,  but  soon  ending  in 
dislike  or  even  nausea.  Are  his  Harolds  and  Giaours,  we  would  ask, 
real  men — we  mean  poetically  consistent  and  conceivable  men?  Do 
not  these  characters,  does  not  the  character  of  their  author,  which 
more  or  less  shines  through  them  all,  rather  appear  a  thing  put  on 
for  liie  occasion — no  natural  or  possible  mode  of  being,  but  something 
intended  to  look  much  grander  than  nature?  Surely,  all  these  storm- 
ful  agonies,  this  volcanic  heroism,  superhuman  contempt,  and  moody 
desperation,  with  so  much  scowling,  and  teeth-gnashing,  and  other 
pulphurous  humors,  is  more  like  the  brawling  of  a  player  in  some 
paltry  tragedy,  which  is  to  last  three  hours,  than  the  bearing  of  a 
man  in  the  business  of  life,  which  is  to  last  threescore  and  ten  years. 
To  our  minds,  there  is  a  taint  of  this  sort — something  which  we 
nhould  call  theatrical,  false  and  affected — in  every  one  of  these  other- 
wise powerful  pieces.  Perhaps  Don  Jn<m,  especially  the  latter  parts 
of  it,  is  the  only  thing  approaching  to  a  sincere  work  he  ever  wrote  ; 
the  only  work  where  he  showed  himself,  in  any  measure,  as  he  was, 
and  seemed  so  intent  on  his  subject  as,  for  moments,  to  forget  him- 
self. Yet  Byron  hated  this  vice — we  believe,  heartily  detested  it ; 
Haj,  he  had  declared,  formal  war  against  it  in  words.  So  difficult  is 


jgO  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

Jt  even  for  the  strongest  to  make  this  primary  attainment,  which 
might  seem  the  simplest  of  all:  to  read  its  mm  consciousness  triilioul 
mistakes,  without  errors  involuntary  or  wilful  !  We  recollect  no 
poet  of  Burns's  susceptibility  who  conies  before  us  from  the  first,  and 
abides  with  us  to  the  last,  with  such  a  total  want  of  affectation.  He 
is  an  honest  man,  and  an  honest  writer.  In  his  successes  and  his 
failures,  in  his  greatness  and  his  littleness,  he  is  ever  clear,  simple, 
true,  and  glitters  with  no  lustre  but  his  own.  We  reckon  this  to  be 
a  great  virtue  ;  to  be,  in  fact,  the  root  of  most  other  virtues,  literary 
as  well  as  moral. 

It  is  necessary,  however,  to  mention  that  it  is  to  the  poetry  of 
Burns  that  we  now  allude  ;  to  those  writings  which  he  had  time  to 
meditate,  and  where  no  special  reason  existed  to  warp  his  critical 
feeling  or  obstruct  his  endeavor  to  fulfil  it.  Certain  of  his  Letters, 
and  other  fractions  of  prose  composition,  by  no  means  deserve  this 
praise.  Here,  doubtless,  there  is  not  the  same  natural  truth  of  style, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  something  not  only  stiff,  but  strained  and 
twisted — a  certain  high-flown,  inflated  tone,  the  stilting  emphasis  of 
which  contrasts  ill  with  the  firmness  and  rugged  simplicity  of  even 
his  poorest  verses.  Thus  no  man,  it  would  appear,  is  altogether  un- 
affected. Does  not  Shakspeare  himself  sometimes  premeditate  the 
sheerest  bombast?  But  even  with  regard  to  these  Letters  of  Burns, 
it  is  but  fair  to  state  that  he  had  two  excuses.  The  first  was  his 
comparative  deficiency  in  language.  Burns,  though  for  the  mo 4  part 
he  writes  with  singular  force,  and  even  gracefulness,  is  not  master  of 
English  prose,  as  he  is  of  Scottish  verse  ;  not  master  of  it,  we  mean, 
in  proportion  to  the  depth  and  vehemence  of  his  matter.  These 
Letters  strike  us  as  the  effort  of  a  man  to  express  something  which 
lie  has  no  organ  fit  for  expressing.  But  a  second  and  weightier  ex- 
cuse is  to  be  found  in  the  peculiarity  of  Burns's  social  rank.  Mis 
correspondents  are  often  men  whose  relation  to  him  he  lias  never 
accurately  ascertained  ;  whom,  therefore,  he  is  either  forearming 
himself  against,  or  else  unconsciously  flattering,  by  adopting  the  style 
he  thinks  will  please  them.  At  all  events,  we  should  remember  that 
these  faults,  even  in  his  Letters,  are  not  the  rule,  but  the  exception. 
Whenever  he  writes,  as  one  would  ever  wish  to  do,  to  trusted  friends 
and  on  real  interests,  his  style  becomes  simple,  vigorous,  expressive, 
sometimes  even  b  -autiful.  His  Letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  are  uniformly 
excellent. 

But  we  return  to  his  poetry.  In  addition  to  its  sincerity,  it  has 
another  peculiar  merit,  which  indeed  is  but  a  mode,  or  perhaps  a 
means,  of  the  foregoing.  It  displays  itself  in  his  choice  of  subjects, 
or  rather  in  his  indifference  as  to  subjects,  and  the  power  he  has  of 
making  all  subjects  interesting.  The  ordinary  poet,  like  the  ordinary 
man,  is  forever  seeking,  in  external  circumstances,  the  help  which 
ran  l»e  found  only  in  himself.  In  what  is  familiar  and  near  at  hand, 
]i«  discerns  no  form  or  comeliness  ;  home  is  not  poetical,  but 


LIFE  OF  BUKNS.  «. 

}t  is  in  some  past,  distant,  conventional  world,  that  poetry  resides  for 
him  ;  were  he  there  and  not  here,  were  he  thus  and  hot  so,  it  would 
be  well  with  him.  Hence  our  innumerable  host  of  ros^T-colored 
novels  and  iron-mailed  epics,  with  their  locality  not  on  the  Earth,  but 
somewhere  nearer  to  the  Moon.  Hence  our  Virgins  of  the  Sun,  and 
our  Knights  of  the  Cross,  malicious  Saracens  in  turbans,  and  copper- 
colored  Chiefs  in  wampum,  and  so  many  other  truculent  figures 
from  the  heroic  times  or  the  heroic  climates,  who  on  all  hands  swarm 
in  our  poetry.  Peace  be  with  them  !  But  yet,  as  a  great  moralist 
proposed  preaching  to  the  men  of  this  century,  so  would  \ve  fain 
preach  to  the  poets,  "a  sermon  on  the  duty  of  staying  at  home." 
Let  them  be  sui'e  that  heroic  ages  and  heroic  climates  can  do  little  for 
them.  That  form  of  life  has  attraction  for  us,  less  because  it  is  better 
or  nobler  than  our  own,  than  simply  because  it  is  different  ;  and  even 
this  attraction  must  be  of  the  most  transient  sort.  For  will  not  our  own 
age,  one  day,  be  an  ancient  one  ;  and  have  as  quaint  a  costume  as  the 
ivM . ;  not  contrasted  with  the  rest,  therefore,  but  ranked  along  with 
them,  in  respect  of  qnaintnessY  Does  Homer  interest  us  now,  because 
he  wrote  of  what  passed  out  of  his  native  (ireece,  and  two  centuries 
before  he  was  born  ;  or  because  he  wrote  of  what  passed  in  God's 
world,  and  in  the  heart  of  man,  which  is  the  same  after  thirty  centur- 
ies Y  Let  our  poets  look  to  this  ;  is  their  feeling  really  finer,  truer, 
and  their  vision  deeper  than  that  of  other  men?  they  have  nothing  to 
fear,  even  from  the  humblest  object ;  is  it  not  soY — they  have  nothing 
to  hope,  but  an  ephemeral  favor,  even  from  the  highest. 

The  poet,  we  cannot  but  think,  can  never  have  far  to  seek  for  a 
subject  ;  the  elements  of  his  art  are  in  him  anil  around  him  on  every 
hand  ;  for  him  the  Ideal  world  is  not  remote  from  the  Actual,  but 
tinder  it  and  within  it  ;  nay,  he  is  a  poet  precisely  because  he  can  dis- 
cern it  there.  Wherever  there  is  a  sky  above  him,  and  a  world 
around  him,  the  poet  is  in  his  place  ;  for  here  too  is  man's  existence, 
with  its  infinite  longings  and  small  acquirings  ;  its  ever-thwarted, 
ever-renewed  endeavors;  its  unspeakable  aspirations,  its  fears  and 
hopes  that  wander  through  Eternity  ;  and  all  the  mystery  of  bright- 
ness and  of  gloom  that  it  was  ever  made  of,  in  any  age  or  climate, 
since  man  first  began  to  live.  Is  there  not  the  fifth  act  of  a  Tragedy 
in  every  death-bed,  though  it  were  a  peasant's  and  a  bed  of  death  ? 
And  are  wooings  and  weddings  obsolete,  that  there  can  be  Comedy  no 
longer  ?  Or  are  men  suddenly  grown  wise,  that  Laughter  must  no 
longer  shake  his  sides,  but  be  cheated  of  his  Farce.  Y  Man's  life  and 
nature  is  as  it  was,  and  as  it  will  ever  be.  Bnt  the  poet  must  have 
an  eye  to  read  these  things,  and  a  heart  to  understand  them,  or  they 
come  and  pass  away  before  him  in  vain.  He  is  a  vates,  a  seer  ;  a  gift 
of  vision  has  been  given  him.  Has  life  no  meanings  for  him  which 
another  cannot  equally  decipher?  then  he  is  no  poet,  and  Delphi  itself 
will  7iot  make  him  one. 

In  this  respect  Burns,  though  not  perhaps  absoiutely  a,  gsreat 


32  LIFE   OF   BURNS. 

tetter  manifests  his  capability,  better  proves  the  truth  of  his  genius, 
than  if  he  had,  by  his  own  strength,  kept  the  whole  Minerva  Press 
going  to  the  end  of  his  literary  course.  He  shows  himself  at  least  a 
poet  of  Nature's  own  making  ;  and  Nature,  after  all,  is  still  the  grand 
agent  in  making  poets.  We  often  hear  of  this  and  the  other  external 
condition  being  requisite  for  the  existence  of  a  poet.  Sometimes  it  is 
&  certain  sort  of  training;  he. must  have  studied  certain  things- 
studied,  for  instance,  "the  elder  dramatists" — and  so  learned  a  poetic 
language  ;  as  if  poetry  lay  in  the  tongue,  not  in  the  heart.  At  other 
times  we  are  told  he  must  be  bred  in  a  certain  rank,  and  must  be  on  a 
confidential  footing  with  the  higher  classes  ;  because,  above  all  other 
things,  he  must  see  the  world.  As  to  seeing  the  world,  we  apprehend 
this  will  cause  him  little  difficulty,  if  he  have  but  an  eye  to  see  it 
with.  "Without  eyes,  indeed,  the  task  might  be  hard.  But,  happily 
every  poet  is  born  w  the  world,  and  sees  it,  with  or  against  his  will, 
every  day  and  every  hour  he  lives.  The  mysterious  workmanship  of 
man's  heart,  the  true  light  and  the  inscrutable  darkness  of  man's 
destiny,  reveal  themselves  not  only  in  capital  cities  and  crowded 
saloons,  but  in  every  hut  and  hamlet  where  men  have  their  abode. 
Nay,  do  not  the  elements  of  all  human  virtues  and  all  human  vices— 
the  passions  at  once  of  a  Borgia  and.  of  a  Luther — lie  written,  in 
stronger  or  fainter  lines,  in  the  consciousness  of  every  individual  bosom 
that  has  practised  honest  self-examination?  Truly,  this  same  world 
may  be  seen  in  Mossgiel  and  Tarbolton,  if  we  look  well,  as  clearly  as 
it  ever  came  to  light  in  Crockford's,  or  the  Tuileries  itself. 

But  sometimes  still  harder  requisitions  are  laid  on  the  poor  aspirant 
to  poetry  ;  for  it  is  hinted  that  he  should  have  been  Imrn  t\vo  centu- 
ries ago,  inasmuch  as  poetry  soon  after  that  date  vanished  from  the 
earth,  and  became  no  longer  attainable  by  men  !  Such  cobweb  spec.. 
ulations  have,  now  and  then,  overhung  the  field  of  literature  ;  but 
they  obstruct  not  the  growth  of  any  plant  there  :  the  Shakspeare  or  the 
Burns,  unconsciously,  and  merely  as  he  walks  onward,  silently  brushes 
them  away.  Is  not  every  genius  an  impossibility  till  lie  appear? 
Why  do  we  call  him  new  and  original,  if  ire  saw  where  his  marble 
was  lying,  and  what  fabric  he  could  rear  from  if?  It  is  not  the  ma- 
terial, but  the  workman,  that  is  wanting.  It  is  not  the  dark  j>/u<-* 
that  hinders,  but  the  dim  eye,.  A  Scottish  peasant's  life  was  the 
meanest  and  rudest  of  all  lives  till  Burns  became  a  poet  in  it,  and  a 
poet  of  it — found  it  a  man' ft  life,  and  therefore  siirnificant  to  men.  A 
thousand  battle-fields  remain  unsung,  but  the  W<nn<rl«l  If'trr  has  not 
perished  without  its  memorial  ;  a  balm  of  mercy  yet  breathes  on  us 
from  its  dumb  agonies,  because  a  poet  was  there.  Our  T[(ill<>ir<'Ci> 
had  passed  and  repassed,  in  rude  awe  and  laughter,  since  the  era  of 
the  Druids  ;  but  no  Theocritus,  till  Burns,  discerned  in  it  the  mate- 
rials* of  a  Scottish  idyl  :  neither  was  the  Holy  Fair  any  Council  of 
Ti-mit  or  lioman  Jubilee  ;  but,  nevertheless,  Superstition  and  Hypoo- 
ri«y  and  Fun  having  been  propitious  to  him,  in  this  man's  hand  it 


LIFE  OF  BURNS.  2g 

became  a  poem,  instinct  with  satire  and  genuine  comic  life.  Let  bnt 
the  true  poet  be  given  us,  we  repeat  it,  place  him  where  and  how  you 
will,  and  true  poetry  will  not  be  wanting. 

Independently  of  the  essential  gift  of  poetic  feeling,  as  we  have 
now  attempted  to  describe  it,  a  certain  rugged  sterling  worth  per- 
vades whatever  Burns  has  written — a  virtue,  as  of  green  fields  and 
mountain  breezes,  dwells  in  his  poetry  ;  it  is  redelent  of  natural  life 
and  hardy,  natural  men.  There  is  a  decisive  strength  in  him,  and 
yet  a  sweet  native  gracef ulness  ;  he  is  tender,  and  he  is  vehement, 
yet  without  constraint  or  too  visible  effort ;  he  melts  the  heart,  or  in- 
flames it,  with  a  power  which  seems  habitual  and  familiar  to  him. 
We  see  in  him  the  gentleness,  the  trembling  pity  of  a  woman,  with 
11  ic  deep  earnestness,  the  force  and  passionate  ardor  of  a  hero.  Tears 
lie  in  him,  and  consuming  fire,  as  lightning  lurks  in  the  drops  of  the 
summer  cloud.  He  has  a  resonance  in  his  bosom  for  every  note  of 
human  feeling  :  the  high  and  the  low,  the  sad,  the  ludicrous,  the 
joyful,  are  welcome  in  their  turns  to  his  "lightly  moved  and  all-con- 
ceiving spirit."  And  observe  with  what  a  prompt  and  eager  force  he 
grasps  his  subject,  be  it  what  it  may  !  How  he  fixes,  as  it  were,  the 
full  image  of  the  matter  in  his  eye — full  and  clear  in  every  lineament 
— and  catches  the  real  type  and  essence  of  it,  amid  a  thousand  acci- 
dents and  superficial  circumstances,  no  one  of  which  misleads  him  ! 
Is  it  of  reason — some  truth  to  be  discovered  ?  No  sophistry,  no  vain 
surface-logic  detains  him ;  quick,  resolute,  unerring,  he  pierces 
through  into  the  marrow  of  the  question,  and  speaks  his  verdict  with 
an  emphasis  that  cannot  be  forgotten.  Is  it  of  description — some 
visual  object  to  be  represented  ?  No  poet  of  any  age  or  nation  is  more 
graphic  than  Burns  :  the  characteristic  features  disclose  themselves 
to  him  at  a  glance;  three  linos  from  his  hand,  and  we  have  alike- 
ness.  And,  in  that  rough  dialect,  in  that  rude,  often  awkward,  me- 
tre, so  clear  and  definite  a  likeness  !  It  seems  a  draughtsman  working 
with  a  burnt  stick ;  and  yet  the  burin  of  a  Retzsch  is  not  more  ex- 
pressive or  exact. 

This  clearness  of  sight  we  may  call  the  foundation  of  all  talent ; 
for  in  fact,  unless  we  see,  our  object,  how  shall  we  know  how  to  place 
or  prize  it,  in  our  understanding,  our  imagination,  our  affections? 
Yet  it  is  not  in  itself,  perhaps,  a  very  high  excellence,  but  capable  of 
being  united  indifferently  with  the  strongest  or  with  ordinary  powers. 
Homer  surpasses  all  men  in  this  quality  ;  but,  strangely  enough,  at 
no  great  distance  below  him  are  Richardson  and  Defoe.  It  belongs, 
in  truth,  to  what  is  called  a  lively  mind,  and  gives  no  sure  indication 
of  the  higher  endowments  that  may  exist  along  with  it.  In  all  the 
three  cases  we  have  mentioned,  it  is  combined  with  great  garrulity  ; 
their  descriptions  are  detailed,  ample,  and  lovingly  exact ;  Homer's 
fire  bursts  through,  from  time  to  time,  as  if  by  accident ;  bat  Defo« 
and  Richardson  have  no  fire.  Burns,  again,  is  not  more  distinguished 
by  the  clearness  than  by  the  impetuous  force  of  his  conceptions.  Of 


*t  LIFE  OP  BURNS. 

the  strength,  the  piercing  emphasis  with  which  he  thought,  his  em- 
phasis of  expression  may  give  an  humble  but  the  readiest  proof. 
Who  ever  uttered  sharper  sayings  than  his — words  more  memorable, 
now  by  their  burning  vehemence,  now  by  their  cool  vigor  and  laconic, 
pith?  A  single  phrase  depicts  a  whole  subject,  a  whole  scene.  Our 
Scottish  forefathers  in  the  battle-reH  struggled  forward,  he  says, 
"  n  (t->cat  shod;"  giving,  in  this  one  v,  <ml,  a  full  vision  of  horror  and 
carnage,  perhaps  too  frightfully  accurate  for  Art  ! 

In  fact,  one  of  the  leading  features  in  the  mind  of  Burns  is  this 
rigor  of  his  strictly  intellectual  perceptions.  A  resolute  force  is  ever 
visible  in  his  judgments,  as  in  his  feelings  and  volitions.  Professor 
Stewart  says  of  him,  with  some  surprise:  "All  the  faculties  of 
Burns's  mind  were,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  equally  vigorous  ;  and  his 
predilection  for  poetry  was  rather  the  result  of  his  own  enthusiastic 
and  impassioned  temper,  than  of  a  genius  exclusively  adapted  to 
that  species  of  composition.  From  his  conversation  I  should  have; 
pronounced  him  to  be  fitted  to  excel  in  whatever  walk  of  ambition 
he  had  chosen  to  exert  his  abilities."  But  this,  if  we  mistake  not, 
is  at  all  times  the  very  essence  of  a  truly  poetical  endowment. 
Poetry,  except  in  such  cases  as  that  of  Keats,  where  the  whole 
consists  in  extreme  sensibility  and  a  certain  vague  "pervading  tune- 
fulness of  nature,  is  no  separate  faculty,  no  organ  which  can  be 
superadded  to  the  rest  or  disjoined  from  them  ;  but  rather  the 
result  of  their  general  harmony  and  completion.  The  feelings,  the 
gifts,  that  exist  in  the  Poet,  are  those  that  exist,  with  more  or  less 
development,  in  every  human  soul :  the  imagination  which  shudders 
at  the  Hell  of  Dante  is  the  same  faculty,  weaker  in  degree,  which 
called  that  picture  into  being.  How  does  the  poet  speak  to  all  men 
with  power  but  by  being  still  more  a  man  than  they?  Shakspeare, 
it  has  been  well  observed,  in  the  planning  and  completing  of  ins 
tragedies,  has  shown  an  Understanding,  were  it  nothing  more,  which 
might  have  governed  states  or  indited  a  Novum  Oryanum.  What 
Burns's  force  of  understanding  may  have  been,  we  have  less  means 
of  judgment :  for  it  dwelt  among  the  humblest  objects,  never  saw 
philosophy,  and  never  rose,  except  for  short  intervals,  into  the  region 
of  great  ideas.  Nevertheless,  sufficient  indication  remains  tor  us  in 
his  works  :  we  discern  the  brawny  movement  of  a  gigantic  though 
untutored  strength,  and  can  understand  how,  in  conversation,  his 
quick,  sure  insight  into  men  and  things  may,  as  much  as  aught  else 
about  him,  have  amazed  the  best  thinkers  of  his  time  and  country. 
,  But,  unless  we  mistake,  the  intellectual  gift  of  Burns  is  fine  as 
well  as  strong.  The  more  delicate  relation  of  things  could  not  well 
have  escaped  his  eye,  for  they  were  intimately  present  to  his  heart. 
The  logic  of  the  senate  and  the  forum  is  indispensable,  but  not  all 
•utficient ;  nay,  perhaps  the  highest  Truth  is  that  which  will  the 
most  certainly  elude  it.  or  this  logic  works  by  words,  and  "the 
highest,"  it  has  be«o  said,  "cannot  be  expressed  iu  words."  W»  are 


LIFE   OF   BURNS.  25 

ifcot  without  tokens  of  an  openness  for  this  higher  truth  also,  of  a 
keen  though  uncultivated  sense  for  it,  having  existed  in  Burns.  Mr. 
Stewart,  it  will  be  remembered,  "  wonders,"  in  the  passage  above 
quoted,  that  Burns  had  formed  some  distinct  conception  of  the  "  doc- 
trine of  association."  We  rather  think  that  far  subtiler  things  than 
the  doctrine  of  association  had  from  of  old  been  familiar  to  him. 
Here,  for  instance  : 

"We  know  nothing,"  thus  writes  he,  "or  next  to  nothing,  of  the 
structure  of  our  souls,  so  we  cannot  account  for  those  seeming  ca- 
prices in  them,  that  one  should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this 
thing,  or  struck  with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a  different  cast,  makes 
no  extraordinary  impression.  I  have  some  favorite  flowers  in  spring, 
among  which  are  the  mountain-daisy,  the  hare-bell,  the  fox-glove, 
the  wild-brier  rose,  the  budding  birch,  and  the  hoary  hawthorn,  that 
I  view  and  Inuig  over  with  particular  delight.  - 1  never  hear  the  loud 
solitary  whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing 
cadence  of  a  troop  of  gray  plover  in.  an  autumnal  morning,  without 
feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  o-r 
poetry.  Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  this  be  owing  ?  Are 
we  a  piece  of  machinery,  which,  like  the  ^Eolian  harp,  passive,  takes 
the  impression  of  the  passing  accident,  or  do  these  workings  argue 
something  within  us  above  the  trodden  clod  ?  I  own  myself  partial 
to  such  proofs  of  those  awful  and  important  realities :  a  God  that 
made  all  things,  man's  immaterial  and  immortal  nature,  and  a  world 
of  weal  or  woe  beyond  death  and  the  grave." 

Force  and  fineness  of  understanding  are  often  spoken  of  as  some- 
thing different  from  general  force  and  finejiess  of  nature,  as  some- 
thing partly  independent  of  them.  The"  necessities  of  language 
'probably  require  this;  but  ill  truth  these  qualities  are  not  distinct 
and  independent  :  except  in  special  cases,  and  from  special  causes, 
they  ever  go  together.  A  man  of  strong  understanding  is  generally 
a  man  of  strong  character  ;  neither  is  delicacy  in  the  one  kind  often 
divided  from  delicacy  in  the  other.  No  one,  at  all  events,  is  ignorant 
that  in  the  poetry  o"  Burns,  keenness  of  insight  keeps  pace  with 
keenness  of  feeling  ;  that  his  ligld  is  not  more  pervading  than  his 
warmth.  He  is  a  man  of  the  most  impassioned  temper  ;  with  passions 
not  strong  only,  but  noble,  and  of  the  sort  in  which  great  virtues  and 
great  poems  take  their  rise.  It  is  reverence,  it  is  Love  towards  all 
Nature  that  inspires  him,  that  opens  his  eyes  to  its  beauty,  and 
makes  heart  and  voice  eloquent  in  its  praise.  There  is  a  true  old 
saying  that  "  love  furthers  knowledge  : "  but,  above  all,  it  is  the  living 
essence  of  that  knowledge  which  makes  poets ;  the  first  principle  of 
its  existence,  increase,  activity.  "Of  Burns's  fervid  affection,  his  gcu- 
crous,  all-embracing  Love,  we  have  spoken  already,  as  of  the  grand 
distinction  of  his  nature,  seen  equally  in  word  and  deed,  in  his  Life 
and  in  his  Writings.  It  were  easy  to  multiply  examples.  Not  man 
only,  but  all  that  environs  man  in  the  material  and  moral  universe, 
A.B.— 4 


»6  LIFE   OF   BURNS. 

is  lovely  in  his  sight;  "the  hoary  hawthorn,"  the  "troop  of  gray 
plover,"  the  "solitary  curlew,"  are  all  dear  to  him — all  live  in  '.his 
Earth  along  with  him,  and  to  all  he  is  knit  as  in  mysterious  brother- 
hood. How  touching  is  it,  for  instance,  that,  amidst  the  gloom  of 
personal  misery,  brooding  over  the  wintry  desolation  without  him 
and  within  him,  he  thinks  of  the  "ourie  cattle"  and  "  silly  sheep," 
and  their  sufferings  in  the  pitiless  storm  ! 

"  I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O'  wintry  war  ; 
Or  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing,  sprattle, 

Beneath  a  scaur. 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  month  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  emg. 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Where  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  clattering  wing, 

And  close  thy  ee  ?" 

The  tenant  of  the  mean  hut,  with  its  "  ragged  roof  and  clunky  wall," 
has  a  heart  to  pity  even  these  !  This  is  worth  several  homilies  on 
Mercy  ;  for  it  is  the  voice  of  Mercy  herself.  Burns,  indeed,  lives  in 
sympathy^  his  soul  rushes  forth  into  all  realms  of  being ;  nothing 
that  has  existence  can  be  indifferent  to  him.  The  very  devil  he  cau- 
not  hate  with  right  orthodoxy  ! 

"  But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ; 

O  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men'  I 

Ye  aiblins  might— I  dinna  ken- 
Still  hae  a  stake ; 

I'm  wae  to  think  npo'  yon  den, 
Eveu  for  your  sake  !" 

He  did  no.,  know,  probably,  that  Sterne  had  been  beforehand  witl* 
him.  "  '  He  is  the  father  of  curses  and  lies,'  said  Dr.  Slop  ;  '  and  is 
cursed  and  damned  already.' — '  I  am  sorry  for  it,'  quoth  my  uncle 
Toby  !" — "  A  p^e;  without  Love  were  a  physical  and  metap'hysical 
impossibility.'" 

Why  should  we  speak  of  Scots,  wha  Juie  tci'  Wallace  bled;  since  all 
know  it,  from  the  king  to  the  meanest  of.his  subjects  ?  This  dithynmi- 
bic  was  composed  on  hor-eback  ;  in  riding  in  the  middle  of  tempests, 
over  the  wildest  Galloway  moor,  in  company  with  a  Mr.  Syme,  who, 
observing  the  poet's  looks,  forebore  to  speak— judiciously  enough— 
for  a  man  composing  Bruce'*  Address  might  be  unsafe  to  trifle  with. 
Doubtless  this  stern  hymn  was  singing  itself,  as  he  formed  it,  through 
the  soul  of  Burns  ;  but  to  the  external  ear,  it  should  be  sung  with  fho 
throat  of  the  whirlwind.  So  long  as  there  is  warm  blood  in  the  heart 
of  a  Scotchman  or  man,  it  will  move  in  fierce  thrills  under  this  war 
ode,  the  best,  we  believe,  that  was  ever  written  by  any  pen. 

Another  wild,  storm ful  song,  that  dwells  in  our  ear  and  mind  witi 


LIFE   OF   BURNS.  27 

a  strange  tenacity,  is  Mtrphtrson's  Farewell.  Perhaps  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  tradition  itself  that  co-operates.  For  was  not  this  grim 
Gelt,  this  shaggy  Northland  Cacus,  that  "  lived  a  life  of  sturt  and 
strife,  and  died  by  treacherie,"  was  not  he  too  one  of  the  Nimrods  and 
Napoleons  of  the  earth,  in  the  arena  of  his  own  remote,  misty  glens,  for 
want  of  a  clearer  and  wider  one?  Nay,  was  there  not  a  touch  of 
grace  given  him  ?  A  fibre  of  love  and  softness,  of  poetry  itself,  must 
have  lived  in  his  savage  heart  ;  for  he  composed  that  air  the  night 
before  his  execution  ;  on  the  wings  of  that  poor  melody,  his  better 
soul  would  soar  away  above  oblivion,  pain,  and  all  the  ignominy  and 
despair,  which,  like  an  avulanche,  was  hurling  him  to  the  abyss  ! 
Here,  also,  as  at  Thebes  and  the  Pelops'  line,  was  material  Fate 
matched  against  man's  Freewill  ;  matched  in  bitterest  though  obscure 
duel ;  and  the  ethereal  soul  sunk  not,  even  in  its  bliudness,  without 
»  cry  which  has  survived  it.  But  who,  except  Burns,  could  have 
given  words  to  such  a  soul — words  that  we  never  listen  to  without  a 
strange  half-barbarous,  half-poetic  fellow-feeling  ? 

Sae  rantlnffl'/,  $ae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntinyly  gaed  he; 
IJe  play'd  a  spring,  and  danced  it  round, 

Below  the  gallows  tree. 

Under  a  lighter  and  thinner  disguise,  the  same  principle  of  Love, 
which  we  have  recognized  as  the  great  characteristic  of  Burns,  and  of 
all  true  poets,  occasionally  manifests  itself  in  the  shape  of  Humor  i 
Everywhere,  indeed,  in  his  sunny  moods,  a  full  buoyant  flood  of  mirth 
rolls  through  the  mind  of  Burns  ;  he  rises  to  the  high,  and  stoops  to  the 
low,  and  is  brother  and  playmate  to  all  Nature.  We  speak  not  of  his 
bold  and  often  irresistible  faculty  of  caricature  ;  for  this  is  Drollery 
rather  than  Humor  :  but  a  much  tenderer  sportfulness  dwells  in  him  ; 
and  c'oiues  forth,  here  and  there,  in  evanescent  and  beautiful  touches  ; 
as  in  his  A<I<l/-ixx  t»  tin'  .\[<>itx<\  or  the  /•'"'•//•</•'*  .][<>/'!,  or  in  his  Wiy// 
on  Pnnr  MniU.c,  which  last  may  be  reckoned  his  li-ipp  est  effort  of 
this  kind.  In  these  pieces  there  are  traits  of  a  Humor  as  fine  as  that 
of  Sterne  ;  yet  altogether  different,  original,  peculiar — the  Humor  of 
Burns. 

Of  the  tenderness,   the  playful  pathos,   and  many  other  kindred 

Sualities  of  Burns' s  poetry,  much  more  might  be  said  ;  but  now,  with 
lese  poor  outlines  of  a  sketch,  we  must  prepare  to  quit  this  part  of 
our  subject.  To  speak  of  his  individual  writings  adequately  and 
with  any  detail,  would  lead  us  far  beyond  our  limits.  As  already 
hinted,  we  can  look  on  but  few  nf  these  pieces  as,  in  strict  critical 
language,  deserving  the  name  of  foerns  ;  they  are  rhymed  eloquence, 
rhymed  pathos,  rhymed  sense  ;  yet  seldom  essentially  melodious, 
aerial,  poetical.  Tarn  O'SIianter  itself,  which  enjoys  so  high  a  favor, 
does  not  appear  to  us,  at  all  decisively,  to  come  under  this  last  cate- 
gory. It  is  not  so  much  a,  poem  as  a  piece  of  sparkling  rhetoric  ;  tk« 


98  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

heart  and  body  of  the  story  still  lies  hard  and  dead.  He  has  noi 
gone  back,  much  less  carried  us  back,  into  that  dark,  earnest, 
wondering  age,  when  the  tradition  was  believed,  and  when  it  took 
its  rise  ;  he  does  not  attempt,  by  any  new  modelling  of  his  su- 
pernatural ware,  to  strike  anew  that  deep  mysterious  chord  of 
human  nature,  which  once  responded  to  such  things  ;  and  which. 
lives  in  us  too,  and  will  forever  live,  though  silent,  or  vibrat- 
ing with  far  other  notes,  and  to  far  different  issues.  Our  Ger- 
man readers  will  understand  us  when  we  say  that  he  is  not  the  Tieck 
but  the  Musaus  af  this  tale.  Externally  it  is  all  green  and  living  ; 
yet  look  closer,  it  is  no  firm  growth,  but  only  ivy  on  a  rock.  The 
piece  does  not  probably  cohere  ;  the  strange  chasm  which  yawns  in 
our  incredulous  imaginations  between  the  Ayr  public-house  and  the 
gate  of  Tophet,  is  nowhere  bridged  over,  nay,  the  idea  of  such  a 
bridge  is  laughed  at ;  and  thus  the  Tragedy  of  the  adventure  becomes 
a  mere  drunken  phantasmagoria,  painted  on  ale- vapors,  and  the  farce 
alone  has  any  reality.  We  do  not  say  that  Burns  should  have  made 
much  more  of  this  tradition  ;  we  rather  think  that,  for  strictly  poeti- 
cal purposes,  not  much  was  to  be  made  of  it.  Neither  are  we  blind 
to  the  deep,  varied,  genial  power  displayed  in  what  he  has  actually 
accomplished  :  but  we  find  far  more  "  Shakspearian "  qualities,  as 
these  of  Tom  O'Shanter  have  been  fondly  named,  in  many  of  his 
other  pieces  ;  nay,  we  incline  to  believe  that  this  latter  might  have 
been  written,,  all  but  quite  as  well,  by  a  man  who,  in  place  of  genius, 
had  only  possessed  talent. 

Perhaps  we  may  venture  to  say,  that  the  most  strictly  poetical  of 
all  his  "  poems"  is  one,  which  does  not  appear  in  Currie's  Edition, 
but  has  been  often  printed  before  and  since,  under  the  humble  title 
of  The  Jolly  Beggars.  The  subject  truly  is  among  the  lowest  in  na- 
ture ;  but  it  only  the  more  shows  our  poet's  gift  in  raising  it  into  the 
domain  of  Art.  To  our  minds,  this  piece  seems  thoroughly  com- 
pacted, melted  together,  refined,  and  poured  forth  in  one  flood  ot 
true  liquid  harmony.  It  is  light,  airy,  and  soft  of  movement ;  yet 
sharp  and  precise  in  its  details  ;  every  fac  is  a  portrait :  that  ranch 
carlin,  that  wee  Apotto,  that  Son  of  Mars,  are  Scottish,  yet  ideal  ;  the 
scenp  is  at  once  a  dream,  and  the  very  Rag-castle  of  "  Poosie-Nan- 
Farther,  it  seems  in  a  considerable  degree  complete,  a  real  self- 
supporting  Whole,  which  is  the  highest  merit  in  a  poem.  The 
blanket  of  the  night  is  drawn  asunder  for  a  moment ;  in  fall,  ruddy, 
and  flaming  light,  these  rough  tatterdemalions  are  seen  in  their  boist- 
erous revel  ;  for  the  strong  pulse  of  Life  vindicates  its  right  to  glad- 
ness even  here  ;  and  when  the  curtain  closes,  we  prolong  the  action 
without  effort  ;  the  next  day,  as  the  last,  our  Caird  and  our  BnU,i,l- 
moiiycr  are  singing  and  soldiering  ;  their  "brats  and  callets  "  ara 
hawking,  begging,  cheating  ;  and  some  other  night,  in  new  combina- 
tions, they  will  ring  from  Fate  another  hour  of  wassail  and  good 
Cheer.  It  would  be  strange,  doubtless,  to  call  this  the  best  of  Bunis'9 


LIFE  OF  iJURNS.  2$ 

writings  ;  we  mean  to  say  only,  that  it  seems  to  us  the  most  perfect 
of  its  kind,  as  a  piece  of  poetical  composition,  strictly  so-called.  In 
the  Beggar's  Opera,  in -the  Beggar's  Bush,  as  other  critics  have  al- 
ready remarked,  there  is  nothing  which,  in  real  poetic  vigor,  equals 
this  Cantata  ;  nothing,  as  we  think,  which  comes  within  many  de- 
grees of  it. 

But  by  far  the  most  finished,  complete,  and  truly  inspired  pieces  of 
Burns  are,  without  dispute,  to  be  found  among  his  Songs.  It  is  hero 
that,  although  through  a  small  aperture,  his  light  shines  with  the 
least  obstruction,  in  its  highest  beauty,  and  pure  sunny  clearness. 
The  reason  may  be,  that  Song  is  a  briei'  and  simple  species  of  com- 
position :  and  requires  nothing  so  much  for  its  perfection  as  genuine 
poetic  feeling,  genuine  music  of  heart.  The  Song  has  its  rules 
equally  with  the  Tragedy  ;  rules  which  in  mo  4  cases  are  poorly  ful- 
filled, in  many  cases  are  not  so  much  as  felt.  We  might  write  a  long 
essay  on  the  Songs  of  Burns  ;  which  we  reckon  by  far  the  best  that 
Britain  has  yet  produced  ;  for,  indeed,  since  the  era  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, we  know  not  that,  by  any  other  hand,  aught  truly  worth  atten- 
tion has  been  accomplished  in  this  department.  True,  we  have  songs 
enough  "  by  persons  of  quality  ;"  we  have  tawdry,  hollow,  wine-bred, 
madrigals  ;  many  a  rhymed  "  speech  "  in  the  flowing  and  watery  vein 
of  Ossorius  the  Portugal  Bishop,  rich  in  sonorous  words,  and,  for 
moral,  dashed  perhaps  with  some  tint  of  a  sentimental  sensuality  ;  all 
which  many  persons  cease  not  from  endeavoring  to  sing  :  though  for 
most  part,  we  fear,  the  music  is  but  from  the  throat  outward,  or  at 
best  from  some  region  far  enough  short  of  the  Soul ;  not  in  which, 
but  in  a  certain  inane  Limbo  of  the  Fancy,  or  even  in  some  vaporous 
debatable  land  on  the  outside  of  the  Nervous  System,  most  of  such 
madrigals  and  rhymed  speeches  seem  to  have  originated.  With  tha 
Songs  of  Burns  we  must  not  name  these  things.  Independently  of 
the  clear,  manly,  heartfelt  sentiment  that  ever  pervades  his  poetry, 
his  songs  are  honest  in  another  point  of  view  :  in  form  as  well  as  in 
spirit.  They  do  not  affect  to  be  set  to  music  ;  but  they  actually  and 
in  themselves  are  music  ;  they  have  received  their  life,  and  fashioned 
themselves  together,  in  the  medium  of  Harmony,  as  Venus  rose  from 
the  bosom  of  the  sea.  The  story,  the  feeling,  is  not  detailed,  but 
suggested  ;  not  said,  or  spouted,  in  rhetorical  completeness  and  co- 
herence ;  but  suny,  in  fitful  gushes,  in  glowing  hints,  in  fantastic 
breaks,  in  vxt/rbUngs  not  of  the  voice  only,  but  of  the  whole  mind. 
We  consider  this  to  be  the  essence  of  a  song  :  and  that  no  songs  since 
the  little  careless  catches,  and,  as  it  were,  drops  of  song,  which 
Shakspeare  has  here  and  there  sprinkled  over  his  plays,  fulfil  this 
condition  in  nearly  the  same  degree  as  most  of  Burns' s  do.  Such 
grace  and  truth  of  external  movement,  too,  presupposes  in  general  a 
corresponding  force  of  truth  and  sentiment,  and  inward  meaning. 
The  Songs  of  Burns  are  not  more  perfect  in  the  former  quality  thaa 
VI  the  latter.  With  what  tenderness  he  singa,  yet  with  what  vehe- 


30  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

mence  and  entireness  !  There  is  a  piercing  wail  in  his  sorrow,  the 
purest  rapture  in  his  joy  :  he  burns  with  the  sternest  ire,  or  laughJ 
with  the  loudest  or  slyest  mirth  ;  and  yet  he  is  sweet  and  soft,  "sweet 
as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers  meet,  and  soft  as  their  parting  tear  !" 
If  we  farther  take  into  account  the  immense  variety  of  his  subjects  ; 
how,  from  the  loud  flowing  revel  in  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  Maut,  to 
the  still,  rapt  enthusiasm  of  sadness  for  Mary  in  Heaven;  from  th« 
glad  kind  greeting  of  Auld  Lanysyne,  or  the  comic  archness  of  Dun- 
can Gray,  to  the  fire-eyed  fury  of  Scots,  wJia  lute  icf  Wallace  bled,  he 
has  found  atone  and  words  for  every  mood  of  man's  heart — it  will 
seem  a  small  praise  if  we  rank  him  as  the  first  of  all  our  song- writers  ; 
for  we  know  not  where  to  find  one  worthy  of  being  second  to  him. 

It  is  on  his  Songs,  as  we  believe,  that  Burns's  chief  influence  as  an 
author  will  ultimately  be  found  to  depend :  nor,  if  our  Fletcher' t) 
aphorism  is  true,  shall  we  account  this  a  small  influence.  "  Let  mo 
make  the  songs  of  a  people,"  said  he,  "  and  you  shall  make  its  laws." 
Surely,  if  ever  any  Poet  might  have  equalled  himself  'with  Legisla- 
tors, on  this  ground,  it  was  Burns.  His  songs  are  already  part  of  tho 
mother  tongue,  not  of  Scotland  only,  but  of  Britain,  and  of  the  mil- 
lions that  in  all  the  ends  of  the  earth  speak  a  British  language.  In 
hut  and  hall,  as  the  heart  unfolds  itself  in  the  joy  and  woe  -of  exist- 
ence, the  name,  the  voice  of  that  joy  and  that  woe,  is  the  name  and 
voice  which  Burns  has  given  them.  Strictly  speaking,  perhaps,  no 
British  man  has  so  deeply  affected  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  so 
many  men  as  this  solitary  and  altogether  private  individual,  with 
means  apparently  the  humblest. 

In  another  point  of  view,  moreover,  we  incline  to  think  that  Burns's 
influence  may  have  been  considerable  :  we  mean,  as  exerted  specially 
on  the  Literature  of  his  country,  at  least  on  the  Literature  of  Scot- 
land. Among  the  great  changes  which  British,  particularly  Scottish 
literature,  has  undergone  since  that  period,  one  of  the  greatest  will 
be  found  to  consist  in  its  remarkable  increase  of.  nationality.  Even 
the  English  writers,  most  popular  in  Burns's  time,  were  little  distin- 
guished for  their  1'terary  patriotism,  in  this  its  best  sense.  A  certain 
attenuated  cosmopolitanism  had,  in  good  measure,  taken  place  of  th« 
old  insular  home-feeling  ;  literature  was,  as  it  were,  without  any  local 
environment — was  not  nourished  by  the  affections  which  spring  from 
a  native  soil.  Our  Grays  and  Glovers  seemed  to  write  almost  as  if  in 
vacua;  the  thing  written  bears  no  mark  of  place  ;  it  is  not  written  so 
much  for  Englishmen  as  for  men  ;  or  rather,  which  is  the  inevitable 
result  of  this,  for  certain  Generalizations  which  philosophy  termed 
men.  Goldsmith  is  an  exception  ;  not  so  Johnson  ;  the  scene  of  his 
Rambler  is  little  more  English  than  that  of  his  Rassdas.  But  if  such 
was,  in  some  degree,  the  case  with  England,  it  was,  in  the  highest 
degree,  the  case  with  Scotland.  In  fact,  our  Scottish  literature  had, 
at  that  period,  a  very  singular  aspect  ;  unexampled,  so  far  as  we 
Ju*ow,  except  perhaps  at  Geneva,  where  the  same  state  of  inatt»»  »p- 


LIFE  OP  BURNS.  & 

pears  still  to  continue.  For  a  long  period  after  Scotland  became 
British,  we  had  no  literature  ;  at  the  date  when  Addison  and  Steel* 
were  writing  their  Spectators,  our  good  Thomas  Boston  was  writing^ 
with  the  noblest  intent,  but  alike  in  defiance  of  grammar  and  phil- 
osophy, his  Fourfold  /State  of  Man.  Then  came  the  schisms  in  our 
National  Church,  and  the  fiercer  schisms  in  our  Body  Politic  :  Theo- 
logic  ink  and  Jacobite  blood,  with  gall  enough  in  both  cases,  seemed 
to  have  blotted  out  the  intellect  of  the  country  ;  however,  it  was  only 
obscured,  not  obliterated.  Lord  Kauies  made  nearly  the  first  attempt, 
and  a  tolerably  clumsy  one,  at  writing  English  ;  and,  ere  long,  Hume, 
Robe/tson,  Smith,  and  »  whole  host  of  followers,  attracted  hither  the 
eyes  of  all  Europe.  And  yet  in  this  brilliant  resuscitation  of  our 
'•'  fervid  genius,"  there  was  nothing  truly  Scottish,  nothing  indige- 
nous ;  except,  perhaps,  the  natural  impetuosity  of  intellect,  which  we 
sometimes  claim,  and  are  sometimes  upbraided  with,  as  a  character- 
istic of  our  nation.  It  is  curious  to  remark  that  Scotland,  so  full  of 
writers,  had  no  Scottish  culture,  nor  indeed  any  English  ;  our  culture 
was  almost  exclusively  French.  It  was  by  studying  Racine  and  VoL 
»aire,  Batteux  and  Boileau,  that  Kames  had  trained  himself  to  be  a 
critic  and  philosopher  :  it  was  the  light  of  Montesquieu  and  Mably 
that  guided  Robertson  in  his  political  speculations  ;  Quesnay's"  lamp 
that  kindled  the  lamp  of  Adam  Smith.  Hume  was  too  rich  a  man  to 
borrow  ;  and  perhaps  he  reacted  on  the  French  more  than  he  was 
acted  on  by  them  :  but  neither  had  he  aught  to  do  with  Scotland  ; 
Edinburgh,  equally  with  La  Fleche,  was  but  the  lodging  and  labora- 
tory, in  which  he  not  so  much  morally  lived,  as  metaphysically  in- 
vestigated. Never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  class  of  writers,  so  clear  and 
well-ordered,  yet  so  totally  destitute,  to  all  appearance,  of  any  patri 
otic  affection  nay,  of  any  human  affection  whatever.  The  French 
wits  of  the  period  were  as  unpatriotic  ;  but  their  general  deficiency  in 
moral  principle,,  not  to  say  their  avowed  sensuality  and  unbelief  in  all 
virtue,  strictly  so  called,  render  this  accountable  enough.  We  hope 
there  is  a  patriotism  founded  on  something  better  than  prejudice  ; 
that  our  country  may  bo  dear  to  us,  without  injury  to  our  philosophy  ; 
that  iii  loving  and  justly  prizing  all  other  lands,  we  may  prize  jtfstly, 
and  yet  love  before  all  others,  our  own  stern  Motherland,  and  the 
venerable  structure  of  social  and  moral  Life,  which  Mind  has  through 
long  ages  been  building  up  for  us  there  Surely  there  is  nourish 
ment  for  the  better  part  of  man's  heart  in  all  this  :  surely  the  roots, 
that  have  fixed  themselves  in  the  very  core  of  man's  being,  may  be  so 
cultivated  as  to  grow  up  not  into  briers,  but  into  roses,  in  the  field  of 
his  life  !  Our  Scottish  sages  have  no  such  propensities  :  the  field  of 
their  life  shows  neither  briers  nor  roses  ;  but  only  a  flat,  continuous 
thrashing-floor  for  Logic,  whereon  all  questions,  from  the  "  Doctrine 
of  Rent  "  to  the  "  Natural  History  of  Religion,"  are  thrashed  and 
sifted  with  the  same  mechanj  al  impartiality  ! 

With  Sir  Walter  Scott  at   the  head  of  ou*  literature,  it  cannot  b« 


83  LIFE  OF  BURSS. 

denied  that  mucli  of  tliis  evil  is  past,  or  rapidly  passing  away  :  o«* 
chief  literary  men,  whatever  other  fivults  they  may  have,  no  longer 
Jive  among  us  like  a  French  Colony,  or  some  knot  of  Propaganda  Mis- 
tHoaaries  ;  but  like  natural-born  subjects  of  the  soil,  partaking  ant 
;,r:npathiziiig  in  all  our  attachments,  humors,  and  habits.  Our  liter- 
ature no  longer  grows  in  water,  but  in  mould,  and  with  the  true  racy 
virtues  of  the  soil  and  climate.  How  much  of  this  change  may  be 
due  to  Burns,  or  to  any  other  individual,  it  might  be  difficult  to  esti- 
mate. Direct  literary  imitation  of  Burns  was  not  to  be  looked  for. 
But  his  example,  in  the  fearless  adoption  of  domestic  subjects,  could 
not  but  operate  from  afar  ;  and  certainly  in  no  heart  did  the  loye  of 
country  ever  burn  with  a  warmer  glow  than  in  that  of  Burns  :  "a 
tide  of  Scottish  prejudice,"  as  he  modestly  calls  this  deep  and  gener- 
ous feeling,  "had  been  poured 'along  his  veins;  and  he  felt  that  it 
would  boil  there  till  the  flood-gates  shut  in  eternal  rest."  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  he  could  do  so  little  for  his  country,  and  yet  would  so 
gladly  have  done  all.  One  small  province  stood  open  for  him  ;  that 
of  Scottish  song,  and  how  eagerly  he  entered  on  it ;  how  devotedly 
he  labored  there  !  In  his  most  toilsome  journeyings,  this  object  never 
quits  him  ;  it  is  the  little  happy- valley  of  his  careworn  heart.  In  the 
gloom  of  his  own  affliction,  he  eagerly  searches  after  some  lonely 
brother  of  the  muse,  aud  rejoices  to  snatch  on«  other  name  from  the 
oblivion  that  was  covering  it  !  These  were  early  feelings,  and  they 
abode  with  him  to  the  end. 

a  wish,  (I  mind  its  power), 

A  wish,  that  to  my  latest  hour 
Will  strongly  heave  my  breast ; 
That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  could  make, 
Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 
The  rough  bur  Thistle  spreading  wide 

Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turn'd  my  weeding-clips  aside, 

And  spared  the  symbol  dear. 

But  to  leave  the  mere  literary  character  of  Burns,  which  has  al- 
ready* detained  us  too  long,  we  cannot  but  think  that  the  Life  he 
willed,  and  was  fated  to  lead  among  his  fellow-men,  is  both  more  in- 
teresting and  instructive  than  any  of  his  written  works.  Thea 
Poonis  are  but  like  little  rhymed  fragments  scattered  here  and  there  in 
the  grand  unrhymed  Romance  of  his  earthly  existence  ;  and  it  is  only 
when  intercalated  in  this  at  their  proper  places,  that  they  attain  their 
full  measure  of  significance.  And  this  too,  alas,  was  but  a  fragment  I 
The  plan  of  a  mighty  edifice  had  been  sketched ;  some  columns, 
norticoes,  firm  masses  of  building,  stand  completed  ;  the  rest  more  or 
less  clearly  indicated ;  with  many  a  far-stretching  tendency,  which 
only  studious  and  friendly  eyes  can  now  trace  towards  the  purposed 
termination.  For  the  work  is  broken  off  in  the  middle,  almost  in  the 
beginning  :  and  rises  among  us,  beautiful  and  sad,  at  once  unfinished 


LIFE  OF  BURNS.  & 

and  a  ruin  !  If  charitable  judgment  was  necessary  in  estimating  hi* 
poems,  and  justice  required  that  the  aim  and  the  manifest  power  to 
fulfil  it  must  often  be  accepted  for  the  fulfilment ;  much  more  is  this 
the  case  in  regard  to  his  life,  the  sum  and  result  of  all  his  endeavors, 
where  his  difficulties  came  upon  him  not  hi  detail  only,  but  in  mass  ; 
and  so  much  has  been  left  una<-  xxnplished,  nay,  was  mistaken,  and 
altogether  marred. 

Properly  speaking,  there  is  but  one  era  in  the  life  of  Burns,  and 
that  the  earliest.  We  have  not  youth  and  manhood  ;  but  only  youth  : 
for,  to  the  end,  we  discern  no  decisive  change  in  the  complexion  of 
hLs  character  ;  in  his  thirty-seventh  year,  he  is  still,  as  it  were,  in 
youth.  With  all  that  resoluteness  of  judgment,  that  penetrating  in- 
sight, and  singular  maturity  of  intellectual  power,  exhibited  in  his 
writings,  he  never  attains  to  any  clearness  regarding  himself  ;  to  the 
'ast  he  never  ascertains  his  peculiar  aim,  even  with  such  distinctness 
as  is  common  among  ordinary  men  ;  and  therefore  never  can  pursue 
it  with  that  singleness  of  will,  which  insures  success  ond  some  con- 
tentment to  such  men.  To  the  last,  he  wavers  between  two  pur- 
poses :  glorying  in  his  talent,  like  a  true  poet,  he  yet  cannot  consent 
to  make  this  his  chief  and  sole  glory,  and  to  follow  it  as  the  one  thing 
needful,  through  poverty  or  riches,  through  good  or  evil  report. 
Another  far  meaner  ambition  still  cleaves  to  him  ;  he  must  dream  and 
struggle  about  a  certain  "  Rock  of  Independence  ;  "  which,  natural 
and  even  admirable  as  it  might  be,  was  still  but  a  warring  with  the 
world,  on  the  comparatively  insignificant  ground  of  his  being  more  or 
less  completely  supplied  with  money  than  others  ;  of  his  standing  at 
a  higher  or  at  a  lower  altitude  in  general  estimation,  than  other.0. 
For  the  world  still  appears  to  him,  as  to  the  young,  in  borrowed  col- 
ors ;  he  expects  from  it  what  it  cannot  give  to  any  man  ;  seeks  for 
contentment,  not  within  himself,  in  action  and  wise  effort,  but  from 
without,  in  the  kindness  of  circumstances,  in  love,  friendship,  honor, 
pecuniary  ease.  He  would  be  happy,  not  actively  and  in  himself, 
but  passively,  and  from  some  ideal  cornucopia  of  Enjoyments,  not 
earned  by  his  own  labor,  but  showered  on  him  by  the  beneficence  of 
Destiny.  Thus,  like  a  young  man,  he  cannot  steady  himself  for  any 
fixed  or  systematic  pursuit,  but  swerves  to  and  f  o,  between  passionate 
hope  and  remorseful  disappointment  :  rushing  onwards  with  a  deep, 
tempestuous  force,  he  surmounts  or  breaks  asunder  many  a  barrier  ; 
travels,  nay,  advances  far,  but  advancing  only  under  uncertain 
guidance,  is  ever  and  anon  turned  from  his  path  :  and  to  the  last, 
cannot  reach  the  only  true  happiness  of  a  man,  that  of  clear,  decided 
Activity  in  the  sphere  for  which  by  nature  and  circumstances  he  has 
been  fitted  and  appointed. 

We  do  not  say  these  things  in  dispraise  of  Burns :  nay,  perhaps, 
they  but  interest  us  the  more  in  his  favor.  This  blessing  is  not  given 
soonest  to  the  best ;  but  rather,  it  is  often  the  greatest  minds  that  are 
latest  in  obtaining  it ;  for  where  moat  is  te  be  developed,  most  tira* 


34  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

rnny  Le  required  to  develop  it.  A  complex  condition  had  been  as. 
signed  him  from  without,  as  complex  a  condition  from  within :  n» 
"  pre-established  harmony  "  existed  between  the  clay  soil  of  Mossgiel 
and  the  empyrean  soul  of  Robert  Burns ;  it  was  not  wonderful,  there-i 
fore,  that  the  adjustment  between  them  should  have  been  long  post- 
poned, and  his  arm  long  cumbered,  and  his  sight  confused,  in  so  vast 
niul  discordant  an  economy  as  he  had  been  appointed  steward  over. 
Byron  was,  at  his  death,  but  a  year  younger  than  Burns  ;  and  throiigh 
life,  as  it  might  have  appeared,  far  more  simply  situated ;  yet  in  him, 
too,  we  can  trace  no  such  adjustment,  no  such  moral  manhood  ;  but 
at  best,  and  only  a  little  before  his  end,  the  beginning  of  what  seemed 
such. 

By  much  the  most  striking  incident  in  Burns's  Life  is  his  journey 
to  Edinburgh  ;  but  perhaps  a  still  more  important  one  is  his  residence 
at  Irvine,  so  early  as  in  his  twenty -third  year.  Hitherto  his  life  had 
been  poor  and  toilworn  ;  but  otherwise  not  ungenial,  and,  with  all  its 
distresses,  by  no  means  unhappy.  In  his  parentage,  deducting  out- 
ward circumstances,  he  had  every  reason  to  reckon  himself  fortunate  : 
his  father  was  a  man  of  thoughtful,  intense,  earnest  character,  as  the 
best  of  our  peasants  are  ;  valuing  knowledge,  possessing  some,  and, 
what  is  far  better  and  rarer,  open-minded  for  more ;  a  man  with  a 
keen  insight  and  devout  heart.;  reverent  towards  God,  friendly  there- 
fore at  once,  and  fearless  towards  all  that  God  has  made  ;  in  one 
word,  though  but  a  hard-handed  peasant,  a  complete  and  fully  un- 
folded Man.  Such  a  father  is  seldom  found  in  any  rank  hi  society ; 
and  was  worth  descending  far  in  society  to  seek.  Unfortunately,  he 
was  very  poor  ;  had  he  been  even  a  little  richer,  almost  ever  so  little, 
the  whole  might  have  issued  far  otherwise.  Mighty  events  turn  on  a 
straw  ;  the  crossing  of  a  brook  decides  the  conquest  of  the  world. 
Had  this  William  Burns's  small  seven  acres  of  nursery  ground  any- 
wise prospered,  the  boy  Robert  had  been  sent  to  school ;  hud  strug- 
gled forward,  as  so  many  weaker  men  do,  to  some  university  ;  come 
forth  not  as  a  rustic  wonder,  bu!/  as  a  regular  well-trained  intellectual 
workman,  and  changed  the  whole  course  of  British  Literature — for  it 
lay  in  him  to  have  done  this  !  But  the  nursery  did  not  prosper ;  pov- 
erty sank  h:s  whole  family  below  the  help  of  even  our  cheap  school- 
system  :  Burns  remained  a  hard-worked  ploughboy,  and  British  liter- 
ature took  its  own  course.  Nevertheless,  even  in  this  rugged  scene, 
there  is  much  to  nourish  him.  If  he  drudges,  it  is  with  his  brother, 
and  for  his  father  and  mother,  whom  he  loves,  and  would  fain  shield 
from  want.  Wisdom  is  not  banished  from  their  poor  hearth,  nor  the 
balm  of  natural  feeling :  the  solemn  words,  Let  us  worship  God,  are 
heard  there  from  a  "priest-like  father;"  if  threatenings  of  unjust 
men  throw  mother  and  children  into  tears,  these  are  tears  not  of  grief 
only,  but  of  holiest  affection  ;  every  heart  in  that  humble  group  feels 
itself  the  closer  knit  to  every  other;  in  their  hard  warfare  they  are  there 
together,  "a  little  band  of  brethren,"  Neither  ar«  such  tears,  and 


LIFE  OF  BURNS.  38 

the  deep  beauty  that  dwells  in  them,  their  OR/y  portion.  Light  yisits 
the  hearts  as  it  does  the  eyes  of  all  living ;  there  is  a  force,  too,  in 
this  youth  that  enables  him  to  trample  on  misfortune  ;  nay,  to  bind  it 
under  his  feet  to  make  him  sport.  For  a  bold,  warm,  buoyant  humor 
of  character  has  been  given  him  ;  and  so  the  thick-coming  shapes  of 
evil  are  welcomed  with  a  gay,  friendly  irony,  and  in  their  closest 
pressure  he  bates  no  jot  of  heart  or  hope.  Vague  yearnings  of  ambi- 
tion fail  not,  as  he  grows  up  ;  dreamy  fancies  hang  like  cloud-cities 
around  him  ;  the  curtain  of  Existence  is  slowly  rising,  in  many  col- 
ored splendor  and  gloom  ;  and  the  aurora  light  of  first  love  is  gilding 
his  horizon,  and  the  music  of  song  is  on  his  path  ;  and  so  he  walks 

in  glory  and  in  joy, 


Behind  his  plough,  upon  the  mountain  side  1 " 

We  know,  from  the  best  evidence,  that  up  to  this  date  Burns  was 
happy ;  nay,  that  he  was  the  gayest,  brightest,  most  fantastic,  fasci- 
nating being  to  be  found  in  the  world;  more  so  even  than  he  ever 
afterwards  appeared.     But  now  at  this  early  age  he  quits  the  pater- 
nal roof,  goes  forth  into  looser,  louder,  more  exciting  society,  and  be- 
comes initiated  in  those  dissipations,  those  vices,  which  a  certain  class 
of  philosophers  have  asserted  to  be  a  natural  preparative  for  entering 
on  active  life  ;  a  kind  of  mud-bath,  in  which  the  youth  is,  as  it  were, 
necessitated  to  steep,   and,   we  suppose,    cleanse  himself,  before  the 
real  toga  of  Manhood  can  be   laid  on  him.     We  shall  not  dispute 
much  with  this  class  of  philosophers;    we  hope  they  are  mistaken; 
for  Sin  and  Remorse  so  easily  beset  us  at  all  stages  of  life,  and  are 
always  such  indifferent  company,   that   it  seems  luird  we  should,  at 
any  stage,  be  forced  and  fated  not  only  to  meet,  but  to  yield  to  them; 
and  even  serve  for  a  term  in  their  leprous  armada.     We  hope  it  is  not 
so.     Clear  we  are,  at  all  events,  it  cannot  be  the  training  one  receives 
in  this  service,  but  only  our  determining  to  desert  from  it,  that  fits 
for  true  manly  Action.     We  become  men,  not  after  we  have  been  dis- 
sipated and  disappointed  in  the  chase  of  false  pleasure,  but  after  we 
have  ascertained,  in  any  way,  what   impassable   barriers  hem   us  in 
through  this  life;  how  mad  it  is  to  hope  for  contentment  to  our  infi- 
nite soul  from  the  gifts  of  this  extremely  finite  world!  that  a  man 
must  be* sufficient  for  himself;    and  that  "'for  suffering  and  enduring 
there  is  no  remedy  but  striving  and  doing."     Manhood  begins  when 
we  have  in  any  way  made  truce  with  Necessity — begins,  at  all  events, 
when  we  have  surrendered  to  Necessity,  as  the  most  part  only  do; 
but  begins  joyfully  and  hopefully  only  when  we  have  reconciled  our- 
selves to   Necessity,  and  thus,  in  reality,  triumphed   over  it,  and  felt 
that   in   Necessity    we  are    free.     Surely   such  lessons  as  this  last, 
which,  in  one  shape  or  other,  is  the  grand  lesson  for  every  mortal 
man,  are  better  learned  from  the  lips  of  a  devout  mother,  in  the  looks 
and  actions  of  a  devout  father,  while  the  heart  is  yet  soft  and  pliant, 


36  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

than  in  collision  with  the  sharp  adamant  of  Fate,  attracting  us  i« 
shipwreck  us,  when  the  heart  is  grown  hard,  and  may  be  broken  be- 
fore it  will  become  contrite  !  Had  Burns  continued  to  learn  this,  as 
he  was  already  learning  it,  in  his  father's  cottage,  he  would  have 
learned  it  fully,  which  he  never  did,  and  been  saved  many  a  lasting 
aberration,  many  a  bitter  hour  and  year  of  remorseful  sorrow. 

It  seems  to  us  another  circumstance  of  fatal  import  in  Burns's  his 
tory,  that  at  this  time  too  he  became  involved  in  the  religious  quar 
rels  of  his  district  ;  that  he  was  enlisted  and  feasted,  as  the  fighting 
man  of  the  New  Light  Priesthood,  in  their  highly  unprofitable  war- 
fare. At  the  tables  of  these  free-minded  clergy,  he  learned  much 
more  than  was  needful  for  him.  Such  liberal  ridicule  of  fanaticism 
awakened  in  his  mind  scruples  about  Religion  itself  ;  and  a  whole 
world  of  Doubts,  which  it  required  quite  another  set  of  conjurors 
than  those  men  to  exorcise.  We  do  not  say  that  such  an  intellect  as 
his  could  have  escaped  similar  doubts,  at  some  period  of  his  history  ; 
or  even  that  he  could,  at  a  later  period,  have  come  through  them  al- 
together victorious  and  unharmed  :  but  it  seems  peculiarly  unfortu- 
nate that  this  time,  above  all  others,  should  have  been  fixed  for  the 
encounter.  For  now,  with  principles  assailed  by  evil  example  from 
without,  by  "passions  raging  like  demons"  from  within,  he  had  little 
need  of  skeptical  misgivings  to  whisper  treason  in  the  heat  of  the 
battle,  or  to  cut  off  his  retreat  if  he  were  already  defeated.  He  loses 
his  feeling  of  innocence  ;  his  mind  is  at  variance  with  itself  ;  the  old 
divinity  no  longer  presides  there ;  but  wild  Desires  and  wild  Re 
pentance  alternately  oppress  him.  Erelong,  too,  he  has  committed 
himself  before  the  world  ;  his  character  for  sobriety,  dear  to  a  Scot- 
tish peasant,  as  few  corrupted  worldlings  can  even  conceive,  is  de- 
stroyed in  the  eyes  of  men  ;  and  his  only  refuge  consists  in  trying  to 
disbelieve  his  guiltiness,  and  is  but  a  refuge  of  lies.  The  blackest 
desperation  now  gathers  over  him,  broken  only  by  the  red  lightnings 
of  remorse.  The  whole  fabric  of  his  life  is  blasted  asunder?  for  now 
not  only  his  character,  but  his  personal  liberty  is  to  be  lost ;  men  and 
Fortune  are  leagued  for  his  hurt;  "  hungry  Ruin  has  him  in  the 
wind."  He  sees  no  escape  but  the  saddest  of  all :  exile  from  his 
loved  country,  to  a  country  in  every  sense  inhospitable  and  abhorrent 
to  him.  While  the  "gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast,  in  mental 
storm  and  solitude,  as  well  as  in  physical,  he  sings  Ms  wild  fafewell 
to  Scotland : 

"  Farewell,  my  friends,  farewell,  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those  : 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare  ; 
Adieu,  my  native  banks  of  Ayr  1 " 

Light  breaks  suddenly  in  on  him  in  floods  ;  T»ut  still  a  false  transi 
tory  light,  and  no  real  sunshine.  He  is  invited  to  Edinburgh ;  has- 
tens  thither  with  anticipating  heart :  is  welcomed  as  in  triumph,  and 


LIFE  OF  BUKNS.  8? 

with  universal  blandishment  and  acclamation  ;  whatever  is  wisest, 
whatever  is  greatest  or  loveliest  there,  gathers  round  him,  to  gaze  on 
his  face,  to  show  him  honor,  sympathy,  affection.  Burns's  appearance 
among  the  sages  and  nobles  of  Edinburgh  must  be  regarded  as  one 
of  the  most  singular  phenomena  in  modern  Literature  ;  almost  like 
the  appearance  of  some  Napoleon  among  the  crowned  sovereigns  of 
modern  Politics.  For  it  is  nowise  as  a  "  mockery  king,"  set  there  by 
favor,  transiently,  and  for  a  purpose,  that  he  will  let  himself  be 
treated  ;  still  less  is  he  a  mad  Rienzi,  whose  sudden  elevation  tarns 
his  too  weak  head  ;  but  he  stands  t  .ere  on  liis  own  basis  ;  cool,  un- 
astonished,  holding  his  equal  rank  from  Nature  herself  ;  putting  forth 
no  claim  which  there  is  not  strength  in  him,  as  well  as  about  him,  to 
vindicate.  Mr.  Lockhart  has  some  forcible  observations  on  tliis 
point  : 

"  It  needs  no  effort  of  imagination,"  says  he,  "  to  conceive  what  the 
sensations  of  an  isolated  set  of  scholars  (almost  all  either  clergymen 
or  professors)  must  have  been,  in  the  presence  of  this  big- boned, 
black-browed,  brawny  stranger,  with  his  great  flashing  eyes,  who, 
having  forced  his  way  among  them  from  the  plough-tail,  at  a  single 
stride,  manifested  in  the  whole  strain  of  his  bearing  and  con  versa 
tion,  a  most  thorough  conviction  that  in  the  society  of  the  most  em- 
inent men  of  his  nation,  he  was  exactly  where  he  was  entitled  to 
be  ;  hardly  deigned  to  flatter  them  by  exhibiting  even  an  occasional 
sympton  of  being  flattered  by  their  notice  ;  by  turns  calmly  meas- 
ured himself  against  the  most  cultivated  understandings  of  his  time 
in  discussion  ;  overpowered  the  bon  mots  of  the  most  celebrated  con- 
vivialists  by  broad  floods  of  merriment,  impregnated  with  all  the 
burning  life  of  genius  ;  astounded  bosoms  habitually  enveloped  in 
the  thrice  piled  folds  of  social  reserve,  by  compelling  them  to  trem- 
ble— nay,  to  tremble  visibly — beneath  the  fearless  touch  of  natural 
pathos  ;  and  all  this  without  indicating  the  smallest  willingness  to  be 
ranked  among  those  professional  ministers  of  excitement  who  ara 
content  to  be  paid  in  money  and  smiles  for  doing  what  the  spectators 
and  auditors  would  be  ashamed  of  doing  in  their  own  persons,  even 
if  they  had  the  power  of  doing  it ;  and  last,  and  probably  worst  of 
all,  who  was  known  to  be  in  the  habit  of  enlivening  societies  whicV 
they  would  have  scorned  to  approach,  still  more  frequently  than 
their  own,  with  eloquence  no  less  magnificent ;  with  wit  in  all  like- 
lihood still  more  daring  ;  often  enough  as  the  superiors  whom  ht 
fronted  without  alarm  might  have  guessed  from  the  beginning,  and 
had  ere  long,  no  occasion  to  guess,  with  wit,  pointed  at  themselves." 

The  farther  we  remove  from  this  scene,  the  more  singular  will  it 
Mem  to  us  ;  details  of  the  exterior  aspect  of  it  are  already  full  of  in. 
terest.  Most  readers  recollect  Mr.  Walker's  personal  interviews  with 
Burns  as  among  the  best  passages  of  his  Narrative  ;  a  tim,;  will  coma 
when  this  reminiscence  of  Sir  Walter  Scoto's,  slight  though  &  it, 
will  tvlso  be  precious. 


18  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

"  As  for  Burns,"  writes  Sir  Walter,.  '*  I  may  truly  say  VirgiliurA 
v'nli  tun-turn.  I  was  a  lad  of  fifteen  in  1786-'7,  when  he  first  came  to 
Edinburgh,  but  had  sense  and  feeling  enough  to  be  much  interested 
in  his  poetry,  and  would  have  give  the  world  to  know  him :  but  1 
had  very  little  acquaintance  with  any  literary  people,  and  still  less 
with  the  gentry  of  the  west  conntry,  .the  two  sets  that  he  most  fre- 
quented. Mr.  Thomas  Griersori  was  at  that  time  a  clerk  of  my 
father's.  lie  knew  Burns,  and  promised  to  ask  him  to  his  lodgings 
to  dinner,  but  had  no  opportunity  to  keep  his  word  ;  otherwise  I 
might  have  seen  more  of  this  distinguished  man.  As  it  was,  I  saw 
him  one  day  at  the  late  venerable  Professor  Ferguson's,  where  there 
were  several  gentlemen  of  literary  reputation,  among  whom  1  remem- 
ber the  celebrated  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart.  Of  course,  we  youngsters 
sat  silent,  looked  and  listened.  The  only  thing  I  remember 
which  was  remarkable  in  Burns's  manner,  was  the  effect  produced 
upon  him  by  a  print  of  Bunbury's  representing  a  soldier  lying  dead 
on  the  snow,  his  dog  sitting  in  misery  on  one  side — on  the  other,  his 
widow,  with  a  child  in  her  arms.  These  lines  were  written  beneath  : 

'  Cold  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Mtnden's  plain, 
Perhaps  that  mother  wept  her  soldier  slain: 
Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew, 
The  big  drops  mingling  with  the  milk  he  drew 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery  baptized  in  tears.' 

"  Burns  seemed  much  affected  by  the  print,  or  rather  by  the  ideas 
which  it  suggested  to  his  mind.  He  actually  shed  team.  He  asked 
whose  the  lines  were,  and  it  chanced  that  nobody  but  myself  remem- 
bered that  they  occur  in  a  half-forgotten  poem  of  Langhorne's  called 
by  the  upromising  title  of  "  The  Justice  of  Peace."  I  whispered  my 
information  to  a  friend  present,  he  mentioned  it  to  Burns,  who  re 
warded  me  with  a  look  and  a  word,  which,  though  of  mere  civility, 
I  then  received  and  still  recollect  with  very  great  pleasure. 

"  His  person  was  strong' and  robust ;  his  manners  rustic,  not  clown- 
ish ;  a  sort  of  dignified  plainness  and  simplicity,  whi  ch  received  part 
of  its  effect  perhaps  from  one's  knowledge  of  his  extraordinary  tal- 
ents. His  features  are  represented  in  Mr.  Nasmyth's  picture  ;  but  to 
me  it  conveys  the  idea  that  they  are  diminished,  as  if  seen  in  per. 
spective.  I  think  his  countenance  was  more  massive  than  it  looks  in 
any  of  the  portraits.  I  should  have  take  the  poet,  had  I  not  known 
what  he  was,  for  a  very  sagacious  country  farmer  of  the  old  Scotch 
Bchpol,  i.  e..  none  of  your  modern  agriculturists  who  keep  laborers  for 
th«ir  drudgery,  but  the  douce  gudeman  who  held  his  own  plough* 
Tbere  was  a  strong  expression  of  sense  and  shrewdness  in  all  his  lin* 
amenta  ;  the  eye  alone,  I  think,  indicated  the  poetical  character  aof 
trinpejament.  It  was  large,  and  of  a  dark  cast,  which  glowed  (1  say 
literally  glowect)  when  he  spoke  with  feeling  or  interest.  I  never  »aW 


LIFE  OF  BUKXS.  39 

Buch  another  eye  in  a  human  head,  though  I  have  seen  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  of  rny  time.  Ills  conversation  expressed  perfect  self- 
confidence,  without  the  slightest  presumption.  Among  the  men  who 
were  the  most  learned  of  their  time  and  country,  he  expressed  him- 
self with  perfect  firmness,  but  without  the  least  intrusive  forward- 
ness ;  and  when  he  differed  in  opinion,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  express 
it  firmly,  yet  at  the  same  time  with  modesty.  I  do  not  remember  any 
part  of  his  conversation  distinctly  enough  to  be  quoted  ;  nor  did  I 
ever  see  him  again,  except  in  the  street,  where  he  did  not  recognize 
me,  as  I  could  not  expect  he  should. '  He  was  much  caressed  in  Edin- 
burgh ;  but  (considering  what  literary  emoluments  have  been  sinco 
his  day)  the  efforts  made  for  his  relief  were  extremely  trifling. 

"  I  remember,  on  this  occasion  I  mention,  I  thought  Burns's  ac- 
quaintance with  English  poetry  was  rather  limited  ;  and  also,  that 
having  twenty  times  the  abilities  of  Allan  Ramsay  and  of  Ferguson, 
he  tallced  of  them  with  too  much  humility  as  his  models  ;  there  was 
doubtless  national  predilection  in  his  estimate. 

"  This  is  all  I  can  tell  you  about  Burns.  I  have  only  to  add,  that 
his  dress  corresponded  with  his  manner.  He  was  like  a  farmer 
dressed  in  his  best  to  dine  with  the  laird.  I  do  not  speak  in  malam 
partem;  when  I  say  I  never  saw  a  man  in  company  with  his  superi- 
ors in  station  or  information  more  perfectly  free  from  either  the  re- 
ality or  the  affectation  of  embarrassment.  I  was  told,  but  did  not 
observe  it,  that  his  address  to  females  was  extremely  deferential,  and 
always  with  a  turn  either  to  the  pathetic  or  humorous,  which  en- 
gaged their  attention  particularly.  I  have  heard  the  late  Duchess  of 
Gordon  remark  this.  I  do  not  know  anything  I  can  add  to  these  re- 
collections of  forty  years  since." 

The  conduct  of  Burns  under  this  dazzling  blaze  of  favor ;  the 
calm,  unaffected,  manly  manner,  in  which  he  not  only  bore  it  but 
estimated  its  value,  has  justly  been  regarded  as  the  best  proof  that 
could  be  given  of  his  real  vigor  and  integrity  of  mind.  A  little 
natural  vanity,  some  touches  of  hypocritical  modesty,  some  glimmer- 
ings  of  affectation,  at  least  some  fear  of  being  thought  affected,  we 
eould  have  pardoned  in  almost  any  man  ;  but  no  such  indication  is  to 
be  traced  here.  In  his  unexampled  situation  the  young  peasant  is 
not  a  moment  perplexed  ;  so  many  strange  lights  do  not  confuse  him, 
do  not  lead  him  astray.  Nevertheless,  we  cannot  but  perceive  that 
this  winter  did  him  great  and  lasting  injury.  A  somewhat  clearer 
knowledge  of  men's  affairs,  scarcely  of  their  characters,  it  did  afford 
him  ;  but  a  sharper  feeling  of  Fortune's  unequal  arrangements  in 
their  social  destiny  it  also  left  with  him.  He  had  seen  the  gay  and 
gorgeous  arena,  in  which  the  powerful  are  born  to  play  their  parts  ; 
nay,  had  himself  stood  in  the  midst  of  it ;  and  he  felt  more  bitterly 
than  ever,  that  here  he  was  but  a  looker-on,  and  had  no  part  or  lot  in 
that  splendid  game.  From  this  time  a  jealotis  indignant  fear  of  social 
degradation  takes  possession  el  him  ;  and  perverts,  so  far  as  aught 


4ft  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

could  pervert,  his  private  contentment,  and  his  feelings  towards  his 
richer  fellows.  It  was  clear  enough  to  Burns  that  he  had  talent 
enough  to  make  a  fortune,  or  a  hundred  fortunes,  could  he  bnt  have 
rightly  willed  this  ,  it  was  clear  also  that  he  willed  something  fur 
different,  and  therefore  could  not  make  one.  Unhappy  it  was  that  he 
had  not  the  power  to  choose  the  one  and  reject  the  other  ,  but  must 
halt  forever  between  two  opinions,  two  objects  ;  making  hampered 
advancement  towards  either.  But  so  is  it  with  many  men  ;  we  "  long 
for  the  merchandise,  yet  would  fain  keep  the  price  ;  "  and  so  stand 
chaffering  with  Fate  in  vexatious  altercation,  till  the  Night  come, 
and  our  fair  is  over  1 

The  Edinburgh  learned  of  that  period  were  in  general  more  noted 
for  clearness  of  head  than  for  warmth  of  heart ;  with  the  exception 
of  the  good  old  Blacklock,  whose  help  was  too  ineffectual,  scarcely 
one  among  them  seems  to  have  looked  at  Burns  with  any  true  sym- 
pathy, or  indeed  much  otherwise  than  as  at  a  highly  curious  tinny. 
By  the  great  also  he  is  treated  in  the  customary  fashion  ;  entertained 
at  their  tables,  and  dismissed  certain  modica  of  pudding  and  praise 
are,  from  time  to  time,  gladly  exchanged  for  the  fascination  of  his 
presence  ;  which  exchange  once  effected,  the  bargain  is  finished,  and 
each  party  goes  his  several  way.  At  the  end  of  this  strange- season, 
Burns  gloomily  sums  up  his  gains  and  losses,  and  meditates  on  the 
chaotic  future.  In  money  he  is  somewhat  richer ;  in  fame  and  the 
show  of  happiness,  infinitely  richer  ;  but  in  the  substance  of  it,  as 
poor  as  ever.  Nay,  poorer,  for  his  heart  is  now  maddened  still  more 
with  the  fever  of  mere  worldly  Ambition  ;  and  through  long  years 
the  disease  will  rack  him  with  unprofitable  sufferings,  and  weaken 
his  strength  for  all  true  and  nobler  aims. 

What  Burns  was  next  to  do  or  avoid,  how  a  man  so  circumstanced 
was  now  to  guide  himself  towards  his  true  advantage,  might  at  this 
point  of  time  have  been  a  question  for  the  wisest ;  and  it  was  a  ques 
tion  which  he  was  left  altogether  to  answer  for  himself  ,  of  his 
learned  or  rich  patrons  it  had  not  struck  any  individual  to  turn  a 
thought  on  this  so  trivial  m  tter.  Without  claiming  for  Burns  tha 
praise  of  perfect  sagacity,  we  must  say  that  his  Excise  and  Farm 
scheme  does  not  seem  to  us  a  very  unreasonable  one ;  and  that  we 
should  be  at  a  loss,  even  now,  to  suggest  one  decidedly  better.  Some 
of  his  admirers,  indeed,  are  scandalized  at  his  ever  resolving  to 
,«/"  >••//' •;  and  would  have  had  him  apparently  lie  still  at  the  poo1, 
till  the  spirit  of  Patronage  should  stir  the  waters,  and  then  heal 
with  one  plunge  all  his  worldly  sorrows  !  We  fear  such  counsel 
lore. knew  but  little  of  Burns;  and  did  not  .consider  that  happiness 
mifcht  in  all  cases  be  cheaply  had  by  waiting  for  the  fulfilment  of 
golden  dreams,  were  :  v  not  that  in  the  interim  the  dreamer  must 
die  of  hunger.  It  reflects  credit  on  the  manliness  and  sound  sensa 
of  Kurns,  that  he  felt  so  early  on  what  ground  he  was  standing, 
and  preferred  self-help  on  the  humblest  scale  to  dependence  and  iu 


LIFE   OF  BURNS.  41 

action,  though  with  hope  of  far  more  splendid  possibilities.  But  even 
these  possibilities  were  not  rejected  in  his  scheme  ;  he  might  export,  if 
it  chanced  that  he  had  any  friend,  to  rise  in  no  long  period,  into 
something  even  like  opulence  and  leisure  ;  while  again,  if  it  chanced 
that  he  had  no  friend,  he  could  still  live  in  security  ;  and  for  the 
rest,  he  "  did  not  intend  to  borrow  honor  from  any  profession." 
We  think,  then,  that  his  plan  was  honest  and  well  ^calculated  ;  all 
turned  on  the  execution  of  it.  Doubtless  it  failed;  yet  not,  we  be- 
lieve, from  any  vice  inherent  in  itself.  Nay,  after  all,  it  was  no 
failure  of  external  means,  but  of  internal,  that  overtook  Burns. 
His  was  no  bankruptcy  of  the  purse,  but  of  the  soul ;  to  his  last 
day  he  owed  no  man  anything. 

Meanwhile  he  begins  well,  with  two  good  and  wise  actions.  His 
donation  to  his  mother,  munificent  from  a  man  whose  income  had 
lately  been  seven  pounds  a  year,  was  worthy  of  him,  and  n  t  more 
than  worthy.  Generous  also,"  and  worthy  of  him,  was  his  treatment 
of  the  woman  whose  life's  welfare  now  depended  on  his  pleasure.  A 
friendly  observer  might  hjwe  hoped  serene  days  for  him  :  his  mind 
is  on  the  true  road  to  peace  with  itself  :  what  clearness  ho  still 
wants  will  be  given  as  he  proceeds  ;  for  the  best  teacher  of  duties, 
that  still  lie  dim  to  us,  is  the  Practice  of  those  we  see  and  have  at 
hand.  Had  the  "  patrons  of  genius,"  who  could  give  him  nothing, 
but  taken  nothing  from  him,  at  least  nothing  more  ! — the  wounds  of 
his  heart  would  have  healed,  vulgar  ambition  would  have  died  away. 
Toil  and  Frugality  would  have  beenxwelcome,  since  Virtue  dwelt 
with  them,  and  poetry  would  have  shown  through  them  as  of  eld  ; 
and  in  her  clear  ethereal  light,  which  was  his  own  by  birth-right,  "lie 
might  have  looked  down  on  his  earthly  destiny,  and  all  its  obstruc 
tions,  not  with  patience  only,  but  with  love. 

But  the  patrons  of  genius  would  not  have  it  so.  Picturesque 
tourists,*  all  manner  of  fashionable  danglers  after  literature,  and,  far 
worse,  all  manner  of  corrVival  Maecenases,  hoveryd  round  him  in  his 
retreat ;  and  his  good  as  well  as  his  weak  qualities  secured  them  in- 
fluence over  him.  He  was  flattered  by  t.ieir  notice  ;  and  his  warm 
social  nature  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  shake  them  off,  and  hold 


*  There  is  one  little  sketch  by  certain  "-English  gentlemnn"  of  this  class,  which, 
though  adopted  in  Ourrie's  Narrative,  and  since  t 'en  repeated  in  most  others,  we. 
have  all  along  felt  an  invincible  disposition  to  regard  as  imaginary  :  "  On  a  rock 
that  projected  into  the  stream  they  saw  a  man  employed  in  angling,  of  a  singnlar 
appearance.  He  had  a  cap  made  of  fox-skin  on  his  head,  a  loose  great-coat  fixed 
round  him  by  a  belt,  from  which  depended  an  enormous  Highland  broadsword.  It 
was  Bnrns^"  Now,  we  rather  think,  it  was  not  Burns.  For,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
fox-skin  cap,  loose  and  quite  Hibernian  watch-coat  with  the  belt,  wha'  are  we  to 
make  of  this  ';  enormous  Highland  l/roadsword  "  depending  from  him  ?  More  es- 
pecially, as  there  is  no  word  of  parish  constables  on  the  outlook  to  see  whether,  as 
Dennis  phrases  it,  he  had  an  eye  to  his  own  midriff,  or  that  of  the  public  !  Burns, 
of  all  men,  had  the  least  tendency  to  seek  for  distinction,  cither  ic  nis  own  eyoa  ot 
tttoje  of  others,  by  such  poor  mummeries. 


43  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

on  his  way  apart  from  them.  These  men,  as  we  believe,  were 
proximately  'the  means  of  his  ruin.  Not  that  they  meant  him  any  ill  • 
they  only  meant  themselves  a  little  good  ;  if  he  suffered  harm,  let 
him  look  to  it !  But  they  wasted  his  precious  time  and  his  precious 
•talent;  they  disturbed  his  composure,  broke  down  his  returning 
habits  of  temperance  and  assiduous  contented  exertion.  Their  pam- 
pering was  baneful  to  him  ;  their  cruelty,  which  soon  followed,  was 
equally  baneful.  The  old  grudge  against  Fortune's  inequality  awoke 
with  new  bitterness  in  their  neighborhood,  and  Burns  had  no  retreat 
but  to  the  "  Rock  of  Independence,"  which  is  but  an  air-castle,  after  all, 
that  looks  well  at  a  distance,  but  will  screen  no  one  from  real  \\iinl 
and  wet.  Flushed  with  irregular  excitement,  exasperated  alternately 
by  contempt  of  others  and1  contempt  of  himself,  Burns  was  no 
longer  regaining  his  peace  of  mind,  but  fast  losing  it  forever.  There 
was  a  hollowness  at  the  heart  of  his  life,  for  his  conscience  did  not 
now  approve  what  he  was  doing. 

Amid  the  vapors  of  unwise  enjoyment,  of  bootless  remorse,  and 
angry  discontent  with  Fate,  his  true  loadstar,  a  life  of  Poetry,  with 
Poverty,  nay,  with  Famine  if  it  must  be  so,  was  too  often  altogether 
hidden  from  his  eyes.  And  yet  he  sailed  a  sea,  where,  without  some 
such  guide,  there  was  no  right  steering.  Meteors  of  French  Politics 
rise  before  him,  but  these  were  not  Ms  stars.  An  accident  this,  which 
hastened,  but  did  not  originate,  his  worst  distresses.  In  the  mad 
contentions  of  that  time,  he  qomes  in  collision  with  certain  ollicial 
Superiors  ;  is  wounded  by  them  ;  cruelly  lacerated,  we  should  say, 
could  a  dead  mechanical  implement,  in  any  case,  be  called  cruel  :  and 
shrinks,  in  indignant  pain,  into  deeper  self-seclusion,  into  gloomier 
mqoiliness  than  ever.  His  life  has  now  lost  its  unity  :  it  is  a  life  of 
fragments  ;  led  with  little  aim,  beyond  the  melancholy  one  of  secur- 
ing its  own  continuance — in  fits  of  wild  false  joy,  when  such  offered, 
and  of  black  despondency  when  they  passed  away.  His  character 
before  the  world  begins  to  suffer  :  calumny  is  busy  with  him  ;  for  a 
miserable  man  makes  more  enemies  than  friends.  Some  faults  he 
has  fallen  into,  and  a  thousand  misfortunes  ;  but  deep  criminality  is 
what  he  stands  accused  of,  and  they  that  are  not  without  sin  cast  tho 
first  stone  at  him  !  For  is  he  not  a  well-wisher  of  the  French  Kevo 
lution,  a  Jacobin,  and  therefore  in  that  one  act  guilty  of  all?  These 
accusations,  political  and  moral,  it  has  since  appeared,  were  false 
enough  ;  but  the  world  hesitated  little  to  credit  them.  Nay,  his  con- 
vivial Ma'cenases  themselves  were  not  the  last  to  do  it.  There  is  rea- 
son to  believe  that,  in  his  later  years,  the  Dumfries  Aristocracy  hud 
partly  withdrawn  themselves  from  Burns,  as  from  a  tainted  person; 
n»  longer  worthy  of  their  acquaintance.  That  painful  class,  sta- 
tioned, in  all  provincial  cities,  behind  the  outmost  breastwork  of 
Gentility,  there  to  stand  siege  and  do  battle  against  the  intrusion  of 
Grocerdom  and  Grazierdom,  had  actually  aeen  dishonor  in  the  society 
ef  Burns,  and  branded  Itim  with  their  veto  •,  had,  ae  we  vulgarly  say. 


LIFE   OF  BHRXS.  4 

tut  him  !  We  find  one  passage  in  this  work  of  Mr.  Lockhart's, 
which  will  not  out  of  our  thoughts  : 

"  A  gentleman  of  that  country,  whose  name  I  have  already  more 
than  once  had  occasion  to  refer  to,  has  often  told  me  that  he  was  sel- 
dom more  grieved  than  when,  riding  into  Dumfries  one  fine  summer 
evening  about  this  time  to  attend  a  country  ball,  he  saw  Burns  walk 
ing  alone,  on  the  shady  side  of  the  principal  street  of  the  town,  wlula 
the  opposite  side  was  gay  with  successive  groups  of  gentlemen  and 
ladies,  all  drawn  together  for  the  festivities  of  the  night,  not  one  of 
whom  appeared  willing  to  recognize  him.  The  horseman  dismounted, 
and  joined  Burns,  who,  on  his  proposing  to  cross  the  street,  said 
'  Nay,  nay,  my  young  friend,  that's  all  over  now  ;'  and  quoted,  after 
a  pause,  some  verses  of  Lady  Grizzel  Baillie's  pathetic  ballad  : 

His  bonnet  stood  ance  fu'  fair  on  his  brow, 
His  auld  ane  looked  better  than  monv  ane's  new ; 
But  now  he  lets'!  wear  ony  way  it  will  hinjr. 
And  casts  himsel'  dowie  upon  the  cori>bing. 

4  O  were  we  young,  as  we  ance  hae  been, 
We  sud  hae  been  galloping  down  on  yon  green, 
And  linking  it  ower  the  lily-white  lea  ! 
And  werena  my  heart  light  I  wad  die.1 

It  was  little  in  Burns's  character  to  let  his  feelings  on  certain  subjects 
escape  in  this  fashion.  He,  immediately  after  reciting  these  verses, 
assumed  the  sprightliness  of  his  most  pleasing  manner  ;  and,  taking 
his  young  friend  home  with  him,  entertained  him  very  agreeably  till 
the  hour  of  the  ball  arrived." 

Alas  !  when  we  think  that  Burns  now  sleeps  "  where  bitter  indig- 
nation can  no  longer  lacerate  his  heart,"*  and  that  most  of  these  fair 
dames  and  frizzled  gentlemen  already  lie  at  his  side,  where  the  breast- 
work of  gentility  is  quite  thrown  down  —who  would  not  sigh  over 
the  thin  delusions  and  foolish  toys  that  divide  heart  from  heart,  and 
make  man  unmerciful  to  his  brother? 

It  was  riot  now  to  be  hoped  that  the  genius  of  Burns  would  ever 
reach  maturity,  nor  accomplish  aught  worthy  of  its  If.  His  spirit 
was  jarred  in  its  melody  ;  not  the  soft  breath  of  natural  feeling,  but 
the  rude  hand  of  Fate,  was  now  sweeping  over  the  strings.  And  yet 
what  harmony  was  in  him,  what  music  even  in  his  discords  !  How 
the  wild  tones  had  a  charm  for  the  simplest  and  the  wisest ;  and  all 
nifn  felt  and  km  w  that  here  also  was  one  of  the  Gifted  !  "  If  hr-  en 
tered  an  inn  at  midnight,  after  all  the  inmates  were  in  bed,  the  news 
of  his  arrival  circulated  from  the  cellar  to  the  garret ;  and  ere  ten 
minutes  had  elapsed,  the  landlord  and  all  his  guests  were  assem- 
bled !  "  Some  brief,  pure  moments  of  poetic  life  were  yet  appointed 
him,  in  the  composition  of  his  Songs.  We  can  understand  how  lie 
grasped  at  this  employment,  and  how,  too,  lie  spurned  at  all  othe* 

*  Ubi  gce-ca  indiffnalio  ecr  ulteriuflacerarenegiiit.— SWIFT'S  Epitaph. 


44  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

reward  for  it  but  what  the  labor  itself  brought  him.  For  the  soul  of 
Barns,  though  scathed  and  marred,  was  yet  living  in  its  full  moral 
strength,  though  sharply  conscious  of  its  errors  and  abasement ;  and 
here,  in  his  destitution  and  degradation,  was  one  act  of  seeming 
nobleness  and  self  devotedness  left  even  for  him  to  perform.  He  felt, 
too,  that  with  all  the  "  thoughless  follies  "  that  had  "  laid  him  low," 
the  world  was  unjust  and  cruel  to  him  ;  and  he  silently  appealed  to 
another  and  calmer  time.  Not  as  a  hired  soldier,  but  as  a  patriot, 
would  he  strive  for  the  glory  of  his  country  ;  so  he  cast  from  him  the 
poor  sixpence  a-day,  and  served  zealously  as  a  volunteer.  Let  us  not 
grudge  him  this  last  luxury  of  his  existence  ;  let  him  not  have  ap- 
liralrd  to  us  in  vain  !  The  money  was  not  necessary  to  him  ;  he 
struggled  through  without  it ;  long  since,  these  guineas  would  have 
been  gone,  and  now  the  high-mindedness  of  refusing  them  will  plead 
for  him  in  all  hearts  for  ever. 

We  are  here  arrived  at  the  crisis  of  Burns's  life  ;  for  matters  had 
now  taken  such  a  shape  with  him  as  could  not  long  continue.  If  im- 
provement was  not  to  be  looked  for,  Nature  could  only  for  a  limited 
time  maintain  this  dark  and  maddening  warfare  against  the  world 
and  itself.  We  are  not  medically  informed  whether  any  continuance 
of  years  was,  at  this  period,  probable  for  Burns  ;  whether  his  death 
is  to  be  looked  on  as  in  some  sense  an  accidental  event,  or  only  as  the 
natural  consequence  of  the  long  series  of  events  that  had  preceded. 
The  latter  seems  to  be  the  likelier  opinion,  and  yet  it  is  by  no  means 
a  certain  one.  At  all  events,  as  we  have  said",  some  change  could  not 
'be  very  distant.  Three  gates  of  deliverance,  it  seems  to  us,  were 
open  for  Burns :  clear  poetical  activity,  madness,  or  death.  The 
first,  with  longer  life,  was  still  possible,  though  not  probable  ;  for 
physical  causes  were  beginning  to  be  concerned  in  it :  and  yet  Burns 
had  an  iron  resolution  :  could  he  but  have  seen  and  felt  that  not  only 
his  highest  glory,  but  his  first  duty,  and  the  true  medicine  for  all  his 
woes,  lay  here.  The  second  was  still  less  probable  ;  for  his  mind  was 
ever  among  the  clearest  and  firmest.  So  the  milder  third  gate  was 
opened  for  him  :  and  he  passed,  not  softly,  yet  speedily,  into  that 
still  country  where  the  hail-storms  and  fire-showers  do  not  reach, 
and  the  heaviest-laden  wayfarer  at  length  lays  down  his  load  ! 

Contemplating  this  sad  end  of  Burns,  and  how  he  sank  unaided  by 
any  real  help,  uncheered  by  any  wise  sympathy,  generous  minds  hava 
sometimes  figured  to  themselves,  with  a  reproachful  sorrow,  that 
much  might  have  mwm  done  for  him  ;  that  by  counsel,  true  affection, 
and  friendly  miaJ>''ft.«nn»,  he  might  have  been  saved  to  himself  and 
the  world.  We  <IIMMUOU  whether  there  is  not  more  tenderness  of 
heart  than  soiin<*»«*s  of  judgment  in  these  suggestions.  It  seems 
dubious  to  us  whwrertue  richest, 'wisest,  most  benevolent  individual, 
could  have  lent  Uiu-us  any  effectual  help.  Counsel,  which  seldom 
profits  any  one,  h<*  rtW  not  need  ;  in  his  understanding,  he  knew  the 
right  from  the  wrong,  as  well  perhaps  as  any  man  ever  did  ;  but  the 


LIFE  OF  BURNS'.  46 

persuasion  which  would  have  availed  him  lies  not  so  much  in  the 
head  as  in  the  heart,  where  no  argument  or  expostulation  could  have 
assisted  much  to  implant  it.  As  to  money  again,  we  do  not  really  be- 
lieve that  this  was  his  essential  want ;  or  well  see  how  any  private 
man  could,  even  presupposing  Burus's  consent,  have  bestowed  on  him 
<ui  independent  fortune,  with  much  prospect  of  decisive  advantage. 
It  is  a  mortifying  truth,  that  two  men  in  any  rank  of  society  could 
hardly  be  found  virtuous  enough  to  give  money,  and  to  take  it,  as  a 
necessary  gift,  without  injury  to  the  moral  entireness  of  one  or  both. 
But  so  stands  the  fact :  friendship,  in  the  old  heroic  sense  of  that 
term,  no  longer  exists,  except  in  the  cases  of  kindred  or  other  legal 
affinity  ;  it  is  in  reality  no  longer  expected,  or  recognized  as  a  virtue 
among  men.  A  close  observer  of  manners  has  pronounced  "  Patron- 
age," that  is,  pecuniary  or  other  economic  furtherance,  to  be  "  twice 
cursed  ;"  cursing  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes  !  And  thus,  in 
regard  to  outward  matters  also,  it  has  become  the  rule,  as  in  regard 
to  inward  it  always  was  and  must  be  the  rule,  that  no  one  shall  look 
for  effectual  help  to  another  ;  but  that  each  shall  rest  contented  with 
what  help  he  can  afford  himself.  Such,  we  say,  is  the  principle  of 
modern  Honor  ;  naturally  enough  growing  out  of  that  sentiment  of 
Pride  which  we  inculcate  and  encourage  as  the  basis  of  our  whole 
social  morality.  Many  a  poet  has  been  poorer  than  Burns  ;  but  no 
one  was  ever  prouder  :  and  we  may  question  whether,  without  great 
precautions,  even  a  pension  from  Royalty  would  not  have  galled  and 
encumbered,  more  than  actually  assisted  him. 

Still  less,  therefore,  are  we  disposed  to  join  with  another  class  of 
Burns's  admirers,  who  accuse  the  higher  ranks  among  us  of  having 
ruined  Burns  by  their  selfish  neglect  of  him.  We  have  already 
stated  our  doubts  whether  direct  pecuniary  help,  had  it  been  offered, 
would  have  been  accepted,  or  could  have  proved  very  effectual.  We 
shall  readily  admit,  however,  that  much  was  to  be  done  for  Burns  ; 
that  many  a  poisoned  arrow  might  have  been  warded  from  his  bosom  ; 
many  an  entanglement  in  his  path  cut  asunder  by  the  hand  of  the 
powerful  ;  and  light  and  heat  shed  on  him  from  high  places  would  have 
made  his  humble  atmosphere  more  genial,  and  the  softest  heart  then 
breathing  might  have  lived  and  died  with  some  fewer  pangs.  Nay, 
we  shall  grant  further — and  for  Burns  it  is  granting  much — that  with 
all  his  pride,  he  would  have  thanked,  even  with  exaggerated  grati- 
tude, any  one  who  had  cordially  befriended  him  :  patronage,  unions 
once  cursed,  needed  not  to  have  been  twice  so.  At  all  events,  the 
poor  promotion  he  desired  in  his  calling  might  have  been  granted  :  it 
was  his  own  scheme,  therefore  likelier  than  any  other  to  be  of  ser- 
vice. All  this  it  might  have  been  a  luxury — nay,  it  was  a  duty — for 
our  nobility  to  have  done.  No  part  of  all.  this,  however,  did  any  of 
them  do  ;  or  apparently  attempt,  or  wisii  to  do  ;  so  much  is  granted 
against  them.  But  what,  then,  is  the  amount  of  their  blame?  Sim- 
ply that  they  were  men  of  the  world,  and  walked  by  the  principles  of 


46  LIFE  OP  BURNS. 

such  men  ;  that  they  treated  Burns  as  other  nobles  and  other  coin 
moners  had  done  other  poets — as  the  English  did  Shakspeare,  as 
King  Charles  and  his  cavaliers  did  Butler,  as  King  Philip  and  his 
grandees  did  Cervantes.  Do  men  gather  grapes  of  thorns  ?  or  shall 
we  cut  down  our  thorns  for  yielding  only  a  fence,  and  haws  ?  How, 
indeed,  could  the  ' '  nobility  and  gentry  of  his  native  land "  hold  out 
any  hslp  to  this  "Scottish  Bard,  proud  of  his  name  and  country?" 
Were  the  nobility  and  gentry  so  much  as' able  rightly  to  help  them- 
selves ?  Had  they  not  their  game  to  preserve,  their  borough  interests 
5o  strengthen— dinners,  therefore,  of  various  kinds  to  eat  and  give  t 
Were  their  means  more  than  adequate  to  all  this  business,  or  less 
than  adequate  ?  Less  than  adequate  in  general :  few  of  them  in  real- 
ity were  richer  than  Burns ;  many  of  them  were  poorer,  for  some- 
times they  had  to  wring  their  supplies,  as  with  thumbscrews,  from 
the  hard  hand,  and,  in  their  need  of  guineas,  to  forget  their  duty  of 
mercy,  which  Burns  was  never  reduced  to  do.  Let  us  pity  and  for- 
give them.  The  game  they  preserved  and  shot,  the  dinners  they  ate 
and  gave,  the  borough  interests  they  strengthened,  the  little  Babylon? 
they  severally  builded  by  the  glory  of  their  might,  are  all  melted  or 
melting  back  into  the  primeval  Chaos,  as  man's  merely  selfish  en- 
deavors are  fated  to  do  :  and  here  was  an  action  extending,  in  virtue 
of  its  worldly  influence,  we  may  say,  through  all  time  ;  in  virtue  of 
its  moral  nature,  beyond  all  time,  being  immortal  as  the  Spirit  of 
Goodness  itself  ;  this  action  was  offered  them  to  do,  and  light  was 
not  given  them  to  do  it.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive  them.  But,  better 
than  pity,  let  us  go  and  do  otherwise.  Human  suffering  did  not  end 
with  the  life  of  Burns  ;  neither  was  the  solemn  mandate,  "  Love  one 
another,  bear  one  another's  burdens,"  given  to  the  rich  only,  but  to* 
all  men.  True,  we  shall  find  no  Burns  to  relieve,  to  assuage  by  our 
aid  or  our  pity  :  but  celestial  natures  groaning  under  thv  fardels  of 
a  weary  life,  we  shall  still  find  ;  and  that  wretchedness  which  Fate 
has  rendered  voiceless  and  tuneless  is  not  the  least  wretched,  but  the 
most. 

Still  w^do  not  think  that  the  blame  of  Burns's  failure  lies  chiefly 
with  the  world.  The  world,  it  seems  to  us,  treated  him  with  more, 
rather  than  with  less,  kindness  than  it  usually  shows  to  such  men. 
It  has  ever,  we  fear,  shown  but  small  favor  to  its  Teachers  ;  hunger 
and  nakedness,  perils  and  reviling,  the  prison,  the  cross,  the  poison- 
(luilhv,  have',  in  most  times  and  countries,  been  the  market-place  it 
has  offered  for  Wisdom,  the  welcome  with  which  it  has  greeted  those 
who  have  come  to  enlighten  and  purify  it.  Homer  and  Socrates  and 
the  Christian  Apostles  belong  to  old  days;  but  the  world's  Martyr- 
nldgy  was  not  completed  with  these.  Roger  Bacon  and  Galileo  lan- 
guish in  priestly  dungeons,  Tasso  pines  in  the  cell  of  a  mad-house, 
'  camoens  dies  begging  on  -the  streets  of  Lisbon.  So  neglected,  so 
•  persecuted  they  the  Prophets,"  not  in  Judea  only,  bur.  in  all  places 
where  men  have  been.  We  reckon  that  every  poet  of  Burus's  order 


LIFE  OF  BURNS.  47 

Is,  or  should  bo,  a  prophet  and  teacher  to  his  age  ;  that  he  has  no 
right  therefore  to  expect  great  kindness  from  it,  but  rather  is  bound 
to  do  it  great  kindness  ;  that  Burns,  in  particular,  experienced  fully 
the  usual  proportion  of  the  world's  goodness  ;  and  that  the  blame  of 
his  failure,  as  we  have  said,  lies  not  chiefly  with  tire  world. 

Where,  then,  does  it  lie  ?  We  are  forced  to  answer  :  With  him- 
self ;  it  is  his  inward,  not  his  outward  misfortunes,  that  bring  him  to 
the  dust.  Seldom,  indeed,  is  it  otherwise  ;  seldom  is  a  life  morally 
wrecked  but  the  grand  cause  lies  in  some  internal  mal-arrangeinent, 
some  want  less  of  good  fortune  than  of  good  guidance.  Nature 
fashions  no  creature  without  implanting  in  it  the  strength  needful 
for  its  action  and  duration  ;  least  of  all  does  she  so  neglect  her  mas- 
terpiece and  darling,  the  poetic  soul.  Neither  can  we  believe  that  it 
is  in  the  power  of  arn/  external  circumstances  utterly  to  ruin  tt« 
mind  of  a  man  ;  nay,  if  proper  wisdom  be  given  him,  even  so  mucti 
as  to  affect  its  essential  health  and  beauty.  The  sternest  sum-total 
of  all  worldly  misfortunes  is  Death  ;  nothing  more,  can  lie  in  the  cup 
of  human  woe  :  yet  many  men,  in  all  ages,  have  triumphed  over 
Death,  and  led  it  captive,  converting  its  physical  victory  into  a  moral 
victory  for  themselves,  into  a  seal  and  immortal  consecration  for  all 
that  their  past  life  had  achieved.  WThat  has  been  done  may  be  done 
again  ;  nay,  it  is  but  the  degree  and  not  the  kind  of  such  heroism 
that  differs  in  different  seasons  ;  for  without  some  portion  of  this 
spirit,  not  of  boisterous  daring,  but  of  silent  fearlessness,  of  Self- 
denial,  in  all  its  forms,  no  good  man,  in  any  scene  or  time,  has  ever 
attained  to  be  good. 

We  have  already  stated  the  error  of  Burns,  and  mourned  over  ii^ 
rather  than  blamed  it.  It  was  the  want  of  unity  in  his  purposes,  of 
consistency  in  his  aims  ;  the  hapless  attempt  to  mingle  in  friendly 
union  the  common  spirit  of  the  world  with  the  spirit  of  poetry,  which 
is  of  a  far  different  and  altogether  irreconcilable  nature.  Burns  was 
nothing  wholly,  and  Burns  could  be  nothing  ;  no  man  formed  as  ho 
was  can  bo  anything  by  halves.  The  heart,  not  of  a  mere  hot- 
blooded,  popular  verse-monger,  or  poetical  Restaurateur,  but  of  a 
true  Poet  and  Singer,  worthy  of  the  old  religious  heroic  times,  had 
been  given  him  :  and  he  fell  in  an  age,  not  of  heroism  and  religion, 
but  of  skepticism,  selfishness,  and  triviality,  when  true  Nobleness 
was  little  understood,  and  its  place  supplied  by  a  hollow,  dissocial, 
altogether  barren  and  unfruitful  principle  of  Pride.  The  influences 
of  that  age,  his  open,  kind,  susceptible  nature,  to  say  nothing  of  hia 
highly  untoward  situation,  made  it  more  than  usually  difficult  for 
him  to  repel  or  resist ;  the  better  spirit  that  was  within  him  ever 
sternly  demanded  its  rights,  its  supremacy  ;  he  spent  his  life  in  en- 
deavoring to  reconcile  these  two,  and  lost  it,  as  he  must  have  lost  it, 
without  reconciling  them  here. 

Burns  was  born  poor  ;  and  born  also  to  continue  poor,  for  he  would 
»ot  endeaver  to  be  otherwise  :  this  it  had  been  well  could  ha  h.av« 


48  LIFE   OF  BURNS. 

once  for  all  admitted  and  considered  as  finally  settled.  He  was  poof, 
truly  ;  but  hundreds  even  of  his  own  class  and  order  of  minds  nave 
been  poorer,  yet  have  suffered  nothing  deadly  from  it :  nay,  his  own 
father  had  a  far  sorer  battle  with  ungrateful  destiny  than  his  was  ; 
and  he  did  not  yield  to  it,  but  died  courageously  warring,  and  to  all 
moral  intents  prevailing,  against  it.  True,  Burns  had  little  means, 
had  even  little  time  for  poetry,  his  only  real  pursuit  and  vocation  ; 
but  so  much  the  more  precious  was  what  little  he  had.  In  all  these 
external  respects  his  case  was  hard,  but  very  far  from  the  hardest. 
Poverty,  incessant  drudgery,  and  much  worse  evils,  it  has  often  been 
the  lot  of  poets  and  wise  men  to  str.ve  with,  and  their  glory  to  con- 
quer. Locke  was  l^anished  as  a  traitor,  and  wrote  his  Essay  on  the 
Human  Understanding  sheltering  himself  in  a  Dutch  garret.  Was 
Milton  rich,  or  at  his  ease,  when  he  composed  Paradise  Lose  f  Not 
only  low,  but  fallen  from  a  height ;  not  only  poor,  but  impoverished  ; 
in  darkness  and  with  dangers  compassed  round,  he  sang  his  immor- 
tal song,  and  found  fit  audience,  though  few.  Did  not  Cervantes 
finish  his  work  a  maimed  soldier  and  in  prison  ?  Nay,  was  not  tire 
Araucana,  which  Spain  acknowledges  as  its  Epic,  written  without 
even  the  aid  of  paper — on  scraps  of  leather,  as  the  stout  fighter  and 
voyager  snatched  any  moment  from  that  wild  warfare  ? 

And  what  then  had  these  men  which  Burns  wanted?  Two  things, 
both  which,  it  seems  to  us,  are  indispensable  for  such  men.  They 
had  a  true,  religious  principle  of  morals  ;  and  a  single  not  a  double 
aim  in  their  activity.  They  were  not  self-seekers  and  self- worship- 
pers ;  but  seekers  and  worshippers  of  something  far  better  than  Self. 
Not  personal  enjoyment  was  their  object  ;  but  a  high,  heroic  idea  of 
Religion,  of  Patriotism,  of  heavenly  Wisdom,  in  one  or  the  other 
form,  ever  hovered  before  them  ;  in  which  cause,  they  neither  shrank 
from  suffering,  nor  called  on  the  earth  to  witness  it  as  something  won- 
derful ;  hut  patiently  endured,  counting  it  blessedness  enough  so  to 
spend  and  be  spent.  Thus  the  "  golden  calf  of  Self-love,"  however 
curiously  carved,  was  not  their  Deity;  but  the  Invisible  Goodness, 
which  alone  is  man's  reasonable  service.  This  feeling  was  as  a  celes- 
tial fountain,  whose  streams  refreshed  into  gladness  and  beauty  all  the 
provinces  of  their  otherwise  too  desolate  existence.  In  a  word,  they 
willed  one  thing,  to  which  all  other  things  were  subordinated  and 
made  subservient :  and  therefore  they  accomplished  it.  The  wedge 
will  rend  rocks  ;  but  its  edge  must  be  sharp  and  single  ;  if  it  be  dou- 
ble, the  wedge  is  bruised  in  pieces  and  will  rend  nothing. 

Part  of  this  superiority  these  men  owed  to  their  age  ;  in  which 
heroism  and  devotedness  were  still  practised,  or  at  least  not  yet  dis- 
believed in  ;  but  much  of  it  likewise  they  owed  to  themselves.  With 
Burns  again  it  was  different.  His  morality,  in  most  of  its  practical 
points,  is  that  of  a  mere  worldly  man  ;  enjoyment,  in  a  finer  or  a 
coarser  shape,  is  the  only  thing  he  longs  and  strives  for.  A  noble  in- 
stinct Bcxoetunen  SMM*  kirn  above  this  ;  but  an  instinct  only,  and  act- 


LIFE   OF   BURNS.  48 

>  • 

iag.  only  for  moments.  He  has  no  Religion  ;  in  the  shallow  age, 
where  his  days  were  cast,  Religion  was  not  discriminated  from  the 
New  and  Old  Light  forms  of  Religion  ;  and  'Vas,  with  these,  becom- 
ing obsolete  in  the  minds  of  men.  His  he<\rt,  indeed,  is  alive  witli  a 
trembling  adoration,  but  there  is  no  temple  in  his  understanding. 
He  lives  in  darkness  and  in  the  shadow  of  doubt.  His  religion,  at 
best,  is  an  anxious  wish  ;  like  that  of  Rabelais;  "a  great  Perhaps." 

He  loved  Poetry  warmly,  and  in  nis  heart  ;  could  he  but  have  loved 
it  purely,  and  with  his  whole  undivided  heart,  it  had  been  well.  For 
Poetry,  as  Burns  could  have  followed  it,  is  but  another  form  of  Wis- 
dom, of  Religion  ;  is  itself  Wisdom  and  Religion.  But  this  also  was 
denied  him.  His  poetry  *s  a  stray,  vagrant  gleam,  which  will  not  be 
extinguished  within  hira,  yet  rises  not  to  be  the  true  light  of  his  path, 
but  is  often  a  wildfire  "Uiat  misleads  him.  It  was  not  necessary  for 
Burns  to  be  rich,  to  be  or  to  seem  "  independent ;  "  but  it  was  neces- 
sary for  him  to  be  at  one  with  his  own  heart ;  to  place  what  was 
highest  in  his  nature,  highest  also  in  his  life  ;  "to  seek  within  him- 
self for  that  consistency  and  sequence  which  external  events  would 
for  ever  refuse  him."  He  was  born  a  poet ;  poetry  was  the  celestial 
element  of  his  being,  and  should  have  been  the  soul  of  his  whole  en- 
deavors. Lifted  into  that  serene  ether,  whither  he  had  wings  given 
him  to  mount,  he  would  have  needed  no  other  elevation  :  Poverty, 
neglect,  and  all  evil,  save  the  desecration  of  himself  and  his  Art, 
were  a  small  matter  to  him  :  th<;  pride  and  the  passions  of  the  world 
lay  far  beneath  his  feet ;  and  he  looked  down  alike  on  noble  and  slave, 
»n  prince  and  beggar,  and  all  that  wore  the  stamp  of  man,  with  clear 
recognition,  with  brotherly  affection,  with  sympathy,  with  pity.  Nay, 
we  question  whether  for  his  culture  as  a  Poet,  poverty,  and  much  suf- 
fering for  a  season,  were  not  absolutely  advantageous.  Great  men,  in 
looking  back  over  their  lives,  have  testified  to  that  effect.  "  I  would 
not  for  much."  says  Jean  Paul,  "  that  I  had  been  born  richer."  And 
yet  Paul's  birth  was  poor  enough;  for 'in  another  place  he  adds: 
"  The  prisoner's  allowance  is  bread  and  water  ;  and  I  had  often  only 
the  latter."  But  the  gold  that  is  refined  in  the  hottest  furnace  conies 
out  the  purest  ;  or,  as  he  has  himself  expressed  it,  "the  canary  bird 
sings  sweeter  the  longer  it  has  been  trained  in  a  darkened  cage." 

A  man  like  Burns  might  have  divided  his  hours  between  poetry 
and  virtuous  industry  ;  industry  which  all  true  feeling  sanctions,  nay, 
prescribes,  and  which  has  a  beauty,  for  that  cause,  beyond  the  pomp 
of  thrones  ;  but  to  divide  his  hours  between  poetry  and  rich  men's 
banquets,  was  an  ill-starred  and  inauspicious  attempt.  How  could  he 
be  at  ease  at  such  banquets '?  What  had  he  to  do  there,  mingling  his 
music  with  the  coarse  roar  of  altogether  earthly  voices,  and  brighten- 
ing the  thick  smoke  of  intoxication  with  fire  lent  him  from  heaven  ? 
Was  it  his  aim  to  enjoy  life?  To-morrow  he  must  go  drudge  as  an 
Exciseman  !  We  wonder  not  that  Burns  became  moody,  indignant, 
«Hid  at  times  an  offender  against  certain  rules  of  society  ;  but  ratkar 


50  LIFE   OF   BURNS. 

• 

that  he  did  not  grow  utterly  frantic,  and  run  a-muck  against  them  all. 
How  could  a  man,  so  falsely  placed,  by  his  own  or  others'  fault,  ever 
know  contentment  or  peaceable  diligence  for  an  hour?  What  he  did, 
under  such  perverse  guidance,  and  what  he  forbore  to  do,  alike  fill  us 
with  astonishment  at  the  natural  strength  and  worth  of  his  character. 

Doubtless  there  was  a  remedy  for  this  perverseness :  but  not  in 
•thers,  only  in  himself  ;  least  of  all  in  simple  increase  of  wealth  and 
worldly  "respectability."  We  hope  we  have  now  heard  enough 
about  the  efficacy  of  wealth  for  poetry,  and  to  make  poets  happy. 
Nay,  have  we  not  seen  another  instance  of  it  in  these  very  days  ? 
Byron,  a  man  of  endowment,  considerably  less  ethereal  than  that  of 
Burns,  is  born  in  the  rank  not  of  a  Scottish  ploughman,  but  of  an 
English  peer  :  the  highest  worldly  honors,  the  fairest  worldly  career, 
are  his  by  inheritance  :  the  richest  harvest  of  fame  he  soon  reaps,  in 
another  province,  by  Ms  own  hand.  And  what  does  all  this  avail 
him  ?  Is  he  happy,  is  he  good,  is  he  true  ?  Alas,  he  has  a  poet's 
soul,  and  strives  towards  the  Infinite  and  the  Eternal ;  and  soon  feels 
that  all  this  is  but  mounting  to  the  house-top  to  reach  the  stars  !  Like 
Burns,  he  is  only  a  proud  man  ;  might  like  him  have  "  purchased  a 
pocket-copy  of  Milton  to  study  the  character  of  Satan  ; "  for  Satan 
also  is  Byron's  grand  exemplar,  the  hero  of  his  poetry  and  the  model 
apparently  of  his  conduct.  As  in  Burns's  case,  too,  the  celestial  ele- 
ment will  not  mingle  with  the  clay  of  earth  ;  both  poet  and  man  of 
the  world  he  must  not  be  ;  vulgar  Ambition  will  not  live  kindly  with 
poetic  Adoration  ;  he  cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon.  Byron,  like 
Burns,  is  not  happy  ;  nay,  he  is  the  most  wretched  of  all  men.  His 
life  is  falsely  arranged  :  the  fire  that  is  in  him  is  not  a  strong,  still, 
central  fire,  warming  into  beauty  the  products  of  a  world  ;  but  it  is 
the  mad  fire  of  a  volcano  ;  and  now — we  look  sadly  into  the  ashes  of 
a  crater,  which  ere  long  will  fill  itself  with  snow  ! 

Byron  and  Burns  were  sent  forth  as  missionaries  to  their  genera- 
tion, to  teach  it  a -higher  doctrine,  a  purer  truth  :  they  had  a  message 
to  deliver,  which  left  them  no  rest  till  it  was  accomplished  ;  in  dim 
throes  of  pain,  this  divine  behest  lay  smouldering  within  them  ;  for 
they  knew  not  what  it  meant,  and  felt  it  only  in  mysterious  anticipa- 
tion, and  they  had  to  die  without  articulately  uttering  it.  "  They  are 
in  the  camp  of  the  Unconverted.  Yet  not  as  high  messengers  of  rigor- 
»us  though  benignant  truth,  but  as  soft  flattering  singers,  and  in 
pleasant  fellowship,  will  they  live  there  ;  they  are  first  adulated,  then 
persecuted  ;  they  accomplish  little  for  others  ;  they  find  no  peace  for 
themselves,  but  only  death  and  the  peace  of  the  grave.  We  confess, 
it  is  not  without  a  certain  mournful  awe  that  we  view  the  fate  of  these 
noble  souls,  so  richly  gifted,  yet  ruined  to  so  little  purpose  with  all 
their  gifts.  It  seems  to  us  there  is  a  stern  moral  taught  in  this  piece 
of  history — ttrire  told  us  in  our  own  time !  Surely  to  men  of  like 
p 'iiins,  if  there  be  any  such,  it  carries  with  it  a  lesson  of  deep  impres- 
sive significance.  Surely  it  would  become  such  a  man,  furnished  for 


LIFE   OF  BURNS.  51 

the  highest  of  all  enterprises,  that  of  being  the  Poet  of  his  Age,  to 
consider  well  what  it  is  that  he  attempts,  and  in  what  spirit  he  at- 
tempts it.  For  the  words  of  Milton  are  true  in  all  times,  and  were 
never  trurer  than  in  this  :  "  He  who  would  write  heroic  poems 
must  make  his  whole  life  a  heroic  poem." 

If  he  cannot  first  so  make  his  life,  then  let  him  hasten  from  this 
arena  ;  for  neither  its  lofty  glories  nor  its  fearful  perils  are  for  him. 
L#t  him  dwindle  into  a  modish  balladmonger  ;  let  him  worship  and 
be-sing  the  idols  of  the  time,  and  the  time  will  not  fail  to  reward 
him — if,  indeed,  he  can  endure  to  live  in  that  capacity  '  Byron  and 
Burns  could  not  live  as  idol-priests,  but  the  fire  of  their  own  hearts 
consumed  them  ;  and  better  it  was  for  them  that  they  could  not. 
For  it  is  not  in  the  favor  of  the  great  or  of  the  small,  but  in  a  life  of 
truth,  and  in  the  inexpugnable  citadel  of  his  own  soul,  that  a  Byron's 
or  a  Burns's  strength  must  lie.  Let  the  great  stand  aloof  from  him, 
or  know  how  to  reverence  him.  Beautiful  is  the  union  of  wealth 
with  favor  and  furtherance  for  literature,  like  the  costliest  flower- 
jar  enclosing  the  lovliest  amaranth.  Yet  let  not  th«  relation  be  mis- 
taken. A  true  poet  is  not  one  whom  they  can  hire  by  money  or  flat- 
tery to  be  a  minister  of  their  pleasures,  their  writer  of  occasional  ver- 
ses, their  purveyor  of  table- wit ;  he  cannot  be  their  menial,  he  cannot 
even  be  their  partisan.  At  the  peril  of  both  parties,  let  no  such 
union  be  attempted  !  Will  a  Courser  of  the  Sun  work  softly  in  the 
harness  of  a  Dray-horse  ?  His  hoofs  are  of  fire,  and  his  path  is 
through  the  heavens,  bringing  light  to  all  lands  ;  will  he  lumber  on 
mud  highways,  dragging  ale  for  earthly  appetites,  from  door  to  door  ? 

But  we  must  stop  short  in  these  considerations,  which  would  lead 
as  to  boundless  lengths.  We  had  something  to  say  on  the  public 
moral  character  of  Burns  ;  but  this  also  we  must  forbear.  We  are 
far  from  regarding  him  as  guilty  before  the  world,  as  guiltier  than 
the  average  ;  nay,  from  doubting  that  he  is  less  guilty  than  one  of  ten 
thousand.  Tried  at  a  tribunal  far  more  rigid  than  that  where  ihePleb- 
iscita  of  common  civic  reputations  are  pronounced,  he  has  seemed  to 
us  even  there  less  worthy  of  blame  than  of  pity  and  wonder.  But 
the  world  is  habitually  unjust  in  its  judgments  of  such  men  ;  unjust 
on  many  grounds,  of  which  this  one  may  be  stated  as  the  substance  : 
it  decides,  like  a  court  of  law,  by  dead  statutes  ;  and  not  positively 
but  negatively  ;  less  on  what  is  done  right  than  on  what  is  or  is  not 
done  wrong.  N>  t  the  few  inches  of  reflection  from  the  mathematical 
(  rbit,  which  are  so  easily  measured,  but  the  ratio  of  these  to  the 
whole  diameter,  constitutes  the  real  aberration.  This  orbit  may  be  a 
planet's,  its  diameter  the  breadth  of  the  solar  system  ;  or  it  may  be  a 
city  hippodrome  ;  nay,  the  circle  of  the  ginhorse,  its  diameter  a  score 
of  feet  or  paces.  But  the  inches  of  deflection  only  are  measured  ;  and 
it  is  assumed  that  the  diameter  of  the  ginhorse  and  that  of  the  planet 
will  yield  the  same  ratio  when  compared  with  them.  Here  lies  the 
root  of  many  a  blind,  cruel  condemnation  of  Burnses,  Swifts,  Rons- 


52  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

seaus,  which  one  never  listens  to  with  approval.  Granted,  the  ship 
comes  into  harbor  with  shrouds  and  tackle  damaged  ;  and  the  pilot  is 
therefore  blameworthy  ;  for  he  has  not  been  all-wise  and  all-power- 
ful ;  but  to  know  how  blameworthy,  tell  us  first  whether  his  voyage 
has  been  round  the  Globe,  or  only  to  Ramsgate  and  the  Isle  of  Dogs. 
With  our  readers  in  general,  with  men  of  right  feeling  anywhere, 
we  are  not  required  to  plead  for  Burns.  In  pitying  admiration,  he 
lies  enshrined  in  all  our  hearts,  in  a  far  nobler  mausoleum  than  that 
one  of  marble  ;  neither  will  his  Works,  even  as  they  are,  pass  away 
from  the  memory  of  man.  While  the  Shakspeares  and  Miltons  roll 
on  like  mighiy  rivers  through  the  country  of  Thought,  bearing  fleets 
of  traffickers  and  assiduous  pearl-fishers  on  their  waves,  this  little 
Valclusa  Fountain  will  also  arrest  our  eye  :  for  this  also  is  of  Nature's 
own  and  most  cunning  workmanship,  bursts  from  the  depths  of  the 
earth,  with  a  full  gushing  current,  into  the  light  of  day  ;  and  often 
will  the  traveller  turn  aside  to  drink  of  its  «lear  waters,  and  ruua« 
among  its  rocks  and  pines  ! 


THE  KX9. 


LIFE  OF  MAHOHET. 


THE  genius  of  the  Arabian  prophet,  the  manners  of  his  nation,  and 
the  spirit  of  his  religion,  involve  the  causes  of  the  decline  and  fall  of 
the  Eastern  empire  ;  and  our  eyes  are  curiously  intent  on*  one  of  the 
most  memorable  revolutions,  which  have  impressed  a  new  and  lasting 
character  on  the  nations  of  the  globe.* 

In  the  vacant  space  between  Persia,  Syria,  Egypt,  and  ./Ethiopia, 
the  Arabian  peninsula  may  be  conceived  as  a  triangle  of  spacious  but 
irregular  dimensions.  From  the  northern  point  of  Beles(a)  on  the 
Euphrates,  a  line  of  fifteen  hundred  miles  is  terminated  by  the  straits 
of  Babelmandel  and  the  land  of  frankincense.  About  half  this  length 
may  be  allowed  for  the  middle  breadth,  from  east  to  west,  from  Bas- 
sora  to  Suez,  from  the  Persian  gulf  to  the  Red  Sea.  The  sides  of  the 
triangle  are  gradually  enlarged,  and  the  southern  basis  presents  a 
front  of  a  thousand  miles  to  the  Indian  ocean.  The  entire  surface  of 
the  peninsula  exceeds  in  a  fourfold  proportion  that  of  Germany  or 
France  ;  but  the  far  greater  part  has  been  justly  stigmatized  with  the 
epithets  of  the  stony  and  the  sandy.  Even  the  wilds  of  Tartary  are 
decked,  by  the  hand  of  nature,  with  lofty  trees  and  luxuriant  herbage  ; 
and  the  lonesome  traveller  derives  a  sort  of  comfort  and  society  from 
the  presence  of  vegetable  life.  But  in  the  dreary  waste  of  Arabia,  a 
boundless  level  of  sand  is  intersected  by  sharp  and  naked  mountains  ; 
and  the  face  of  the  desert,  without  shade  or  shelter,  is  scorched  by 
the  direct  and  intense  rays  of  the  tropical  sun.  Instead  of  refreshing 
breezes,  the  winds,  particularly  from  the  southwest,  diffuse  a  noxious 
and  even  deadly  vapor  ;  the  hillocks  of  sand  which  they  alternately 
raise  and  scatter  are  compared  to  the  billows  of  the  ocean,  and  whole 
caravans,  whole  armies  have  been  lost  and  buried  in  the  whirlwind. 

*  The  best  works  on  the  ancient  geography  and  ante-Mahometan  history  of  Arabia 
are  "  The  Historical  Geography  of  Arabia,  "by  the  Rev.  Char'es  Forster,  2  vols. 
8vo,  London,  1844,  and  ''Essai  sur  1'Histoire  desArabes  avant  rislamisme,  pendant 
1'epopue  de  Mahomet,  et  jusqu'a  la  reduction  de  toutes  les  tnbus  sous  la  loi  Musul- 
mane,"  by  A.  P.  Caussin  de  Perceval,  Professeur  d'Arabe  an  College  Koyal  de 
France,  3  vols.  8vo,  Paris.  1847-1848.  Of  the  latter  work  there  is  an  able  account  in 
the  Calcutta  Review,  No.  xli.— S. — Of  modern  travellers  ma  -  be  mentioned  the  ad- 
trenturer  who  called  himself  Ali  Bey  ;  but,  above  all,  the  intelligent,  the  enterpris- 
ing, the  accurate  Burckhardt. — M. 

(a)  It  was  in  this  place,  the  paradise  or  garden  of  a  satrap,  that  Xenophon  and  th« 
Greeks  first  passed  the  Euphrates, 

(1) 


2  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

The  common  benefits  of  water  are  an  object  of  desire  and  contest ; 
and  such  u  the  scarcity  of  wood  that  some  art  is  requisite  to  preserve 
and  propagate  the  element  of  fire.  Arabia  is  destitute  of  navigable 
rivers,  which  fertilize  the  soil,  and  convey  its  produce  to  the  adjacent 
regions ;  the  torrents  that  fall  from  the  hills  are  imbibed  by  the 
thirsty  earth  :  the  rare  and  hardy  plants,  the  tamarind  or  the  acacia, 
that  Htrike  their  roots  into  the  clefts  of  the  rocks,  are  nourishi'd  by 
the  dews  of  night ;  a  scanty  supply  of  rain  is  collected  in  cisterns  and 
aqueducts  ;  the  wells  and  springs  are  the  secret  treasure  of  the  desert  ; 
and  the  pilgrim  of  Mecca(a)  after  many  a  dry  and  sultry  march,  is 
disgusted  by  the  taste  of  the  waters,  which  have  rolled  over  a  bed  of 
sulphur  o%salt.  Such  is  the  general  and  genuine  picture  of  the  cli- 
mate of  Arabia.  The  experience  of  evil  enhances  the  value  of  any 
local  or  partial  enjoyments.  A  shady  grove,  a  green  pasture,  a  stream 
of  fresh  water,  are  sufficient  to  attract  a  colony  of  sedentary  Arabs  to 
the  fortunate  spots  which  can  afford  food  and  refreshment  to  them- 
selves and  their  cattle,  and  which  encourage  their  industry  in  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  palm-tree  and  the  vine.  The  high  lands  that  border 
on  the  Indian  ocean  are  distinguished  by  their  superior  plenty  of 
wood  and  water  ;  the  air  is  more  temperate,  the  fruits  are  more  deli- 
cious, the  animals  and  the  human  race  more  numerous  ;  the  fertility 
of  the  soil  invites  and  rewards  the  toil  of  the  husbandman  ;  and  the 
peculiar  gifts  of  frankincense(6)  and  coffee  have  attracted  iu  different 
ages  the  merchants  of  the  world.  If  it  be  compared  with  the  rest  of 
the  peninsula,  this  sequestered  region  may  truly  deserve  the  appella- 
tion of  the  happy  ;  and  the  splendid  coloring  of  fancy  and  fiction  has 
been  suggested  by  contrast  and  countenanced  by  distance.  It  was  for 
this  earthly  paradise  that  nature  had  reserved  her  choicest  favors  and 
her  most  curious  workmanship  :  the  incompatible  blessings  of  luxury 
and  innocence  were  ascribed  to  the  natives  :  the  soil  was  impregnated 
with  gold(c)  and  gems,  and  both  the  land  and  sea  were  taught  to  ex- 
fa)  In  the  thirty  days,  or  stations,  between  Cairo  and  Mecca,  there  are  fifteen  desti 
tute  of  good  water.  See  the  route  of  the  Hadjees  in  Shaw's  Travels,  p.  477. 

(ft)  The  aromatics,  especially  the  thus  or  frankincense  of  Arabia,  occupy  th« 
twelfth  book  of  Pliny.  OUT  great  poet  (Paradise  Lost,  1  iv  )  introduces,  in  a  simile, 
the  spicy  odors  that  are  blown  by  the  northeast  wind  from  the  'Saboean  coast : 


Many  a  league, 


Pleased  with  the  grateful  ecent,  old  Ocean  smiles. 

(c)  Agatharcides  affirms  that  lumps  of  pure  gold  were  found  from  the  size  of  an 
olive  to  that  of  a  nut  ;  that  iron  was  twice,  and  silver  ten  times,  the  value  of  gold, 
(de  Mari  Rubro,  p.  00.)  These  real  or  Imaginary  treasures  :  re  vanished,  and  no  gold 
mines  are  at  present  known  in  Arabia.  (Niebuhr,  Description,  p.  124.)* 

*  A  brilliant  passage  in  the  geographical  poem  of  Dionysius  Periesretes  embodies 
the  notions  of  the  ancients  on  the  wealth  and  fertility  of  Yemen.  Greek  mytholo- 
gy, and  the  traditions  of  the  "gorgeous  east,"  of  India  as  well  ns  Arabia,  are 
mingled  together  in  indiscriminate  splendor.  Compare  on  the  southern  coast  of 
Arabia  the  recent  travels  of  Lieut,  WelUted.— M. 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  3 

hale  the  odors  of  aromatic  sweets.  This  division  of  the  tandy,  the 
stony,  and  the  happy,  so  familiar  to  the  Greeks  and  Latins,  is  un- 
known to  the  Arabians  themselves  :  and  it  is  singular  enough  that  a 
country,  whose  language  and  inhabitants  have  ever  been  the  same, 
should  scarcely  retain  .a  vestige  of  its  ancient  geography.  The  mari- 
time districts  of  Bahrein  and  Oman  are  opposite  to  the  realm  of  Per- 
sia. The  kingdom  of  Yemen  displays  the  limits,  or  at  least  the 
situation,  of  Arabia  Faelix  :  the  name  of  Neged  is  extended  over  the 
inland  space  :  and  the  birth  of  Mahomet  has  illustrated  the  province 
of  Hejaz*  along  the  coast  of  the  Red  sea. 

The  measure  of  the  population  is  regulated  by  the  means  of  sub- 
sistence ;  and  the  inhabitants  of  this  vast  peninsula  might  be  out- 
numbered by  the  subjects  of  a  fertile  and  industrious  province.  Along 
the  shores  of  the  Persian  gulf,  of  the  ocean,  and  even  of  the  Red 
Sea,  the  Icthyophagi,  or  fish-enters,  continued  to  wander  in  quest  of 
their  precarious  food.  In  this  primitive  and  abject  state,  which  ill 
deserves  the  name  of  society,  the  human  brute,  without  arts  or  laws, 
almost  without  sense  or  language,  is  poorly  distinguished  from  the 
rest  of  the  animal  creation.  Generations  and  ages  might  roll  away  in 
silent  oblivion,  and  the  helpless  savage  was  restrained  from  multiply- 
ing his  race,  by  the  wants  and  pursuits  which  confined  his  existence 
to  the  narrow  margin  of  the  sea-coast.  But  in  an  early  period  cf  an- 
tiquity the  great  body  of  the  Arabs  had  emerged  from  this  scene  of 
misery  ;  and  as  the  naked  wilderness  could  not  maintain  a  people  of 
h  11  nters,  they  rose  at  once  to  the  more  secure  and  plentiful  condition 
of  the  pastoral  life.  The  same  life  is  uniformly  pursued  by  the  rov- 
ing tribes  of  the  desert ;  and  in  the  portrait  of  the  modern  Bedoiceens, 
we  may  trace  the  features  of  .their  ancestors,  who,  in  the  age  of  Moses  01 
Mahomet,  dwelt  under  similar  tents,  and  conducted  their  horses,  and 
camels,  and  sheep  to  the  same  springs  and  the  same  pastures.  Our 
toil  is  lessened,  and  our  wealth  is  increased,  by  our  dominion  over  the 
useful  animals  ;  and  the  Arabian  shepherd  had  acquired  the  absolute 
possession  of  a  faithful  friend  and  laborious  '  slave,  (a)  Arabia,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  naturalist,  is  the  genuine  and  original  country  of  the 
li»r*c  ;  the  climate  most  propitious,  not  indeed  to  the  size,  but  to  the 
spirit  and  swiftness  of  that  generous  animal.  The  merit  of  the  Barb, 
the  Spanish,  and  the  English  breed,  is  derived  from  a  mixture  of 
Arabian  blood  :  the  Bedoweens  preserve,  with  superstitious  care,  the 
honors  and  the  memory  of  the  purest  race :  the  males  are  so.d  at  a 
high  price,  but  the  females  are  seldom  alienated  ;  and  the  birth  of  a 

*  JTejnz  means  the  "barrier"  or  "frontier,"  as  lying  between  the  southern  and 
northern  merchants,  or,  in  other  words,  between  Arabia  Faalix  and  Arabia  Petrsea. 
It  is  a  mountainous  (.istrict,  and  includes  Medina  as  well  as  Mecca.  It  occupies  the 
space  between  Nefjed  (Najd)  and  the  Red  Sea.  Sprenger,  Life  of  Mohammed,  p.  14; 
C.  de  Perceval,  Es'sai,  &c.,  vol.  1,  p.  3.— 8. 

(a)  Read  (it  is  no  unpleasant  task)  the  incomparable  articles  of  the  Hont  and  the 
Camel,  in  the  Natural  History  of  M.  de  Buffon. 


4  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

noble  foal  was  esteemed  among  the  tribes  as  a  subject  of  joy  and 
mutual  congratulation.  These  horses  are  educated  in  the  tents,  among 
the  children  of  the  Arabs,  with  a  tender  familiarity,  which  trains 
them  in  the  habits  of  gentleness  and  attachment.  They  are  accus- 
tomed only  to  walk  and  to  gallop  :  their  sensations  are  not  blunted  by 
the  incessant  abuse  of  the  spur  and  the  whip  ;  their  powers  are  re- 
served for  the  moments  of  flight  and  pursuit  :  but  no  sooner  do  they 
feel  the  touch  of  the  hand  or  the  stirrup,  than  they  dart  away  with 
the  swiftness  of  the  wind  ;  and  if  their  friend  be  dismounted  in  the 
rapid  career,  they  instantly  stop  till  he  has  recovered  his  seat.  In  the 
sands  of  Africa  and  Arabia,  the  camel  is  a  sacred  and  precious  gift. 
That  strong  and  patient  beast  of  burthen  can  perform,  without  eating 
or  drinking,  a  journey  of  several  days  ;  and  a  reservoir  of  fresh  water 
is  preserved  in  a  large  bag,  a  fifth  stomach  of  the  animal,  whose  body 
is  imprinted  with  the  marks  of  servitude  :  the  larger  breed  is  capable 
of  transporting  a  weight  of  a  thousand  pounds  ;  and  the  dromedary, 
of  a  lighter  and  more  active  frame,  outstrips  the  fleetest  courser  in 
the  race.  Alive  or  dead,  almost  every  part  of  the  camel  is  serviceable 
to  man  :  her  milk  is  plentiful  and  nutritious  :  the  young  and  tender 
flesh  has  the  taste  of  veal :  a  valuable  salt  is  extracted  from  the  urine  : 
the  dung  supplies  the  deficiency  of  fuel  ;  and  the  long  hair,  which 
falls  each  year  and  is  renewed,  is  coarsely  manufactured  into  the  gar- 
ments, the  furniture,  and  the  tents  of  the  Bedoweens.  In  the  rainy 
seasons  they  consume  the  rare  and  insufficient  herbage  of  the  desert ; 
during  the  heats  of  summer  and  the  scarcity  of  winter,  they  remove 
their  encampments  to  the  sea-coast,  the  hills  of  Yemen,  or  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Euphrates,  and  have  often  extorted  the  dangerous 
license  of  visiting  the  banks  of  the  Nile  and  the  villages  of  Syria  and 
Palestine.  The  life  of  a  wandering  Arab  is  a  life  of  danger  and  dis- 
tress ;  and  though  sometimes,  by  rapine  or  exchange,  he  may  appro- 
priate the  fruits  of  industry,  a  private  citizen  of  Europe  is  in  posses- 
sion of  more  solid  and  pleasing  luxury  than  the  proudest  emir,  who 
marches  in  the  field  at  the  head  of  ten  thousand  horse. 

Yet  an  essential  difference  may  be  found  between  the  hordes  of 
Scythia  and  the  Arabian  tribes,  since  many  of  the  latter  were  col- 
lected into  towns  and  employed  in  the  labors  of  trade  and  agriculture. 
A  part  of  their  time  and  industry  was  still  devoted  to  the  management 
of  their  cattle  ;  they  mingled,  in  peace  and  war,  with  their  brethren 
of  the  desert ;  and  the  Bedoweens  derived  from  their  useful  inter- 
course some  supply  of  their  wants,  and  some  rudiments  of  art  and 
knowledge.  Among  the  forty-two  cities  of  Arabia,  enumerated  by 
Abulfeda,  the  most  ancient  and  populous  were  situate  in  the  happy 
\  emeu  :  the  towers  of  Saana  and  the  marvellous  reservoir  of  Merab* 

*  The  town  never  recovered  the  inundation  which  took  place  from  the  bursting  of 
a  large  reservoir  of  water— an  event  of  great  importance  in  the  Arabian  annals,  and 
discussed  at  considerable  length  by  modem  orientalists  — M 


LIFE   OF   MAHOMET.  * 

were  constructed  by  the  kings  of  the  Homerites  but  their  profane 
lustre  was  eclipsed  by  the  prophetic  glories  of  MEDINA  and  MECCA,* 
near  the  Red  sea,  and  at  the  distance  from  each  other  of  tovo  hundred 
and  seventy  miles.  The  last  of  these  holy  places  was  known  to  the 
Greeks  under  the  name  of  Macoraba  ;  and  the  termination  of  the  word 
is  expressive  of  its  greatness,  which  has  not  indeed,  in  the  most 
flourishing  period,  exceeded  the  size  and  populousness  of  Marseilles,  f 
Some  latent  motive,  perhaps  of  superstition,  must  have  impelled  the 
founders  in  the  choice  of  a  most  unpromising  situation.  They  erected 
their  habitations  of  mud  or  stone  in  a  plain  about  two  miles  long  and 
one  mile  broad,  at  the  foot  of  three  barren  mountains :  the  soil  is  a 
rock  ;  the  water  even  of  the  holy  well  of  Zemzem  is  bitter  or  brack- 
ish ;J  the  pastures  are  remote  from  the  city  ;  and  grapes  are  trans- 
ported above  seventy  miles  from  the  gardens  of  Tayef.  The  fame 
and  spirit  of  the  Koreishites,  who  reigned  in  Mecca,  were  con- 
spicuous among  the  Arabian  tribes  ;  but  their  ungrateful  soil  refus?d 
the  labors  otf  agriculture,  and  their  position  was  favorable  to  the  en- 
terprises of  trade.  By  the  sea-port  of  Gedda,  at  the  distance  only  of 
forty  miles,  they  maintained  an  easy  correspondence  with  Abyssinia  ; 
and  that  Christian  kingdom  afforded  the  first  refuge  to  the  disciples  of 
Mahomet.  The  treasures  of  Africa  were  conveyed  over  the  peninsula 
of  Gerrha  or  Katif,  in  the  province  of  Bahrein,  a  city  built,  as  it  is 
said,  of  rock-salt,  by  the  Chaldean  exiles  ;  and  from  thence,  with  the 
native  pearls  of  the  Persian  gulf,  they  were  floated  on  rafts  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Euphrates.  Mecca  is  placed  almost  at  an  equal  distance, 
a  month's  journey,  between  Yemen  on  the  right,  and  Syria  on  the 
left  hand.  The  former  was  the  winter,  the  latter  the  summer  station 
of  her  caravans  :  aud  their  seasonable  arrival  relieved  the  ships  of 
India  from  the  tedious  and  troublesome  navigation  of  the  Red  Sea. 
In  the  markets  of  Saana  and  Merab,  in  the  harbors  of  Omen  and 
Aden,  the  camels  of  the  Koreishites  were  laden  with  a  precious  cargo 
of  aromatics  ;  a  supply  of  corn  and  manufactures  was  purchased  in 
the  fairs  of  Bostra  and  Damascus  ;  the  lucrative  exchange  diffused 

*  Even  in  the  time  of  Gibbon,  Mecca  had  hot  been  BO  inaccessible  to  Europeans. 
It  had  been  visited  by  Ludovico  Barthema,  and  by  one  Joseph  Pitts,  of  Exeter,  who 
wa8  taken  prisoner  by  the  Moors,  and  forcibly  converted  to  Mahometanism.  His 
volume  is  a  curious  though  plain  account  of  his  sufferings  and  travels.  Since  that 
time  Mecca  has  been  entered,  and  the  ceremonies  witnessed,  by  Dr.  Seetzen,  whose 
papers  were  unfortunately  lost ;  by  the  Spaniard  who  called  himself  Ali  Bey;  and 
,  lastly  by  Burckhardi.,  whose  description  leaves  nothing  wanting  to  satisfy  the  curi- 
osity.—M. 

t  Mr.  Forster  identifies  the  Greek  name  with  the  Arabic  Mecharab,  "  the  warlike 
city,"  or"  the  city  of  the  Harb."  Ceogr.  of  Arabia,  vol.  i.,  p.  2t>5. — S. 

i Burckhardt,  however,  observes : — '-The  water  is  heivymits  taste,  and  some- 
times in  its  color  resembles  milk,  but  it  is  perfectly  sweet,  and  differs  very  much 
from  that  of  the  brackish  wells  dispersed  over  the  town."  (Travels  in  Arabia,  p. 
144.)  Elsewhere  he  says : — "It  seenn  probable  that  the  town  of  Mecca  owed  it* 
srigin  to  this  well ;  for  many  miles  round  no  sweet  water  is  found,  nor  i*  there  it 
«ny  part  of  thecouutry  so  copious  a  supply."  (Ibid,  p.  145.) — S. 
A.B.— 6 


ft  LIFE   OF  MAHOMET. 

plenty  and  riches  in  the  streets  of  Mecca  ;  and  the  noblest  of  her 
sons  united  the  love  of  arms  with  the  profession  of  merchandise. 

The  perpetual  independence  of  the  Arabs  has  been  the  theme  of 
praise  among  strangers  and  natives  ;  and  the  arts  of  controversy 
transform  this  singular  event  into  a  prophecy  and  a  miracle,  in  favoi 
of  the  posterity  of  Ismael.  Some  exceptions,  that  can  neither  be  dis 
sembled  nor  eluded,  render  this  mode  of  reasoning  as  indiscreet  as  it 
is  superfluous ;  the  kingdom  of  Yemen  has  been  successively  sub- 
dued by  the  Abyssinians,  the  Persians,  the  sultans  of  Egypt,  and  th( 
Turks ;  the  holy  cities  of  Mecca  and  Medina  have  repeatedly  bowed 
under  a  Scythian  tyrant :  and  the  Roman  province  of  Arabia  em-, 
braced  the  peculiar  wilderness  in  which  Ismael  and  his  sons  mus* 
have  pitched  their  tents  in  the  face  of  their  brethren.  Yet  these  ex- 
ceptions are  temporary  or  local ;  the  body  of  the  nation  has  escape^ 
the  yoke  of  the  most  powerful  monarchies  ;  the  arms  of  Sesostrif 
and  Cyrus,  of  Pompey  and  Trajan,  could  never  achieve  the  conquest 
of  Arabia  ;  the  present  sovereign  of  the  Turks  (a)  may  exercise  a 
shadow  of  jurisdiction,  but  his  pride  is  reduced  to  solicit  the  friend- 
ship of  a  people,  whom  it  is  dangerous  to  provoke  and  fruitless  U 
attack.  The  obvious  causes  of  their  freedom  are  inscribed  on  the 
character  and  country  of  the  Arabs.  Many  ages  before  Mahomet, 
their  intrepid  valor  had  been  severely  felt  by  their  neighbors  in  offen 
Bive  and  defensive  war.  The  patient  and  active  virtues  of  a  soldiei 
are  insensibly  nursed  in  the  habits  and  'discipline  of  a  pastoral  life. 
The  care  of  the  sheep  and  camels  is  abandoned  to  the  women  of  the 
tribe  ;  but  the  martial  youth  under  the  banner  of  the  emir,  is  ever  on 
horseback,  and  in  the  field,  to  practice  the  eiercise  of  the  bow,  tht> 
javelin,  and  the  scymitar.  The  long  memory  of  their  independence 
is  the  firmest  pledge  of  its  perpetuity,  and  succeeding  generations  are 
animated  to  prove  their  descent  and  to  maintain  their  inheritance. 
Their  domestic  feuds  are  suspended  on  the  approach  of  a  comnioi? 
enemy  ;  and  in  their  last  hostilities  against  the  Turks,  the  caravan  oC 
Mecca  was  attacked  and  pillaged  by  fourscore  thousand  of  the  con- 
federates. When  they  advance  to  battle,  the  hope  of  victory  is  in 
the  front ;  in  the  rear  the  assurance  of  a  retreat.  Their  horses  and 
camels,  who  in  eight  or  ten  days  can  perform  a  march  of  four  or  five 
hundred  miles,  disappear  before  the  conqueror  ;  the  secret  waters  o' 
the  desert  elude  his  search,  and  his  victorious  troops  are  consumed 
with  thirst,  hunger,  and  fatigue,  in  the  pursuit  of  an  invisible  foe, 
who  scorns  his  efforts  and  safely  reposes  in  the  heart  of  the  burning 
solitude.  The  arms  and  deserts  of  the  Bedoweens  are  not  only  tlrj 
safeguards  of  their  own  freedom,  but  the  barriers  also  of  the  Happy 

(a)  Niebuhr  (Description  de  1' Arabic,  pp.  302,  803,  829-331)  affords  the  most  recent 
and  authentic  intelligence  of  the  Turkish  empire  in  Arabia.* 

» Mabnhr's,  notwithstanding  the  multitude  of  later  traTellers,  maintains  1U 
pwind  M  th«  clawical  work  on  Arabia.— M. 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  ? 

Arabia,  whose  inhabitants,  remote  from  war,  are  enervated  by  the 
luxury  of  the  soil  and  climate.  The  legions  of  Augustus  melted 
away  in  disease  and  lassitude  ;  and  it  is  only  by  a  naval  power  that 
the  reduction  of  Yemen  has  been  successfully  attempted.  When 
Mahomet  erected  his  holy  standard,  that  kingdom  was  a  province  of 
the  Persian  empire  ;  yet  seven  princes  of  the  Homerites  still  reigned 
in  the  mountains  ;  and  the  vicegerent  of  Chosroes  was  tempted  to' 
forget  his  distant  country  and  his  unfortunate  master.  The  histori- 
ans of  the  age  of  Justinian  represent  the  state  of  the  independent 
Arabs,  who  were  divided  by  interest  or  affection  in  the  long  quarrel 
of  the  east  ;  the  tribe  of  Gassan  was  allowed  to  encamp  on  the  Syrian 
territory  ;  the  princes  of  Ilira  were  permitted  to  form  a  city  about  forty 
miles  to  the  southward  of  the  ruins  of  Babylon.  Their  service  in  the 
field  was  speedy  and  vigorous  ;  but  their  friendship  was  venal,  their 
faith  inconstant,  their  enmity  capricious  ;  it  was  an  easier  task  to  ex- 
cite than  to  disarm  these  roving  barbarians  ;  and  in  the  familiar  in- 
tercourse of  war  they  learned  to  see  and  to  despise  the  splendid  weak- 
ness both  of  Rome  and  of  Persia.  From  Mecca  to  the  Euphrates, 
the  Arabian  tribes  were  confounded  by  the  Greeks  and  Latins,  under 
the  general  appellation  of  SARACENS,  a  name  which  every  Christian 
mouth  has  been  taught  to  pronounce  with  terror  and  abhorrence. 

The  slaves  of  domestic  tyranny  may  vainly  exult  in  their  national 
independence  ;  but  the  Arab  is  personally  free  ;  and  he  enjoys,  in 
some  degree,  the  .benefits  of  society  without  forfeiting  the  preroga- 
tives of  nature.  In  every  tribe,  superstition,  or  gratitude,  or  fortune, 
has  exalted  a  particular  family  above  the  heads  of  their  equals.  The 
dignities  of  sheick  and  emir  invariably  descend  in  this  chosen  race  ; 
but  the  order  of  succession  is  loose  and  precarious,  and  the  most 
worthy  or  aged  of  the  noble  kinsmen  are  preferred  to  the  simple, 
though  important  office  of  composing  disputes  by  their  advice,  and 
guiding  valor  by  their  example.  Even  a  female  of  sense  and  spirit 
has  been  permitted  to  command  the  countrymen  of  Zenobia.  The 
momentary  junction  of  several  tribes  produces  an  army  ;  their  more 
lasting  union  constitutes  a  nation ;  and  the  supreme  chief,  the  emir 
of  emirs,  whose  banner  is  displayed  at  their  head,  may  deserve,  in 
the  eyes  of  strangers,  the  honors  of  th.e  kingly  name.  If  the  Arabian 
princes  abuse  their  power  they  are  quickly  punished  by  the  desertion 
of  their  subjects,  who  had  been  accustomed  to  a  mild  and  parental 
jurisdiction.  Their  spirit  is  free,  their  steps  are  unconfined,  the 
desert  is  open,  and  the  tribes  and  families  are  held  together  by  a  mu- 
tual and  voluntary  compact.  The  softer  natives  of  Yeman  supported 
the  pomp  and  majesty  of  a  monarch  ;  but  if  he  could  not  leave  his 
palace  without  endangering  his  life,  the  active  powers  of  govern- 
ment must  have  been  devolved  on  his  nobles  and  magistrates.  The 
cities  of  Mecca  and  Medina  present  in  the  heart  of  Asia  the  form  or 
rather  the  substance  of  a  commonwealth.  The  grandfather  of  Ma- 
homet, and  his  lineal  ancestors,  appear  in  foreign  and  domestic  traiv 


8  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

nactions  a*  the  princes  of  their  country  ;  but  they  reigned  like 
Pericles  at  Athens  or  the  Medici  at  Florence,  by  the  opinion  of  their 
wisdom  and  integrity  ;  their  influence  was  divided  with  their  patri- 
mony ;  and  the  sceptre  was  transferred  from  the  uncles  of  the  pro- 
phet to  a  younger  branch  of  the  tribe  of  Koreish.  On  solemn  occa- 
sions they  convened  the  assembly  of  the  people  ;  and  since  mankind 
must  be  either  compelled  or  persuaded  to  obey,  the  use  and  reputation 
of  oratory  among  the  ancient  Arabs  is  the  clearest  evidence  of  pub- 
lic freedom.  But  their  simple  freedom  was  of  a  very  different  cast 
from  the  nice  and  artificial  machinery  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  re- 
publics, in  which  each  member  possessed  an  undivided  share  of  the 
civil  and  political  rights  of  the  community.  In  the  more  simple 
state  of  the  Arabs,  the  nation  is  free,  because  each  of  her  sons  dis- 
dains a  base  submission  to  the  will  of  a  master.  His  breast  is  forti- 
fied with  the  austere  virtues  of  courage,  patience,  and  sobriety ;  the 
love  of  independence  prompts  him  to  exercise  the  habits  of  self-com- 
mand ;  and  the  fear  of  dishonor  guards  him  from  the  meaner  appre- 
hension of  pain,  of  danger,  and  of  death.  The  gravity  and  firmnesa 
of  the  mind  is  conspicuous  in  his  outward  demeanor  ;  his  speech  is 
slow,  weighty,  and  concise  ;  he  is  seldom  provoked  to  laughter  ;  his 
only  gesture  is  that  of  stroking  his  beard,  the  venerable  symbol  of 
manhood  ;  and  the  sense  of  his  own  importance  teaches  him  to  accost 
his  equals  without  levity,  and  his  superiors  without  awe.  *  The  lib- 
erty of  the  Saracens  survived  their  conquests  ;  the  first  caliphs  in- 
dulged the  bold  and  familiar  language  of  their  subjects  ;  they  ascend- 
ed the  pulpit  to  persuade  and  edify  the  congregation  ;  nor  was  it  be- 
fore the  seat  of  empire  was  removed  to  the  Tigris,  that  the  Abbass- 
ides  adopted  the  proud  and  pompous  ceremonial  of  the  Persian  and 
Byzantine  courts. 

In  the  study  of  nations  and  men,  we  may  observe  the  causes  that 
render  them  hostile  or  friendly  to  each  other,  that  tend  to  narrow  or 
enlarge,  to  modify  or  exasperate  the  social  character.  The  separation 
of  the  Arabs  from  the  rest  of  mankind  has  accustomed  them  to  con- 
found the  ideas  of  stranger  and  enemy  ;  and  the  poverty  of  the  land 
has  introduced  a  maxim  of  jurisprudence  which  they  believe  and 
practice  to  the  present  hour.  They  pretend  that  in  the  division  of 
the  earth,  the  rich  and  fertile  climates  were  assigned  to  the  other 
branches  of  the  human  family  ;  and  that  the  posterity  of  the  outlaw 
Ismael  might  recover,  by  fraud  or  force,  the  portion  of  the  inheritance 
of  which  he  had  been  unjustly  deprived.  According  to  the  remark  of 
Pliny,  the  Arabian  tribes  are  equally  addicted  to  theft  and  merchan- 
dise; ;  the  caravans  that  traverse  the  desert  are  ransomed  or  pillaged  ; 
and  their  neighbors,  since  the  remote  times  of  Job  and  Sesostris, 
have  been  the  victims  of  their  rapacious  spirit.  If  a  Bedoween  dis- 

*  See  the  curious  romance  of  Antar,  tho  most  vivid  and  authentic  picture  of  Ar* 
Mmi  manners.— Jl. 


LIFE   OF   MAHOMET.  9 

eovers  from  afar  a  solitary  traveller,  lie  rides  furiously  against  him, 
crying  with  a  loud  voice,  "  Undress  thyself,  thy  aunt  (my  wife)  is 
without  a  garment. "  A  ready  submission  entitles  him  to  mercy  ;  re- 
sistance will  provoke  the  aggressor,  and  his  owm  blood  must  expiate 
the  blood  which  he  presumes  to  shed  in  legitimate  defence.  A  single 
robber,  or  a  few  associates,  are  branded  with  their  genuine  name  ;  but 
the  exploits  of  a  numerous  band  assume  the  character  of  lawful  and 
honorable  war.  The  temper  of  a  people  thus  armed  against  mankind, 
was  doubly  inflamed  by  the  domestic  license  of  rapine,  murder,  and 
revenge.  In  the  constitution  of  Europe,  the  right  of  peace  and  war 
is  now  confined  to  a  small,  and  the  actual  exercise  to  a  much  smaller 
list  of  respectable  potentates  ;  but  each  Arab,  with  hnpunity  and  re- 
nown, might  point  his  javelin  against  the  life  of  his  countryman. 
The  union  of  the  nation  consisted  only  in  a  vague  resemblance  of  lan- 
guage and  manners  ;  and  in  each  community  the  jurisdiction  of  the 
magistrate  was  mute  and  impotent.  Of  the  time  of  ignorance  which 
preceded  Mahomet,  seventeen  hundred  battles  are  recorded  by  tradi- 
tion ;  hostility  was  embittered  with  the  rancor  of  civil  faction  ;  and 
the  recital  in  prose  or  verse,  of  an  obsolete  feud,  was  sufficient  to  re- 
kindle the  same  passions  among  the  descendants  of  the  hostile  tribes. 
In  private  life,  every  man,  at  least  every  family,  was  the  judge  and 
avenger  of  its  own  cause.  The  nice  sensibility  of  honor  which 
weighs  the  insult  rather  than  the  injury,  sheds  its  deadly  venom  on 
the  quarrels  of  the  Arabs  ;  the  honor  of  their  women  and  of  their 
beards  is  most  easily  wounded  ;  an  indecent  action,  a  contemptuous 
word,  can  be  expiated  only  by  the  blood  of  the  offender  ;  and  snch  is 
their  patient  inveteracy,  that  they  expect  whole  months  and  years  the 
opportunity  of  revenge.  A  fine  or  compensation  for  murder  is  famil- 
iar to  the  barbarians  of  every  age  ;  but  in  Arabia  the  kinsmen  of  the 
dead  are  at  liberty  to  accept  the  atonement,  or  to  exercise  with  their 
own  hands  the  law  of  retaliation.  The  refined  malice  of  the  Arabs 
refuses  even  the  head  of  the  murderer,  substitutes  an  innocent  to  the 
guilty  person,  and  transfers  the  penalty  to  the  best  and  most  consid- 
erable of  the  race  by  whom  they  have  been  injured.  If  he  falls  by 
their  hands,  they  are  exposed  in  their  turn  to  the  danger  of  reprisals  ; 
the  interest  and  prineipal  of  the  bloody  debt  are  accumulated  ;  the 
individuals  of  either  family  lead  a  life  of  malice  and  suspicion,  and 
fifty  years  may  sometimes  elapse  before  the  account  of  vengeance  be 
finally  settled.  This  sanguinary  spirit,  ignorant  of  pity  or  forgiveness, 
has  been  moderated,  however,  by  the  maxims  of  honor,  which  re- 
quire in  every  private  encounter  some  decent  equality  of  age  and 
strength  of  numbers  and  weapons.  An  annual  festival  of  two,  perhaps 
of  four  months,  was  observed  by  the  Arabs,  before  the  time  of  Mahom- 
et, during  which  their  swords  were  religiously  sheathed  both  in 
foreign  and  domestic  hostility  ;  and  this  partial  truce  is  more  strongly 
expressive  of  the  habits  of  anarchy  and  warfare. 
But  the  spirft  of  rapine  and  revenge  was  attempered  by  the  milder 


10  LIFE   OF  MAIIOMET. 

influence  of  trade  and  literature.  The  solitary  peninsula  is  encom- 
passed by  the  most  civilized  nations  of  the  ancient  world  ;  the  mer- 
chant is  the  friend  of  mankind  ;  and  the  annual  caravans  imported 
the  first  seeds  of  knowledge  and  polteness  into  the  cities,  and  even 
the  camps,  of  the  detfbrt.  Whatever  may  be  the  pedigree  of  the 
Arabs,  their  language  is  derived  from  the  same  original  stock  with 
the  Hebrew,  the  Syriac,  and  the  Chaldean  tongues  ;  the  independence 
of  the  tribes  was  marked  by  their  peculiar  dialects  ;  but  each,  after 
their  own,  allowed  a  just  preference  to  the  pure  and  perspicuous 
idiom  of  Mecca.  In  Arabia,  as  well  as  in  Greece,  the  perfection  of 
language  outstripped  the  refinement  of  manners  ;  and  her  speech  could 
diversify  the  fourscore  names  of  honey,  the  two  hundred  of  a  ser- 
pent, the  five  hundred  of  a  lion,  the  thousand  of  a  sword,  at  a 
time  when  this  copious  dictionary  was  intrusted  to  the  memory  of  an 
illiterate  people.  The  monuments  of  tbe  Homerites  were  inscribed 
with  an  obsolete  and  mysterious  character  :  but  the  Cufic  letters,  the 
groundwork  of  the  present  alphabet,  were  invented  on  the  banks  of 
the  Euphrates  ;  and  the  recent  invention  was  taught  at  Mecca  by  a 
stranger  who  settled  in  that  city  after  the  birth  of  Mahomet.  The 
arts  of  grammar,  of  metre,  and  of  rhetoric,  were  unknown  to  the  free- 
born  eloquence  of  the  Arabians  ;  but  their  penetration  was  sharp, 
their  fancy  luxuriant,  their  wit  strong  and  sententious,  (a)  and  their 
more  elaborate  compositions  were  addressed  with  energy  and  effect 
to  the  minds  of  their  hearers.  The  genius  and  merit  of  a  rising  poet 
was  celebrated  by  the  applause  of  his  own  and  the  kindred  tribes.  A 
solemn  banquet  was  prepared,  and  a  chorus  of  women,  striking  their 
tymbals,  arid  displaying  the  pomp  of  their  nuptials,  sung  in  the  pres- 
ence of  their  sons  and  husbands  the  felicity  of  their  native  tribe — 
that  a  champion  had  now  appeared  to  vindicate  their  rights — that  a 
herald  had  raised  his  voice  to  immortalize  their  renown.  The  distant 
or  hostile  tribes  resorted  to  an  annual  fair,  which  was  abolished  by 
the  fanaticism  of  the  first  Moslems — a  national  assembly  that  must 
have  contributed  to  refine  and  harmonize  the  barbarians.  Thirty 
days  were  employed  in  the  exchange,  not  only  of  corn  and  wine,  but 
of  eloquence  and  poetry.  The  prize  was  disputed  by  the  generous 
emulation  of  the  bards  ;  the  victorious  performance  was  deposited  in 
the  archives  of  princes  and  emirs;  and  we  may  read  in  our  own 
language  the  seven  orig  n  il  poems  which  were  inscribed  in  letters  of  gold 
and  suspended  in  the  temple  of  Mecca.  The  Arabian  poets  were  the  his- 
torians and  moralists  of  the  age  ;  and  if  they  sympathized  with  the 
prejudices,  they  inspired  and  crowned  the  virtues  of  their  country- 
men. The  indissoluble  union  of  generosity  and  valor  was  the  dar- 
ling theme  of  their  song  ;  and  when  they  pointed  their  keenest  satire 

(a)  Stated  from  the  one  hundred  and  sixty-nine  sentences  of  Ali  (translated  by 
Ockley,  London,  1718)  which  afford  a  just  and  favorable  specimen  of  Arabian  wit.* 

*  Compw*  the  Arabic  proverbs  translated  by  Burckhardt,  London,  1830.— M, 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  ll 

against  a  despicable  race,  they  affirmed,  in  the  bitterness  of  reproach, 
that  the  men  knew  not  how  to  give,  nor  the  women  to  deny.  Tlio 
same  hospitality  which  was  practised  by  Abraham  and  celebrated  by 
Homer,  is  still  renewed  in  the  camps  of  the  Arabs.  The  ferocious 
Bedoweens,  the  terror  of  the  desert,  embrace,  without  inquiry  or 
hesitation,  the  stranger  who  dares  to  confide  in  their  honor  and  to  enter 
their  tent.  His  treatment  is  kind  and  respectful;  he  shares  the 
wealth  or  the  poverty  of  his  host  :  and,  after  a  needful  repose,  he  is 
dismissed  on  his  way,  with  thanks,  with  blessings,  and  perhaps  with 
gifts.  The  heart  and  hand  are  more  largely  expanded  by  the  wants, 
of  a  brother  or  a  friend  ;  but  the  heroic  acts  that  could  deserve  the 
public  applause  must  have  surpassed  the  narrow  measure  of  discre- 
tion and  experience.  A  dispute  had  arisen,  who,  among  the  citizens 
of  Mecca,  was  entitled  to  the  prize  of  generosity ;  and  a  successive 
application  was  made  to  the  three  who  were  deemed  most  worthy  of 
the  trial.  Abdullah,  the  son  of  Abdas,  had  undertaken  a  distant 
journey,  and  his  foot  was  in  the  stirrup  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  a 
suppliant,  "  0  son  of  the  uncle  of  the  apostle  of  God,  I  am  a  traveller 
and  in  distress  ! "  He  instantly  dismounted  to  present  the  pilgrim 
with  his  camel,  her  rich  caparison,  and  a  purse  of  four  thousand 
pieces  of  gold,  excepting  only  the  sword,  either  for  its  intrinsic  value, 
or  as  the  gift  of  an  honored  kinsman.  The  servant  of  Kais  informed 
the  second  suppliant  that  his  master  was  asleep  ;  but  he  immediately 
added,  "  Here  is  a  purse  of  seven  thousand  pieces  of  gold,  (it  is  all  we 
have  in  the  house),  and  here  is  an  order  that  will  entitle  you  to  a 
camel  and  a  slave  ;  "  the  master,  as  soon  as  he  awoke,  praised  and  en- 
franchised his  faithful  steward  with  a  gentle  reproof,  that  by  inspect- 
ing his  slumbers  he  had  stinted  his  bounty.  The  third  of  these 
heroes,  the  blind  Arabah,  at  the  hour  of  prayer,  was  supporting  his 
steps  on  the  shoulders  of  two  slaves.  "  Alas  !  "  he  replied,  "  my  cof- 
fers are  empty  !  but  these  you  may  sell  ;  i  f  you  refuse,  I  renounce 
them."  At  these  words,  pushing  away  the  youths,  he  groped  along 
the  wall  with  his  staff.  The  character  of  Hatem  is  the  perfect  nioddle 
of  Arabian  virtue  ;  *  he  was  brave  and  liberal,  an  eloquent  poet,  and 
a  successful  robber ;  forty  camels  were  roasted  at  his  hospitable 
feasts  ;  and  at  the  prayer  of  a  suppliant  enemy^  he  restored  both  the 
captives  and  the  spoil.  The  freedom  of  his  countrymen  disdained 
the  laws  of  justice  ;  they  proudly  indulged  the  spontaneous  impulse 
of  pity  and  benevolence. 

The  religion  of  the  Arabs,  as  well  as  of  the  Indians,  consisted  in  the 
worship  of  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  fixed  stars  ;  a  primitive  and 
specious  mode  of  superstition.  The  bright  luminaries  of  the  sky  dis- 
play the  visible  image  of  the  Deity  :  their  number  and  distance  con- 
vey to  a  philosophic,  or  even  a  vulgar,  eye,  the  idea  of  bound- 

*  See  the  translation  of  the  amusing  Persian  romance  of  Ilatim  Tai,  by  Duneaa 
Forbes,  Esq.,  among  the  works  published  by  the  Oriental  Translation  Fund.  M. 


13  LIFE  OP  MAHOMET. 

less  space  :  the  character  of  eternity  is  marked  on  these  solid  globes, 
that  seem  incapable  of  corruption  or  decay  :  the  regularity  of  their 
motions  may  be  ascribed  to  a  principle  of  reason  or  instinct ;  and  their 
real  or  imaginary  influence  encourages  the  vain  belief  that  the  earth 
and  its  inhabitants  are  the  object  of  their  peculiar  care.  The  science 
of  astronomy  was  cultivated  at  Babylon  ;  but  the  school  of  the  Arabs 
was  a  clear  armament  and  a  naked  plain.  In  their  nocturnal  marches 
they  steered  by  the  guidance  of  the  stars  ;  their  names,  and  order,  and 
daily  station,  were  familiar  to  the  curiosity  and  devotion  of  the 
J5cdoween  ;  and  he  was  taught  by  experience  to  divide  in  twenty- 
•  eight  parts  the  zodiac  of  the  moon,  and  to  bless  the  constellations  who 
refreshed,  with  salutary  rains,  the  thirst  of  the  desert.  The  reign  of 
the  heavenly  orbs  could  not  be  extended  beyond  the  visible  sphere  ; 
and  some  metaphysical  powers  were  necessary  to  sustain  the  transmi- 
gration of  souls  and  the  resurrection  of  bodies  :  a  camel  was  left  to 
perish  on  the  grave,  that  he  might  serve  his  master  in  another  life  ; 
and  the  invocation  of  departed  spirits  implies  that  they  were  still  en- 
dowed with  consciousness  and  power.  I  am  ignorant  and  I  am  care- 
less of  the  blind  mythology  of  the  barbarians ,  of  the  local  deities,  of 
thu  stars,  the  air  and  the  earth,  of  their  sex  or  titles,  their  attributes, 
or  subordination.  Each  tribe,  each  family,  each  independent  warrior, 
created  and  changed  the  rites  and  the  object  of  his  fantastic  worship, 
but  the  nation,  in  every  age,  has  bowed  to  the  religion,  as  well  as  to 
the  language,  of  Mecca.  The  genuine  antiquity  of  the  CAABA  as- 
cends beyond  the  Christian  era.  in  describing  the  coast  of  the  lied 
Sea,  the  Greek  historian  Diodorus  has  remarked,  betweea  the  Thanui- 
dites  and  the  Sabiatis,  a  famous  temple,*  whose  superior  sanctity  \vas 
revered  by  all  the  Arabians  ;  the  linen  or  silken  veil,  which  is  an- 
nually renewed  by  the  Turkish  emperor,  was  first  offered  by  a  pious 
king  of  th<-  llomerites,  who  reigned  seven  hundred  years  before  the 
time  of  Mahomet.  A  tent  or  a  cavern  might  suffice  for  the  worship 
of  the  savages,  but  an  edifice  of  stone  and  clay  has  been  erected  in  its 
place  ;  and  the  art  and  power  of  the  monarchs  of  the  east  have  been 
confined  to  the  simplicity  of  the  original  model.  A  spacious  portico 
includes  the  quadrangle  of  the  Caaba — a  square  chapel,  twenty-four 
cubits  long,  twenty-three  broad,  and  twenty-seven  high  :  a  door  and 
a  window  admit  the  light  ;  the  double  roof  is  supported  by  three  pil- 
lars iif  wood  ;  a  spout  (now  of  gold)  discharges  the  rain-water,  and  the 
wi  -1 1  Xem/em  is  protected  by  a  dome  from  accidental  pollution.  The  tribe 
of  Koreish,  by  fraud  or  force,  had  acquired  the  custody  of  Caaba  :  the 
sacerdotal  office  devolved  through  four  lineal  descendants  to  the 

*  Mr.  Forster  (Geography  of  Arabia,  vol.  ii.,  p.  118,  et  eeq.l  has  raised  an  objec- 
tion, as  I  think,  f.tal  tot  i*  hypothesis  of  Gibbon.    The  temple,  situated  in  the 
jntry  of  the  Ranlzomeneis,  w.m  not  between  the  Thamudites  and  the  Sabians,  but 
up  than  die  coast  inhabited  by  the  former.    Mr.  Forster  would  place  it  as  faf 
l;li      I  MI, i  not  quite  satisfied  that  this  will  agree  with  the  whole  d«- 
•CTUM.IOII  of  JJiodorus .— M.   l»lc. 


LIFE  OP  MAHOMET.  13 

grandfather  of  Mahomet  ;  and  the  family  of  the  Hashemites,  from 
whence  he  sprung,  was  the  most  respectable  and  sacred  in  the  eyes 
of  their  country.  The  precincts  of  Mecca  enjoyed  the  rights  of 
sanctuary  ;  and,  in  the  last  month  of  each  year,  the  city  and  temple 
were  crowded  with  a  long  train  of  pilgrims,  who  presented  their/ 
vows  and  offerings  in  the  house  of  God.  The  same  rites  which  are! 
now  accomplished  hy  the  faithful  mussulman,  were  invented  and 
practised  by  the  superstition  of  the  idolaters.  At  an  awful  distance 
they  cast  away  their  garments  ;  seven  times,  with  hasty  steps,  they 
encircled  the  Caaba,  and  kissed  the  black  stone  :  seven  times  they 
visited  and  adored  the  adjacent  mountains  :  seven  times  they  threw 
stones  into  the  valley  of  Mina  :  and  the  pilgrimage  was  achieved,  as 
at  the  present  hour,  by  a  sacrifice  of  sheep  and  camels,  and  the  burial 
of  their  hair  and  nails  in  the  consecrated  ground.  Each  tribe  either 
found  or  introduced  in  the  Caaba  their  domestic  worship  :  the  temple 
was  adorned  or  defiled  with  three  hundred  and  sixty  idols  of  men, 
eagles,  lions,  and  antelopes  ;  and  most  conspicuous  was  the  statue 
of  Hebal,  of  red  agate,  holding  in  his  hand  seven  arrows,  without 
heads  or  feathers,  the  instruments  and  symbols  of  profane  divination. 
But  this  statue  was  a  monument  of  Syrian  arts  :  the  devotion  of  the 
ruder  ages  was  content  with  a  pillar  or  a  tablet  :  and  the  rocks  of  the 
desert  were  hewn  into  gods  or  altars,  in  imitation  of  the  black  stone 
of  Mecca,  which  is  deeply  tainted  with  the  reproach  of  an  idolatrous 
origin.  From  Japan  to  Peru,  the  use  of  sacrifice  has  universally  pre- 
vailed ;  and  the  votary  has  expressed  his  gratitude  or  fear  by  de- 
stroying or  consuming,  in  honor  of  the  gods,  the  dearest  and  most 
precious  of  their  gifts.  The  life  of  a  man  is  the  most  precious  obla- 
tion to  deprecate  a  public  calamity  :  the  altars  of  Phoenicia  and 
Egypt,  of  Rome  and  Carthage,  have  been  polluted  with  human  gore  ; 
the  cruel  practice  was  long  preserved  among  the  Arabs  :  in  the  third 
century  a  boy  was  annually  sacrificed  by  the  tribe  of  Dumatians  ;  and 
a  royal  captive  was  piously  slaughtered  by  the  prince  of  the  Saracens, 
the  ally  and  soldier  of  the  emperor  Justinian.*  A  parent  who  drags 
his  son  to  the  altar  exhibits  the  most  painful  and  sublime  effort  of 
fanaticism  :  the  deed  or  the  intention  was  sanctified  by  the  example 
of  saints  and  heroes  ,  and  the  father  of  Mahomet  himself  was  devoted 
by  a  rash  vow,  and  hardly  ransomed  for  the  equivalent  of  a  hun- 
dred camels.  In  the  time  of  ignorance,  the  Arabs,  like  the  Jews  and 
Egyptians,  abstained  from  the  taste  of  swine's  flesh  ;  they  circum- 
cised their  children  at  the  age  of  puberty  :  the  same  customs,  with- 
out the  censure  or  the  precept  of  the  Koran,  have  been  silently  trans- 
mitted to  their  posterity  and  proselytes.  It  has  been  sagaciously 
conjectured  that  the  artful  legislator  indulged  the  stubborn  prejudi- 

*  A  writer  in  the  "  Calcutta  Review  "  (No.  xliii.,  p.  15)  maintains  that  the  sacrifice 
of  human  beings  in  Arabia  was  only  incidental,  and  in  the  case  of  violent  and  cruel 
tyrants  ;  where  it  is  alleged  to  have  been  done  uniformly  and  on  priucipU,  tta  an- 
tkority  seems  doubtful.— S. 


14  LIFE   OF   MAHOMET. 

ees  of  Ilia  countrymen.  It  is  more  simple  to  believe  that  he  adhered 
to  the  habits  and  opinions  of  his  youth,  without  foreseeing  that  a 
practice  congenial  to  the  climate  of  Mecca  might  become  useless  or 
inconvenient  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube  or  the  Volga. 

Arabia  was  free  :  the  adjacent  kingdoms  were  shaken  by  the  storms 
of  conquest  and  tyranny,  and  the  persecuted  sects  fled  to  the  happy 
/and  where  they  might  profess  what  they  thought,  and  practise  what 
they  professed.  The  religions  of  the  Sabians  and  Magians,  of  the 
Jews  and  Christians,  were  disseminated  from  the  Persian  gulf  to  the 
Red  Sea.  In  a  remote  period  of  antiquity,  Sabianism  was  diffused 
over  Asia  by  the  science  of  the  Chaldeans  and  the  arms  of  the  Assyr- 
ians. From  the  observations  of  two  thousand  years,  the  priests  anJ 
astronomers  of  Babylon  deduced  the  eternal  laws  of  nature  aud  prov- 
idence. They  adored  the  seven  gods,  or  angels,  who  directed  the 
course  of  the  seven  planets,  and  shed  their  irresistible  influence  on  the 
earth.  The  attributes  of  the  seven  planets,  with  the  twelve  signs  of 
the  zodiac,  and  the  twenty-four  constellations  of  the  northern  and 
southern  hemisphere,  were  represented  by  images  and  talismans  ;  the 
seven  days  of  the  week  were  dedicated  to  their  respective  deities  :  the 
Sabians  prayed  thrice  each  day  ;  and  the  temple  of  the  moon  at  Haran 
was  the  term  of  their  pilgrimage.  But  the  flexible  genius  of  their 
faith  was  always  ready  either  to  teach  or  to  learn  :  in  the  tradition  of 
the  creation,  the  deluge,  and  the  patriarchs,  they  held  a  singular  agree- 
ment with  their  Jewish  captives ;  they  appealed  to  the  secret  books 
of  Adam,  Seth,  and  Enoch  ;  and  a  slight  infusion  of  the  gospel  has 
transformed  the  last  remnant  of  the  polytheists  into  the  Christians  of 
St.  John,  in  the  territory  of  Bassora.*  The  altars  of  Babylon  were 
overturned  by  the  Magians  ;  but  the  injuries  of  the  Sabians  were  re- 
venged by  the  sword  of  Alexander  ;  Persia  groaned  above  five  hun- 
dred years  under  a  foreign  yoke  ;  and  the  purest  disciples  of  Zoroaster 
escaped  from  the  contagion  of  idolatry,  and  breathed  with  their  ad- 
versaries the  freedom  of  the  desert.  Seven  hundred  years  before  tha 
death  of  Mahomet,  the  Jews  were  settled  in  Arabia  ;  and  a  far  greater 
multitude  was  expelled  from  the  holy  land  in  the  wars  of  Titus  and 
Hadrian.  The  industrious  exiles  aspired  to  liberty  and  power  :  they 
erected  synagogues  in  the  cities,  and  castles  in  the  wilderness  ;  and 
their  Gentile  converts  were  confounded  with  the  children  of  Israel, 
whom  they  resembled  in  the  outward  mark  of  circumcision.  The 
Christian  missionaries  were  still  more  active  and  successful  :  the 
Catholics  asserted  their  universal  reign  ;  the  sects  whom  they'op- 
prcssed  successively  retired  beyond  the  limits  of  the  lloman  empire  ; 
the  Marcionites  and  the  Manichseans  dispersed  their  pJiantastic  opin- 
ions and  apocryphal  gospels  ;  the  churches  of  Yemen,  and  the  princes 

*  The  Codex  Nasineus,  their  sacred  book,  has  been  published  by  Norberg,  whose 
researches  contain  almost  all  that  is  known  of  this  singular  people.  Bnt  their  origin 
9  almoit  aa  obscure  aa  erer  :  if  ancient,  their  creed  has  be«n  so  corrupted  with  my* 
Uaain  and  MabonaeUmam,  that  ita  native  lineament*  are  very  indistinct. --M, 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  15 

of  Hira  and  Gassan,  were  instructed  in  a  purer  creed  by  the  Jacobite 
and  Nestorian  bishops.  The  liberty  of  choice  was  presented  to  the 
tribes  ;  each  Arab  was  free  to  elect  or  to  compose  his  private  religion  ; 
and  the  rude  superstition  of  his  house  was  mingled  with  the  sublime 
theology  of  saints  and  philosophers.  A  fundamental  article  of  faith 
was  inculcated  by  the  consent  of  the  learned  strangers  ;  the  existence 
'of  one  supreme  God,  who  is  exalted  above  the  powers  of  heaven  and 
earth,  but  who  has  often  revealed  himself  to  mankind  by  the  ministry 
of  his  angels  and  prophets,  and  whose  grace  or  justice  has  interrupted, 
by  seasonable  miracles,  the  order  of  nature.  The  most  rational  of  the 
Arabs  acknowledged  his  power,  though  they  neglected  his  worship  ; 
and  it  was  habit  rather  than  conviction  that  still  attached  them  to  the 
relics  of  idolatry.  The  Jews  and  Christians  were  the  people  of  the 
book;  the  Bible  was  already  translated  into  the  Arabic  language,  and 
the  volume  of  the  Old  Testament  was  accepted  by  the  concord  of  these 
implacable  enemies.  In  the  story  of  the  Hebrew  patriarchs,  the  Arabs 
were  pleased  to  discover  the  fathers  of  their  nation.  They  applauded 
the  birth  and  promises  of  Ismael  ;  revered  the  faith  and  virtue  of 
Abraham  ;  traced  his  pedigree  and  their  own  to  the  creation  of  the 
first  man,  and  imbibed  with  equal  credulity  the  prodigies  of  the  holy 
text  and  the  dreams  and  traditions  of  the  Jewish  rabbis. 

The  base  and  plebeian  origin  of  Mahomet  is  an  unskilful  calumny 
of  the  Christians,*  who  exalted  instead  of  degrading  the  merit  of  Their 
adversary.  His  descent  from  Ismael  was  a  national  privilege  or  fable  ; 
but  if  the  first  steps  of  the  pedigree  are  dark  and  doubtful,  he  could 
produce  many  generations  of  pure  and  genuine  nobility  :  he  sprung 
from  the  tribe  of  Koreish  f  and  the  family  of  Hashem,  the  most  illus- 
trious of  the  Arabs,  the  princes  of  Mecca,  and  the  hereditary  guardians 
of  the  Caaba4  The  grandfather  of  Mahomet  was  Abdol  Motalleb, 
the  son  of  Hashem,  a  wealthy  and  generous  citizen,  who  relieved  the 
distress  of  famine  with  the  supplies  of  commerce.  Mecca,  which  had 

*  The  most  orthodox  Mahometans  only  reckon  back  the  ancestry  of  the  prophet, 
for  twenty  generations,  to  Adnan.  (Weil,  Mohammed  der  Prophet,  p  1 ).— M.  I '  45. 

t  According  to  the  usually  received  tradition,  Koreish  was  originally  an  epithet 
conferred  upon  Fihr  (born  about  A.  D.  200),  who  was  the  ancestor,  at  the  distance  of 
eight  generations,  of  the  famous  Kussai  mentioned  in  the  next  note.  Sprenger, 
however,  maintains  that  the  tribe  of  Koreish  was  first  formed  by  Kussai,  and  that 
the  members  of  the  new  tribe  called  themselves  the  children  of  Fihr  as  a  symbol  of 
unity.  He  regards  Fihr  as  a  mythical  personage.  (See  Caussin  de  Perceval,  vol.  i., 
p.  42;  Calcutta  Keview,  No.  xh.,  p.  4J;  Sprenger,  Life  of  Mohammed,  p.  42).— 8 

J  Kussai  (born  about  A.  D.  4!>0),  great-grandfather  of  Abdol  Motalleb,  and  eon?e 
quently  fifth  in  the  ascending  iine  from  Mahomet,  obtained  supreme  power  at  Mi  r- 
ca.  His  office  and  privileges  were— to  supply  the  numerous  pilgrims  with  food  and 
fresh  water,  the  latter  a  rare  article  at  Mecca  ;  to  conduct  the  business  of  the  tem- 
ple ;  and  to  preside  in  the  senate  or  council.  His  revenues  were  a  tenth  of  all 
merchandise  brought  to  Mecca.  After  the  death  of  Kussai  these  offices  became  di- 
vided among  his  descendants  ;  and,  though  the  branch  from  which  Mahomet  sprang 
belonged  to  the  reigning  line,  yet  his  family,  especially  after  the  death  of  his  grand- 
father, had  but  little  to  do  with  the  awtual  government  of  Mecca.  (Weil,  Moham 
med,  pp.  4  and  12). — S. 


16  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

been  fed'  by  the  liberality  of  the  father,  was  saved  by  the  courage  of 
the  son.  The  kingdom  of  Yemen  was  subject  to  the  Christian  princes 
of  Abyssinia  ;  their  vassal  Abrahah  was  provoked  by  an  insult  to 
avenge  the  honor  of  the  cross  ;  and  the  holy  city  was  invested  by  a 
train  of  elephants  and  an  army  of  Africans.  A  treaty  was  proposed  ; 
and,  in  the  first  audience,  the  grandfather  of  Mahomet  demanded  the 
restitution  of  his  cattle.  "  And  why,"  said  Abrahah,  "do  you  not 
rather  implore  my  clemency  in  favor  of  your  temple,  which  I  have 
threatened  to  destroy  ? "  "Because,"  replied  the  intrepid  chief,  "  the 
cattle  are  my  own  ;  the  Caaba  belongs  to  the  gods,  and  they  will  de- 
fend their  house  from  injury  and  sacrilege."  The  want  of  provisions, 
or  the  valor  of  the  Koreish,  compelled  the  Abyssinians  to  a  disgraceful 
retreat ;  their  discomfiture  has  been  adorned  with  a  miraculous  ilia-lit 
of  birds,  who  showered  down  stones  on  the  heads  of  the  infidels  ;  and 
the  deliverence  was  long  commemorated  by  the  era  of  the  elephant.* 
The  glory  of  Abdol  Motalleb  was  crowned  with  domestic  happiness  ; 
his  life  was  prolonged  to  the  age  of  one  hundred  and  ten  years,  f  and 
he  became  the  father  of  six  daughters  and  thirteen  sons.  His  best 
beloved  Abdallah  was  the  most  beautiful  and  modest  of  the  Arabian 
youth  ;  and  in  the  first  night,  when  he  consummated  his  marringe 
with  Amina,J  of  the  noble  race  of  the  Zahrites,  two  hundred  virgins 
are  said  to  have  expired  of  jealousy  and  despair.  Mahomet,  or  more 
properly  Mohammed, §  the  only  son  of  Abdallah  and  Amina,was  born* 

*  The  apparent  miracle  was  nothing  else  but  the  small  pox,  which  broke  out  in 
the  army  of  Abrahah.  (Sprenger,  Life  of  Mohammed,  p.  35,  who  quotes  Wakidi  ; 
Weil,  Mohammed,  p.  10.)  Thi8  seems  to  have  been  the  first  appearance  of  the 
small-pox  in  Arabia.  (Reiske,  Opuscula  Medica  ex  monumentis  Arabuin,  Halae, 
1770,  p.  8).— S. 

t  Weil  sets  him  down  at  about  eighty-two  at  his  death.  (Mohammed,  p.  28). — S. 

$  Amina  was  of  Jewish  birth.    (Von  Hammer,  Geschichte  der  Assass,  p.  10). — M. 

Von  Hammer  gives  no  authority  for  this  important  fact,  which  seems  hardly  to 
agree  with  Sprenger's  account  that  she  was  a  Koreishite,  and  the  daughter  of  Wahb, 
an  elder  of  the  Zohrah  family. — S. 

§  Mohammed  means  "  praised,"  the  name  given  to  him  by  his  grandfather  on  ac- 
count of  the  favorable  omen  attending  his  birth.  When  Amina  had  given  oirth  to 
the  prophet,  she  sent  for  his  grandfather,  and  related  to  him  that  she  had  Been  in  a 
dream  a  light  proceeding  from  her  body,  which  illuminated  the  palaces  of  Bostra. 
(Sprenger,  p.  76.)  We  learn  from  Burckhardt  that  among  the  Arabs  a  name  is  gi  von 
to  the  infant  immediately  on  its  birth.  The  namj  is  derived  from  some  trifling  ac- 
cident, or  from  some  object  which  had  struck  the  fancy  of  the  mother  or  any  of  the 
women  present  at  the  child's  birth.  (Notes  on  the  Bedouins,  vol.  i.,  p.  97). — S. 

II  All  authorities  agree  that  Mohammed  was  born  on  a  Monday,  in  the  first  half  of 
Raby1 1.  •  but  they  differ  on  the  year  and  on  the  date  of  the  month.  Most  traditions 
say  that  ho  died  at  an  age  of  sixty-three  years.  If  this  is  correct,  he  was  born  in 
fi71.*  There  a'  e,  however,  go6d  traditions  in  Bokhari,  Moslim,  and  Tirmid/y.  ac- 
cording to  which  he  attained  an  age  of  sixty-five  years,  which  would  place  his  birth 
in  569.  With  reference  to  the  date,  his  birthday  is  celebrated  on  the  12th  of  Raby' 
I.  by  the  Musalmans,  and  for  this  day  are  almost  all  traditions.  This  was  a  Thurs- 
day in  571,  and  a  Tuesday  in  5(i9  ;  and,  supposing  the  hew  moon  of  Raby'  I.  was 
seen  one  day  sooner  than  expected,  it  was  a  Monday  in  569.  A  tradition  of  Abu 
Ma'riwr  in  far  the  2dof  Raby'  I.,  which  was  a  Monday  in  571 ;  but  Abu  Ma'ahar 

*  This  is  the  year  which  Weil  decides  upon. 


LIFE   OF   MAHOMET.  17 

at  Mecca,  four  years  after  the  death  of  Justinian,  and  two  months 
after  the  defeat  of  the  Abyssinians,  whose  victory  would  have  intro- 
duced into  the  Caaba  the  religion  of  the  Christians.  In  his  early  in- 
fancy,* he  was  deprived  of  his  father,  his  mother,  and  his  grandfather  , 
his  uncles  were  strong  and  numerous  ;  and  in  the  division  of  the  in- 
heritance, the  orphan's  share  was  reduced  to  five  camels  and  an  Ethi- 
opian maid-servant.*  At  home  and  abroad,  in  peace  and  war,  Abu 
Taleb,  the  most  respectable  of  his  uncles,  was  the  guide  and  guardian 
of  his  youth  ;  in  his  twenty- fifth  year,  he  entered  into  the  service  of 
Cadijah,  a  rich  and  noble  widow  of  Mecca,  who  soon  rewarded  his 
fidelity  with  the  gift  of  her  hand  and  fortune.  The  marriage  con- 
tract, in  the  simple  style  of  antiquity,  recites  the  mutual  love  of  Ma- 
homet and  Cadijah ;  describes  him  as  the  most  accomplished  of  the 
tribe  of  Koreish  ;  and  stipulates  a  dowry  of  twelve  ounces  of  gold 
and  twenty  camels,  which  was  supplied  by  the  liberality  of  his  uncle. 
By  this  alliance,  the  son  of  Abdallah  was  restored  to  the  station  of  his 
ancestors  ;  and  the  judicious  matron  was  content  with  his  domestic 
virtues,  till,  in  the  fortieth  year  of  his  age,  he  assumed  the  title  of 
a  prophet,  and  proclaimed  the  religion  of  the  Koran . 

According  to  the  tradition  of  his  companions,  Mahomet  was  dis- 
tinguished by  the  beauty  of  his  person,  an  outward  gift  which  is  sel- 
dom despised,  except  by  those  to  whom  it  has  been  refused.  Before 
ife  spoke,  the  orator  engaged  on  his  side  the  affections  of  a  public  or 
private  audience.  They  applauded  his  commanding  presence,  his 

was  a  mathematician,  and  his  account  may  possibly  be  a  calculation,  and  not  a  tradi- 
tion. There  are  also  traditions  for  the  first  Monday,  and  for  the  10th  day  of  the 
month.  (Sprenger,  p.  75.) 

In  reference,  however,  to  this  subject,  it  is  important  to  observe  that  Caussin  de 
Perceval  has  brought  forward  reasons  for  believing  that  the  Meccan  year  was  origi- 
nally a  lunar  one,  and  continued  so  till  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  century,  when,  in 
imitation  of  the  Jews,  it  was  turned  by  the  intercalation  of  a  month  at  the  close  of 
every  third  year,  into  a  luni-solar  period.  (O.  de  Perceval,  Essai,  &c.,  vol.  L,  p.  49; 
Journal  Asiatique,  April,  1843,  p.  342.)  Hence  it  follows  that  all  calculations  up  to 
the  end  of  Mahomet's  life  must  be  made  in  luni-solar  years,  and  not  in  lunar  years, 
involving  a  yearly  difference  of  ten  days.  Hence  also  we  can  explain  certain  dis- 
crepancies in  Mahomet's  life,  some  historians  calculating  by  the  luni-solar  year  in 
force  in  the  period  under  narration,  others  adjusting  such  periods  by  the  application 
of  the  lunar  year  subsequently  adopted  Thus  some  make  their  prophet  to  have 
lived  sixty-three  or  sixty-three  and  a  half  years,  others  sixty-live — the  one  possibly 
being  luni-solar,  the  other  lunar  years.  (See  Calcutta  Keview,  No.  xli.,  p.  49.) — S. 

*  The  father  of  Mahpmet  died  two  months  before  his  birth  ;  and  to  the  ill  state 
of  health  which  the  shock  of  this  premature  bereavement  entailed  on  his  widow, 
Sprenger  attributes  the  sickly  and  nervous  temperament  of  Mahomet.  His  mother 
died  in  his  seventh  year  (p.  79) ;  his  grandfather  two  years  later. — S. 

t  Sprenger,  however  (p.  81),  ascribes  his  poverty  not  to  the  injustice  of  his  uncles, 
who,  on  the  contrary,  were  anxious  to  bring  him  forwards,  but  to  his  own  inactivity 
and  unfitness  for  the  ordinary  duties  of  life.  He  had  the  same  patrimony  with  which 
his  father  began  life,  viz.,  a  house,  five  camels,  a  flock  of  sheep,  and  a  female  slave  ; 
yet  he  was  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  pasturing  sheep,  an  occupation  considered  by 
the  Arabs  as  peculiarly  humiliating.  (Compare  Weil,  p.  33.)  The  latter  author  adds 
that  Mahpmet  afterwards  entered  into  the  linen  trade,  in  partnership  with  a  iiiau 
named  Saib. — S. 


18  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET*. 

majestic  aspect,  his  piercing  eye,  his  gracious  smile,  his  flowing 
beard,  his  countenance  that  painted  every  sensation  of  the  soul,  and 
his  gestures  that  enforced  each  expression  of  the  tongue.*  lu  the 
familiar  offices  of  life  he  scrupulously  adhered  to  the  grave  and  cere- 
monious politeness  of  his  country  ;  his  respectful  attention  to  the  rich 
and  powerful  was  dignified  by  his  condescension  and  affability  to  the 
poorest  citizens  of  Mecca  ;  the  frankness  of  his  manner  concealed  the 
artifice  of  his  views  ;  and  the  habits  of  courtesy  were  imputed  to 
personal  friendship,  or  universal  benevolence.  His  memory  was  ca- 
pacious and  retentive,  his  wit  easy  and  social,  his  imagination  sub- 
lime, his  judgment  clear,  rapid,  and  decisive.  He  possessed  The  cour- 
age both  of  thought  and  action  ;  and,  although  his  designs  might 
gradually  expand  with  his  success,  the  first  idea  which  he  entertained 
of  his  divine  mission  bears  the  stamp  of  an  original  and  superior 
genius.  The  son  of  Abdallah  was  educated  in  the  bosom  of  the 
noblest  race,  hi  the  use  of  the  purest  dialect  of  Arabia  ;  *  and  the 
fluency  of  his  speech  was  corrected  and  enhanced  by  the  practice  of 
discreet  and  seasonable  silence.  With  these  powers  of  eloquence, 
Mahomet  was  an  illiterate  barbarian  ;  his  youth  had  never  been  in, 
structed  in  the  arts  of  reading  and  writing  ;  f  the  common  ignorance 

*  To  the  general  characteristics  of  Mahomet's  person  here  recorded  by  Gibbon, 
it  may  not  oe  uninteresting  to  add  the  more  particular  traits  derived  from  the  r* 
searches  of  modern  orientalists.    "  Mohammed,"  says  Dr.  Sprenger,  "was  of  mid- 
dling size,  had  broad  shoulders,  a  wide  chest,  and  large  bones,  and  he  was  fleshy 
but  not  stout.    The  immoderate  size  of  his  head  was  partly  disguised  by  the  long 
locks  of  hair,  which  in  slight  curls  came  nearly  down  to  the  lobes  of  his  ears.    His 
oval  face,  though  tawny,  was  rather  fair  for  an  Arab,  but  neither  pale  nor  high  col- 
ored.   The  forehead  was  broad,  and  his  fine  and  long,  but  narrow,  eyebrows  were 
separated  by  a  vein,  which  you  could  see  throbbing  if  be  was  angry.    Under  long 
eyelashes  sparkled  bloodshot  black  eyes  through  wide-slit  eyelids.    JHis  nose  was 
large,  prominent,  and  slightly  hooked,  and  the  tip  of  it  seemed  to  be  turned  up,  but 
was  not  so  in  reality.    The  month  was  wide,  and  he  had  a  good  set  of  teeth,  and  the 
fore-teeth  were  asunder.    His  beard  rose  from  the  cheek-bones,  and  came  down  to 
the  collar-bone  ;  he  clipped  his  mustachios,  but  did  not  shave  them     He  ntooped, 
and  was  slightly  humpbacked.    His  gait  was  careless,  and  he  walked  fast  but  heavi- 
ly, as  if  he  were  ascending  a  hill ;  *  and  if  he  looked  back,  he  turned  his  whole 
body.    The  mildness  of  his  countenance  gained  him  the  confidence  of  every  one  ; 
but  h«  could  not  look  straight  into  a  man's  face  ;  he  turned  kis  eyes  usually  out 
wards.    On  his  back  he  had  a  round,  fleshy  tumor  of  the  size  of  a  pigeon's  e<rtr ; 
its  furrowed  surface  was  covered  with  hair,  and  its  base  was  surrounded  by  t  thick 
moles.    This  was  considered  as  the  seal  of  his  prophetic  mission,  at  least  during 
the  latter  part  of  his  career,  by  his  followers  who  were  so  devout  that  they  found  a 
cure  for  their  ailin?s  in  drinking  the  water  in  which  he  had,  bathed  ;  and  it  must 
have  been  very  refreshing,  for  he  perspired  profusely,  and  his  skin  exhaled  a  strong 
smell."    (Life  of  Mohammed,  p.  84.) 

t  Namely,  both  as  being  a  koreishite,  and  as  having  been  suckled  five  rears  in 
the  desert  by  his  foster-mother  Halymah,  of  the  tribe  of  Banu  Sad,  which  spoke  the 
purest  dialect.  (Sprenger,  p.  77.)— S. 

$  Modern  orientalists  are  inclined  to  answer  the  question  whether  Mahomet  could 
read  and  write  in  the  affirmative.  The  point  hinges  upon  the  critical  interpretation 

*  Weil's  description,  which  agrees  in  other  particulars,  differs  in  this  :  "  His  hands 
and  fe«t,    says  that  writer.  "  were  very  large,  yet  his  step  was  so  light  tivat  his  foot 
left  ne  mark  behind  in  the  sand."— p.  341. 


LIFE   OF  MAHOMET.  18 

exempted  him  from  'shame  or  reproach,  but  he  was  reduced  to  a  nar- 
row circle  of  existence,  and  deprived  of  those  faithful  mirrors,  which 
reflect  to  our  miud  the  minds  of  sages  and  heroes.  Yet  the  book  of 
nature  and  of  man  was  open  to  his  view  ;  and  some  fancy  has  been 
indulged  in  the  political  and  philosophical  observations  which  are  as- 
cribed to  the  Arabian  traveller.  He  compares  the  nations  and  the  re- 
ligions of  the  earth ;  discovers  the  weakness  of  the  Persian  and 
Roman  monarchies ;  beholds  with  pity  and  indignation  the  degene- 
racy of  the  times  ;  and  resolves  to  unite  under  one  God  and  one  king, 
the  invincible  spirit  and  primitive  virtues  of  the  Arabs.  Our  more 
accurate  inquiry  will  suggest,  that  instead  of  visiting  the  courts,  the 
camps,  the  temples  of  the  East,  the  two  journeys  of  Mahomet  into 
Syria  were  confined  to  the  fairs  of  Bostra  and  Damascus  ;  that  he  was 
only  thirteen  years  of  age  when  he  accompanied  the  caravan  of  his 
uncle  ;  and  that  his  duty  compelled  him  to  return  as  soon  as  he  had 
disposed  of  the  merchandise  of  Cadijah.  In  these  hasty  and  superfi- 
cial excursions,  the  eye  of  genius  might  discern  some  objects  invisi- 
ble to  his  grosser  companions  ;  some  seeds  of  knowledge  might  be  cast 
upon  a  fruitfnl  soil  ;  but  his  ignorance  of  the  Syriac  language  must 
have  checked  his  curiosity  ;  and  I  cannot  perceive,  in  the  life  or  writ- 
ings of  Mahomet,  that  his  prospect  was  extended  far  beyond  the  lim- 
its of  the  Arabian  world.  From  every  region  of  that  solitary  world, 
the  pilgrims  of  Mecca  were  annually  assembled  by  the  calls  of  de- 
votion and  commerce  ;  in  the  free  concourse  of  multitudes,  a  sim- 
ple citizen,  in  his  native  tongue,  might  study  the  political  state 
and  character  of  the  tribes,  the  theory  and  practice  of  the  Jews 
and  Christians.  Some  useful  strangers  might  be  tempted  or  forced 
to  implore  the  rites  of  hospitality  ;  and  the  enemies  of  Mahomet  have 
named  the  Jew,  the  Persian,  and  the  Syrian  monk,  whom  they  accuse 
of  lending  their  secret  aid  to  the  composition  of  the  Koran.  Conver- 
sation enriches  the  understanding,  but  solitude  is  the  school  of  genius  ; 
and  the  uniformity  of  a  work  denotes  the  hand  of  a  single  artist. 

of  certain  passages  of  the  Koran,  and  upon  the  authority  of  traditions.  The  96th 
Sura,  adduced  by  Gibbon  in  support  of  his  view,  is  interpreted  by  Silyestre  de  Sacy 
as  an  argument  on  the  opposite  side  (Mem.  de  1'Acad.  des  Inser.  L.,  p.  95),  and  his 
opinion  is  supported  by  Weil  (p.  46,  note  50).  Moslem  authors  are  at  variance  on 
the  subject.  Almost  all  the  modern  writers,  and  many  of  the  old,  deny  the  ability 
of  their  prophet  to  read  and  write  ;  but  good  authors,  especially  of  the  Shiite  sect, 
admit  that  he  could  read,  though  they  describe  him  as  an  unskilful  penman.  Th« 
former  class  of  writers  support  their  opinion  by  perverting  the  texts  of  the  Koran 
which  bear  upon  the  subject.  "Several  instances,"  says  Dr.  Sprenger,  "in  which 
Mohammed  did  read  and  write,  are  recorded  by  Bokhari,  Nasay,  and  others.  It  is, 
however,  certain  that  he  wished  to  appear  ignorant,  in  order  to  raise  the  elegance  of 
the  composition  of  the  Koran  into  a  miracle  "  (p.  103).  The  same  wish  would  doubt- 
less influence  the  views  of  the  more  orthodox  Musulman  commentators.  It  may 
be  further  remarked,  tnat  reading  and  writing  were  far  from  being  so  rare  among 
the  citizens  of  Mecca  in  the  time  of  Mahomet  aa  Gibbon  represents  (Sprenger,  p. 
87).  Nor,  on  a  general  view,  docs  it  appear  probable  that  a  work  like  the  Koran,  con- 
taining frequent  references  to  the  Scriptures  and  othor  books,  gbould  bar*  beea 
composed  by  "  MI  illit«r»t«  b»rb*ri«n. "— 3- 


20  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

From  his  earliest  youth,  Mahomet  was  addicted  to  religious  contem- 
plation ;  each  year  during  the  month  of  Ramadan,  he  withdrew  from 
the  world,  and  from  the  arms  of  Cadijah  ;  in  the  cave  of  Hera,  three 
miles  from  Mecca,  he  consulted  the  spirit  of  fraud  or  enthusiasm, 
whose  abode  is  not  in  the  heavens  but  in  the  mind  of  the  prophet. 
The  faith  which,  under  the  name  of  Islam,  *  he  preached  to  his  family 
and  nation,  is  compounded  of  an  eternal  truth,  and  a  necessary  fiction, 
THAT  THERE  is  ONLY  ONE  GOD,  AND  THAT  MAHOMET  is  THE  APOSTI.B 
OP  GOD. 

It  is  the  boast  of  the  Jewish  apologists,  that  while  the  learned  na- 
tions of  antiquity  were  deluded  by  the  fables  of  polytheism,  theif 
simple  ancestors  of  Palestine  preserved  the  knowledge  and  worship 
of  the  tme  God.  The  moral  attributes  of  Jehovah  may  not  easily  be 
reconciled  with  the  standard  of  human  virtue  ;  his  metaphysical 
qualities  are  darkly  expressed  ;  but  each  page  of  the  Pentateuch  and 
the  Prophets  is  an  evidence  of  his  power  ;  the  unity  of  his  name  is  in- 
scribed on  the  first  table  of  the  law  ;  and  his  sanctuary  was  never  de- 
filed by  any  visible  image  of  the  Divisible  essence.  After  the  ruin  of 
the  temple,  the  faith  of  the  Hebrew  exiles  was  purified,  fixed,  and 
enlightened,  by  the  spiritual  devotion  of  the  synagogue  ;  and  the  au- 
thority of  Mahomet  will  not  justify  his  perpetual  reproach,  that  the 
Jews  of  Mecca  or  Medina  adored  Ezra  as  the  son  of  God.  But  the 
chrildren  of  Israel  had  ceased  to  be  a  people  ;  and  the  religions  of  the 
world  were  guilty,  at  least  in  the  eyes  of  the  prophet,  of  giving  sons, 
or  daughters,  or  companions,  to  the  supreme  God.  In  the  rude  idola- 
try of  the  Arabs,  the  crime  is  manifest  and  audacious  ;  the  Sabians 
are  poorly  excused  by  the  pre-eminence  of  the  first  planet,  or  intelli- 
gi-iu-i-  in  their  celestial  hierarchy ;  and  in  the  Magian  system  the  con- 
flict of  the  two  principles  betrays  the  imperfection  of  the  conqueror. 
The  Christians  of  the  seventh  century  had  insensibly  relapsed  into  a 
semblance  of  paganism  ;  their  public  and  private  vows  were  address- 
ed to  the  relics  and  images  that  disgraced  the  temples  of  the  East ; 
the  throne  of  the  Almighty  was  darkened  by  a  cloud  of  martyrs,  and 
saints,  and  angels,  the  objects  of  popular  veneration  ;  and  the  Collyri- 
dian  heretics,  who  flourished  in  the  fruitful  soil  of  Arabia,  invested 
the  Virgin  Mary  with  the  name  and  honors  of  a  goddess.  The  mys- 
teries of  the  Trinity  and  Incarnation  appear  to  contradict  the  princi- 
ple of  the  divine  unity.  In  their  obvious  sense,  they  introduce  three 
equal  deities,  and  transform  the  man  Jesus  into  the  substance  of  the 

*  Iskim  is  the  verbal  nonn,  or  infinitive,  and  Moslim,  which  has  been  corrupted 
into  Alusalman  or  Musidman,  is  the  participle  of  the  causative  form  of  salm,  which 
means  immunity,  peace.  The  signification  of  Islam  is  therefore  to  make  pence,  or 
to  obtain  Immunity,  either  by  compact,  or  by  doing  homage  to  the  stronger,  acknowl- 
edging Ms  superiority,  and  surrendering  to  him  the  object  of  the  dispute.  It  also 
means  simply  to  surrender.  In  the  Koran  it  signifies  in  most  instances  to  do 
homage  to  God,  to  acknowledge  him  as  our  absolute  Lord,  to  the  exclusion  of 
idou.  Sometimes,  however,  it  occurs  in  that  book  in  its  technical  meaning,  as  the 
name  of  a  religion.  (Sprenger,  p.  168.)— S. 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  21 

Son  of  God  ;  an  orthodox  commentary  will  satisfy  only  a  believing 
mind  ;  intemperate  curiosity  and  zeal  had  torn  the  veil  of  the  sanc- 
tuary ;  and  each  of  the  Oriental  sects  was  eager  to  confess  that  all, 
except  themselves,  deserved  the  reproach  of  idolatry  and  polytho- 
ism.  The  creed  of  Mahomet  is  free  from  suspicion  or  ambiguity  ;  and 
the  Koran  is  a  glorious  testimony  to  the  unity  of  God.  The  prophet 
of  Mecca  rejected  the  worship  of  idols  and  men,  of  stars  and  planets, 
on  the  rational  principle  that  whatever  rises  must  set,  that  whatever 
is  born  must  die,  that  whatever  is  corruptible  must  decay  and  perish. 
In  the  Author  of  the  universe,  his  rational  enthusiasm  confessed  and 
adored  an  infinite  and  eternal  being,  without  form  or  place,  without 
issue  or  similitude,  present  to  our  most  secret  thoughts,  existing  by 
the  necessity  of  his  own  nature,  and  deriving  from  himself  all  moral 
an  t  intellectual  perfection.  These  sublime-  truths,  thus  announced  in 
the  language  of  the  prophet,  are  firmly  held  by  his  disciples  and  de- 
fined with  metaphysical  precision  by  the  interpreters  of  the  Koran. 
A  philosphic  theist  might  subscribe  the  popular  creed  of  the  Mahom- 
etans ;  a  creed  too  sublime  perhaps  for  our  present  faculties.  What 
object  remains  for  the  fancy,  or  even  the  understanding,  when  we 
have  abstracted  from  the  unknown  substance  all  ideas  of  time  and 
space,  of  motion  and  matter,  of  sensation  and  reflection  ?  The  first 
principle  of  reason  and  revelation  was  confirmed  by  the  voice  of 
Mahomet ;  his  proselytes  from  India  to  Morocco  are  distinguished 
by  the  name  of  Unitarians;  and  the  danger  of  idolatry  has  been 
prevented  by  the  interdiction  of  images.  The  doctrine  of  eternal 
decrees  and  absolute  predestination  is  strictly  embraced  by  the  Ma- 
hometans ;  and  they  struggle  with  the  common  difficulties,  hmo  to 
reconcile  the  prescience  of  God  with  the  freedom  and  responsibility 
of  man  ;  how  to  explain  the  permission  of  evil  under  the  reign  of 
infinite  poWer  and  infinite  goodness.  * 

*  This  sketch  of  the  Arabian  prophet  and  his  doctrines  is  drawn  with  too  much 
partiality,  and  requires  to  be  modified  by  the  researches  and  opinions  of  later  in- 
quirers. Gibbon  was  probably  led  by  his  notion  that  Mahomet  was  a  "  philosophic 
theist,"  to  regard  him  with  such  evident  favor.  Nothing,  however,  can  be  more 
at  variance  with  the  prophet's  enthusiastic  temperament  than  such  a  character. 
His  apparently  deistical  opinions  uro-e  merely  from  his  belief  in  the  Mosaic  revela- 
tion, and  his  rejection  of  that  of  Christ.  He  was  Aus  a  deist  in  the  sense  that  any 
Jew  may  be  called  a  deist.  On  this  point  Sprenier  well  remarks,  "  He  never  c  ulij 
reconcile  his  notions  of  God  with  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  and  with  the  divinity 
of  Christ ;  and  he  was  disgusted  with  the  monkish  institutions  and  sectarian  dis- 
putes of  the  Christians.  His  creed  was :  '  He  is  God  alone,  the  eternal  God  ;  he  has 
not  begotten,  arid  is  not  begotten  ;  and  none  is  his  equal.'  Nothing,  however,  can 
be  more  erroneous  than  to  suppose  that  Mohammed  was,  at  any  period  of  his  early 
career,  a  deist.  _  Faith,  when  once  extinct,  cannot  be  revived  ;  and  it  was  his  enthu- 


ng  to  the  Omnipotent  ninety-. 

butes,  thus  re  ardin  >;  him  as  a  being  of  the  most  concrete  kind.     Ob.,  p.  90.) 

With  regard,  again,  to  the  originality  of  Mahomet's  doctrines,  there  is  reason  to 
think  that  it  was  not  so  complete  as  Gibbon  would  lead  us  to  believe  by  character- 
ising the  Koran  as  the  work  "  of  a  single  artist,"  and  by  representing  Mahomet  as 


22  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

The  God  of  nature  lias  written  his  existence  on  all  his  works,  and 
his  law  in  the  heart  of  man.  To  restore  the  knowledge  of  the  one, 
tud  the  practice  of  the  other,  lias  been  the  real  or  pretended  aim  of 
the  prophets  of  every  age  :  the  liberality  of  Mahomet  allowed  to  his 
predecessors  the  same  credit  which  he  claimed  for  himself  ;  and  the 
chain  of  inspiration  was  prolonged  from  the  fall  of  Adam  to  the  pro- 
.  mulgation  of  the  Koran.  During  that  period,  some  rays  of  prophetic 
light  had  been  imparted  to  one  hundred  and  twenty-four  thousand  of 
the  elect,  discriminated  by  their  respective  measure  of  virtue  and 
grace  ;  three  hundred  and  thirteen  apostles  were  sent  with  a  special 
commission  to  recall  their  country  from  idolatry  and  vice  ;  one  hun- 
dred and  four  volumes  have  been  dictated  by  the  Holy  Spirit ;  and  six 
legislators  of  transcendent  brightness  have  announced  to  mankind  the 
six  successive  revelations. of  various  rites,  but  of  one  immutable  re- 
ligion. The  authority  and  station  of  Adam,  Noah,  Abraham,  Moses, 
Christ,  and  Mahomet,  rise  in  just  gradation  above  each  other  ;  but 
whosoever  hates  or  rejects  any  one  of  the  prophets  is  numbered  with 
the  infidels.  The  writings  of  the  patriarchs  were  extant  only  in  the 
apocryphal  copies  of  the  Greeks  and  Syrians  •.  the  conduct  of  Adam 

cut  off  from  all  subsidiary  sources  in  consequence  of  his  inability  to  read.  Th« 
latter  point  has  been  already  examined  ;  and  it  now  remains  to  show  that  Mahomet 
was  not  without  predecessors,  who  had  not  only  held  the  eame  tenets,  but  even 
openly  preached  them.  Gibbon  admits,  indeed,  that  before  Mahomet's  time  "  the 
most  rational  of  the  Arabs  acknowledged  God's  power,  though  they  neglected  his 
worship  ;  "  and  that  it  was  habit  rather  than  conviction  that  still  attached  them  to 
the  relics  of  idolatry  (svpra,  p.  57).  But  the  new  creed  had  made  still  more  active 
advances.  The  Koreishites  charged  Mahomet  with  taking  his  whole  doctrine  from 
a  book  called  the"Asatyrof  the  Ancients,"  which  is  several  times  quoted  in  the 
Koran,  and  appears  to  have  contained  the  doctrine  of  the  resurrection.  (Sprenger. 
p.  100.)  At  the  fair  of  Okatz,  Qoss  had  preached  the  unity  of  God  before  Mahomet 
assumed  the  prophetic  office  ;  and  contemporary  with  him  was  Omayah  of  Tayef, 
to  whose  teachings  Mahomet  allowed  that  his  own  bore  a  great  similarity.  (Ib., 
pp.  5,  38.  39.)  Zayd  the  sceptic  was  another  forerunner  of  Mahomet,  and  his  fol- 
lowers were  among  the  prophet's  first  converts  (p.  167).  Sprenger  concludes  hia 
account  of  the  Prae-Mahoinetans — or  Reformers  before  the  Reformation— as  follows: 
•'  From  the  preceding  account  of  early  converts,  and  it  embraces  nearly  all  thosa 
who  joined  Mohammed  during  the  first  six  years,  it  appears  that  the  leading  men 
among  them  held  the  tenets  which  form  the  basis  of  the  religion  of  the  Arabic 
prophet  long  before  he  preached  them.  They  were  not  his  tools,  but  his  constitu- 
He  clothed  the  sentimerfts  which  he  had  in  common  with  them  in  poetical 
language  ;  and  his  malady  >jave  divine  sanction  to  his  oracles.  Even  when  he  was 
acknowledged  as  the  messeng.  r  of  God,  Omar  had  as  much  or  more  influence  on  the 


embodies  the  faith  and  sentiments  of  men  who  for  their  talents  and  virtues  must  be 
onsidered  as  the  most  distinguished  of  their  nation,  and  who  acted  under  all  cir- 
istances  so  faithful  to  the  spirit  of  the  Arabs,  that  they  must  be  regarded  as  their 
repres  ntatives.     The  Islam  is,  therefore,  the  offspring  of  the  spirit  of  the  time,  and 
the  voice  of  the  Arabic  nation.    And  it  is  this  which  made  it  victorious,  particu- 
larly among  nations  whose  habits  resemble  those  of  the  Arabs,  like  the  Berbers  and 
Tatars.    There  is,  however,  no  doubt  that  the  impostor  has  denied  it  by  his  im- 
morauty  and  perrerwwoM  of  mind,  and  that  most  of  th«  objectionable  doctrines  wv 


LIFE   OF   MAHOMET.  23 

had  not  entitled  him  to  the  gratitude  or  respect  of  his  children  ;  the 
seven  precepts  of  Noah  were  observed  .by  an  inferior  and  imperfect 
class  of  the  proselytes  of  the  synagogue  ;  and  the  memory  of  Abraham 
was  obscurely  revered  by  the  Sabians  in  his  native  land  of  Chaldaea  : 
of  the  myriads  of  prophets,  Moses  and  Christ  alone  lived  and  reigned  ; 
and  the  remnant  of  the  inspired  writings  was  comprised  in  the  books 
of  the  Old  and  New  Testament.  The  miraculous  story  of  Moses  is 
consecrated  and  embellished  in  the  Koran  ;  and  the  captive  Jews  enjoy 
the  secret  revenge  of  imposing  their  own  belief  on  the  nations  whose 
recent  creeds  they  deride.  For  the  author  of  Christianity,  th.^  Ma- 
hometans are  taught  by  the  prophet  to  entertain  a  high  and  mysterious 
reverence.  "Verily,  Christ  Jesus,  the  son  of  Mary,  is  the  apostle  of 
God,  and  his  word,  which  he  conveyed  unto  Mary,  and  a  Spirit  pro- 
ceeding from  him:  honorable  in  this  world,  and  in  the  world  to  come; 
and  one  of  those  who  approach  near  to  the  presence  of  God."  The 
wonders  of  the  genuine  and  apocryphal  gospels  are  profusely  heaped 
on  his  head  ;  and  the  Latin  Church  has  not  disdained  to  borrow  from 
the  Koran  the  immaculate  conception  of  his  virgin  mother.  Yet  Jesus 
was  a  mere  mortal ;  and,  at  the  day  of  judgment,  his  tistiinony  will 
serve  to  condemn  both  the  Jews,  who  reject  him  as  a  prophet,  and  the 
Christians,  who  adore  him  as  the  Son  of  God.  The  malice  of  his  eiifj- 
mies  aspersed  his  reputation,  and  conspired  against  his  life  ;  but  their 
intention  only  was  guilty;  a  phantom  or  a  criminal  was  substituted  on 
the  cross,  and  the  innocent  saint  was  translated  to  the  seventh  heaven. 
During  six  hundred  years  the  gospel  was  the  way  of  truth  and  salva- 
tion ;  but  the  Christians  insensibly  forgot  both  the  laws  and  the  ex- 
ample of  their  founder  ;  and  Mahomet  was  instructed  by  the  Gnostics 
to  accuse  the  church,  as  well  as  the  synagogue,  of  corrupting  the  in- 
tegrity of  the  sacred  text.  The  piety  of  Moses  and  of  Christ  rejoiced 
in  the  assurance  of  a  future  prophet,  more  illustrious  than  themselves: 
the  evangelic  promise  of  the  Paraclete,  or  Holy  Ghost,  was  prefigured 
in  the  name,  and  accomplished  in  the  person,  of  Mahomet,  the  great- 
est and  last  of  the  apostles  of  God. 

The  communication  of  ideas  requires  a  similitude  of  thought  and 
language  :  the  discourse  of  a  philosopher  would  vibrate  without  effect 
on  the  ear  of  a  peasant ;  yet  how  minute  is  the  distance  of  their  under- 
standing, if  it  be  compared  with  the  contact  of  an  infinite  and  finite 
mind,  with  the  word  of  God  expressed  by  the  tongue  or  the  pen  of  a 
mortal  !  The  inspiration  of  the  Hebrew  prophets,  of  the  apostles  and 
evangelists  of  Christ,  might  not  be  incompatible  with  the  exercise  of 
their  reason  and  memory  ;  and  the  diversity  of  their  genius  is  strongly 
marked  in  the  style  and  composition  of  the  books  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testament.  But  Mahomet  was  content  with  a  character  more  humble, 
yet  more  sublime,  of  a  simple  editor  :  the  substance  of  "the  Koran," 
•according  to  himself  or  his  disciples,  is  uncreated  and  eternal ;  sub- 
sisting in  the  essence  of  the  Deity,  and  inscribed  with  a  pen  of  light 
i>n  the  table  of  his  everlasting  decrees.  A  paper  copy,  in  a  volume  of 


M  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

silk  and  gems,  was  brought  down  to  the  lowest  heaven  by  the  angel 
Qabriel,wno,under  the  Jewish  economy,  had  indeed  been  dispatched  on 
tin-  most  important  errands;  and  this  trusty  messenger  successively 
revealed  the  chapters  and  verses  to  the  Arabian  prophet.  Instead  of 
n  jii-rpetual  and  perfect  measure  of  the  divine  will,  the  fragments  of 
the  Koran  were  produced  at  the  discretion  of  Mahomet ,  each  revela- 
tion is  suited  to  the  emergencies  of  his  policy  or  passion  ;  and  all  con- 
tradiction is  removed  by  the  saving  maxim,  that  any  text  of  scripture 
is  abrogated  or  modified  by  any  subsequent  passage.  The  word  of 
( n  id.  and  of  the  apostle,  was  diligently  recorded  by  his  disciples  on 
palm-leaves  and  the  shoulder-bones  of  mutton  ;  and  the  pages,  with- 
out order  and  connection,  were  cast  into  a  domestic  chest  in  the  cus- 
tody of  one  of  his  wives.  Two  years  after  the  death  of  Mahomet,  the 
sacred  volume  was  collected  and  published  by  his  friend  and  successor 
Abubeker  r*  the  work  was  revised  by  the  caliph  Othman,  in  the  thir" 
tieth  year  of  the  Hegira ;  f  and  the  various  editions  of  the  Koran  assert 
the  same  miraculous  privilege  of  a  uniform  and  incorruptible  text.  In 
the  spirit  of  enthusiasm  or  vanity,  the  prophet  rests  the  truth  of  his 
mission  on  the  merit  of  his  book,  audaciously  challenges  both  men 
and  angels  to  imitate  the  beauties  of  a  single  page,  and  presumes  to 
assert  that  (Jod  alone  could  dictate  this  incomparable  performance. 
This  argument  is  most  powerfully  addressed  to  a  devout  Arabian, 
whose  mind  is  attuned  to  faith  and  rapture,  whose  ear  is  delighted 
by  the  music  of  sounds,  and  whose  ignorance  is  incapable  of  compar- 
ing the  productions  of  human  genius.  The  harmony  and  copiousness 
of  style  will  not  reach,  in  a  version,  the  European  infidel  .  he  will 
peruse  with  impatience  the  endless  incoherent  rhapsody  of  fable,  and 
precept,  and  declamation,  which  seldom  excites  a  sentiment  or  an  idea, 
which  sometimes  crawls  in  the  dust,  and  is  sometimes  lost  in  the 
clouds.  The  divine  attributes  exalt  the  fancy  of  the  Arabian  mission - 

*  Abnbekcr,  at  the  suggestion  of  Omar,  gave  orders  for  its  collection  and  publi- 
cation ;  but  the  editorial  labor  was  actually  performed  by  Zeid  Ibn  Thabit,  who  had 
been  one  of  Mahomet's  secretaries.  He  is  related  to  have  gathered  the  text — "  from 
date-leaves,  and  tablets  of  white  stone,  and  from  the  breasts  of  men."  (Weil,  p. 
348  :  Calcutta  Review,  No.  xxxvii.,  p.  9.) — 8. 

t  The  recension  of  Othman  has  been  handed  dcwn  to  us  unaltered .  So  carefully, 
indeed,  has  it  been  preserved,  that  there  are  no  variations  of  importance — we  might 
almost  say  no  variations  at  all — amongst  the  innumerable  copies  of  the  Koran  scat- 
tered throughout  the  vast  bounds  of  the  empire  of  Islam.  Contending  and  embit- 
tered factions,  originating  in  the  murder  of  Othman  himself,  within  a  quarter  of  a 
century  from  the  death  of  Mahomet,  have  ever  since  rent  the  Mahometan  world. 
Yet  but  one  Koran  has  always  been  current  amongst  them  ;  and  the  consentaneous 
use-  of  it  by  all.  up  to  the  present  day,  is  an  irrefragable  proof  that  we  have  now  be- 
fniv  ii.-j  the  s<elf»satne  text  prepared  by  the  commands  of  that  unfortunate  caliph. 
There  is  probably  no  other  work  which  has  remained  twelve  centuries  with  so  pure 
a  text.  The  various  readings  are  wonderfully  few  in  number,  and  are  chiefly  con- 
fined to  differences  in  the  vowel  points  and  diacritical  signs  ;  but  as  these  marks 
were  invented  at  a  later  date,  and  did  not  exist  at  all  in  the  early  copies,  they  can 
hardly  be  said  to  affect  the  text  of  Othman.  (Calcutta  Review,  No.  xxxvii..  p.  11 ) 
— S. 


LIFE   OF  MAHOMET.  25 

ary  ;  but  his  loftiest  strains  must  yield  to  the  sublime  simplicity  of 
the  book  of  Job,  composed  in  a  remote  age,  in  the  same  country,  and 
in  the  same  language.*  If  the  composition  of  the  Koran  exceed  the 
faculties  of  a  man,  to  what  superior  intelligence  should  we  ascribe  the 
Iliad  of  Homer,  or  the  Philippics  of  Demosthenes?  In  all  religions 
the  life  of  the  founder  supplies  the  silence  of  his  written  revelation  . 
the  sayings  of  Mahomet  were  so  many  lessons  of  truth ;  his  actions 
so  many  examples  of  virtue  ;  and  the  public  and  private  memorials 
were  preserved  by  his  wives  and  companions.  At  the  end  of  two 
hundred,  years,  the  Sonna,  or  oral  law,  was  fixed  and  consecrated  by 
the  labors  of  Al  Boehari,  who  discriminated  seven  thousand  two  hun- 
dred and  seventy-five  genuine  traditions,  from  a  mass  of  three  hun- 
dred thousand  reports,  of  a  more  doubtful  or  spurious  character,  f 
Each  day  the  pious  author  prayed  in  the  temple  of  Mecca,  and  per- 
formed his  ablutions  with  the  water  of  Zemzem  :  the  pages  were 
successively  deposited  on  the  pulpit  and  the  sepulchre  of  the  apostle  ; 
and  the  work  has  been  approved  by  the  four  orthodox  sects  of  the 
Sonnites. 

The  mission  of  the  ancient  prophets,  of  Moses  and  of  Jesus,  had 
been  confirmed  by  many  splendid  prodigies  ;  and  Mahomet  was  re- 
peatedly urged,  by  the  inhabitants  of  Mecca  and  Medina,  to  produce 
a  similar  evidence  of  his  divine  legation  ;  to  call  down  from  heaven 
the  angel  or  the  volume  of  his  revelation,  to  create  a  garden  in  the 
desert,  or  to  kindle  a  conflagration  in  the  unbelieving  city.  As  often 
as  he  is  pressed  by  the  demands  of  the  Koreish,  he  involves  himself 
in  the  obscure  boast  of  vision  and  prophecy,  appeals  to  the  internal 
proofs  of  his  doctrine,  and  shields  himself  behind  the  providence  of 
God,  who  refuses  those  signs  and  wonders  that  would  depreciate  the 
merit  of  faith,  and  aggravate  the  guilt  of  infidelity.  But  the  modest 
or  angry  tone  of  his  apologies  betrays  his  weakness  and  vexation  ; 
and  these  passages  of  scandal  establish,  beyond  suspicion,  the  integ- 
rity  of  the  Koran.  The  votaries  of  Mahomet  are  more  assured  than 
himself  of  his  miraculous  gifts,  and  their  confidence  and  credulity 
increase  as  they  are  further  removed  from  the  time  and  place  of  his 
spiritual  exploits.  They  believe  or  affirm  that  trees  went  forth  to 
meet  him  ;  that  he  was  saluted  by  stones  ;  that  water  gushed  from 
his  fingers  ;  that  he  fed  the  hungry,  cured  the  sick,  and  raised  the 

*  The  age  of  the  book  of  Job  id  still,  and  probably  will  still  be,  disputed.  Kosen- 
m filler  thus  states  his  own  opinion  :  "Certe  serioribus  republics  temporibns  assi- 
g  anduni  esse,  librum,  suadere  yidetur  ad  Chaldaismum  vergens  sermo.*'  Yet  tlio 
observations  of  Kosegarten,  which  Kosenmiiller  has  given  inanole,  and  comiwii! 
reason,  suggest  that  this  Chaidaism  may  be  the  native  form  of  a  much  earlier  dia- 
lect ;  or  the  Chaldaic  may  have  adopted  the  poetical  archaisms  of  a  dialect  differing 
from,  but  not  less  ancient  than  the  Hebrew.  (See  Rosenmiiller,  Proleg.  on  Job,  p. 
41.)  The  poetry  appears  to  me  to  belong  to  a  much  earlier  period. — M. 

t  The  numbers  were  much  more  disproportionate  than  these.  Out  of  600,000  tra- 
ditions, Bokh&ri,  found  only  4,000  to  be  genuine.  (Weil,  Gesch.  der  Chalifsu,  vol. 
I.  p.  291. V— 8. 


3fl  LIFE  OP  MAHOMET. 

dead  ;  that  a  beam  groaned  to  him  ;  that  a  camel  complained  to  him  ; 
that  a  shoulder  of  mutton  informed  him  of  its  being  poisoned  ;  and 
that  both  animate  and  inanimate  nature  were  equally  subject  to  the 
apostle  of  God.  His  dream  of  a  nocturnal  journey  is  seriously  de- 
scribed as  a  real  and  corporeal  transaction.  A  mysterious  animal, 
the  Borak,  conveyed  him  from  the  temple  of  Mecca  to  that  of  Jerusa- 
lem :  with  his  companion  Gabriel,  he  successively  ascended  the  seven 
heavens,  and  received  and  repaid  the  salutations  of  the  patriarchs, 
the  prophets,  and  the  angels,  in  their  respective  mansions.  Beyond 
the  seventh  heaven,  Mahomet  alone  was  permitted  to  proceed  ;  he 
passed  the  veil  of  unity,  approached  within  two  bow-shots  of  the 
throne,  and  felt  a  cold  that  pierced  him  to  the  heart,  when  his  shoul- 
der was  touched  by  the  hand  of  God.  After  this  familiar  though  im- 
portant conversation,  he  again  descended  to  Jerusalem,  remounted  the 
Boruk,  returned  to  Mecca,  and  performed  in  the  tenth  part  of  a  night 
the  journey  of  many  thousand  years.  According  to  another  legend, 
the  apostle  confounded  in  a  national  assembly  the  malicious  challenge 
of  the  Koreish.  His  resistless  word  split  asunder  the  orb  of  the  moon  ; 
the  obedient  planet  stooped  from  her  station  in  the  sky,  accomplished 
the  seven  revolutions  round  the  Caaba,  saluted  Mahomet  in  the  Ara- 
bian tongue,  and  suddenly  contracting  her  dimensions,  entered  at  the 
collar,  and  issued  forth  through  the  sleeve,  of  his  shirt.  The  vulgar 
are  amused  with  the  marvellous  tales  ;  but  the  gravest  of  the  Mnsul- 
man  doctors  imitate  the  modesty  of  their  master,  and  indulge  a  lati- 
tude of  faith  or  interpretation.  They  might  speciously  allege,  that 
in  preaching  the  religion,  it  was  needless  to  violate  the  harmony  of 
nature  ;  that  a  creed  unclouded  with  mystery  may  be  excused  from 
miracles  ;  and  that  the  sword  of  Mahomet  was  not  less  potent  than 
the  rod  of  Moses. 

The  polytheist  is  oppressed  and  distracted  by  the  variety  of  super- 
stition :  a  thousand  rites  of  Egyptian  origin  were  interwoven  with 
the  essence  of  the  Mosaic  law  ;  and  the  spirit  of  the  gospel  had 
evaporated  in  the  pageantry  of  the  church.  The  prophet  of  Mecca 
was  tempted  by  prejudice,  or  policy,  or  patriotism,  to  sanctify  the 
rites  of  the  Arabians,  and  the  custom  of  visiting  the  holy  stone  of 
the  Caabs.  But  the  precepts  of  Mahomet  himself  inculcate  a  more 
s'nijile  and  rational  piety  •  prayer,  fasting,  and  alms  are  the  religious 
duties  of  a  Musulman  ;  and  he  is  encouraged  to  hope  that  prayer  will 
carry  him  half  way  to  God,  fasting  will  bring  him  to  the  door  of  his 
palace,  and  alms  will  gain  him  admittance.  I.  According  to  the  tra- 
dition of  the  nocturnal  journey,  the  apostle,  in  his  personal  confen  nee 
With  the  Deity,  was  commanded  to  impose  on  his  disciples  the  daily 
obligation  of  fifty  prayers.  By  the  advice  of  Moses,  he  applied  for  an 
Alleviation  of  this  intolerable  burthen  ;  the  number  was  gradually  re- 
duced to  five  :  without  any  dispensation  of  business  or  pleasure,  or 
time  or  place:  the  devotion  of  the  faithful  is  repeated  at  daybreak, 
»t  noon,  in  the  afternoon,  in  the  evening,  and  at  the  first  watch  of 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  2? 

the  night ;  and  in  the  present  decay  of  religious  fervor,  our  travellers 
are  edified  with  the  profound  humility  and  attention  of  the  Turks  and 
Persians.  Cleanliness  is  the  key  of  prayer  :  the  frequent  lustration 
of  the  hands,  the  face,  and  the  body,  which  was  practised  of  old  by 
the  Arabs,  is  solemnly  enjoined  by  the  Koran  .  and  a  permission  is 
formally  granted  to  supply  with  sand  the  scarcity  of  water.  The 
words  and  attitudes  of  supplication,  as  it  is  performed  either  sitting 
or  standing,  or  prostrate  on  the  ground,  are  prescribed  by  custom  or 
authority;  but  the  prayer  is  poured  forth  in  short  and  fervent  ejacu- 
lations ;  the  measure  of  zeal  is  not  exhausted  by  a  tedious  liturgy  ; 
and  each  Musulman,  for  his  own  person,  is  invested  with  the  charac- 
ter of  a  priest.  Among  the  theists,  who  reject  the  use  of  images,  it 
has  been  found  necessary  to  restrain  the  wanderings  of  the  fancy  by 
directing  the  eye  and  the  thought  towards  a  kebla,  or  visible  point  of 
the  horizon.  The  prophet  was  at  first  inclined  to  gratify  the  Jews  by 
the  choice  of  Jerusalem  ;  but  he  soon  returned  to  a  more  natural  par- 
tiality ;  and  five  times  every  day  the  eyes  of  the  nations  at  Astracan, 
at  Fez,  at  Delhi,  are  devoutly  turned  to  the  holy  temple  of  Mecca.* 
Yet  every  spot  for  the  service  of  God  is  equally  pure  :  the  Mahome- 
tans indifferently  pray  in  their  chamber  or  in  the  street.  As  a  dis- 
tinction from  the  Jews  and  Christians,  the  Friday  in  each  week  is  set 
apart  for  the  useful  institution  of  public  worship  :  the  people  are 
assembled  in  the  mosch :  and  the  imam,  some  respectable  el- 
der, ascends  the  pulpit  to  begin  the  prayer  and  pronounce  the 
sermon.  But  the  Mahometan  religion  is  destitute  of  priesthood 
or  sacrifice  ;  f  and  the  independent  spirit  of  fanaticism  looks 
down  with  contempt  on  the  ministers  and  slaves  of  superstition. 
II.  The  voluntary  penance  of  the  ascetics,  the  torment  and  glory 
of  their  lives,  was  odious  to  a  prophet  who  censured  in  his  compan- 

*  Mahomet  at  fir?t  granted  the  Jews  many  privileges  in  observing  their  ancient 
custom?,  and  especially  tlieir  Sabbath  ;  and  he  him&elf  kept  the  fast  of  ten  days 
with  which  the  Jewish  year  begins.  But  when  he  found  himself  deceived  in  his 
expectations  of  converting  them,  these  privileges  were  withdrawn  Mecca  was 
substituted  for  Jerusalem  as  the  kebla,  or  quarter  to  which  the  face  is  directed  dur- 
ing prayer;  and,  in  place  of  the  Jewish  fast,  that  of  Ramadhan  was  instituted. 
(Weil,  Mohammed,  p.  90.)— S. 

t  Mr.  Porster  (Mahometanism  Unveiled,  vol.  i.,  p.  416)  has  severely  rebuked  Gibbon 
for  his  inaccuracy  in  saying  that  "  the  Mahometan  religion  is  destitute  of  priesthood 
or  sacrifice  /  "  but  this  expression  must  be  understood  of  the  general  practice  of  the 
Mahometans.  The  occasion  of  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  formed  an  exception  ;  and 
Gibbon  has  himself  observed  (xupra,  p.  48)  that  "  the  pilgrimage  was  achieved,  as  at 
the  present  fiour,  by  a  sacrifice  of  sheep  and  camels."  The  Koran  sanctions  sacri- 
fice on  this  occasion  ;  and  Mahomet  himself,  in  his  last  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  set 
the  example,  by  offering  up  with  his  own  hand  the  sixty-three  camels  which  he  had 
brought  with  him  from  Medina,  ordering  Ali  to  do  the  like  with  the  thirty-seven 
which  he  had  brought  from  Yemen.  (Weil,  Mohammed,  pp.  294,  317.)  This  ordi- 
nance was  probably  a  sort  of  political  compromise  with  the  ancient  idolatrous  rites 
of  Mecca.  It  may  be  further  remarked,  that  there  were  two  kinds  of  pilgrimage, 
viz.,  Had.)  and  Umra.  The_  rites  accompanying  them,  however,  were  exactly  simi- 
lar—the only  distinction  being  that  the  former  took  place  only  on  the  appointed  fe* 
tivals,  whilst  the  latter  might  be  performed  all  the  year  round.  (Ib  ,  p,  390.)— S. 


88  LIFE   OF  MAHOMET. 

ions  a  rash  vow  of  abstaining  from  flesh,  and  women,  and  sheep  ;  and 
firmly  declared  that  he  would  suffer  no  monks  in  his  religion.  Yet 
he  instituted  in  each  year  a  fast  of  thirty  days  ;  and  strenuously 
recommended  the  observance,  as  a  discipline  which  purifies  the  soul 
and  subdues  the  body,  as  a  salutary  exercise  of  obedience  to  the  will 
of  God  and  his  apostle.  During  the  month  of  Kamadan,  from  the 
rising  to  the  setting  of  the  sun,  the  Musulman  abstains  from  eating, 
and  drinking,  and  women,  and  baths,  and  perfumes  ;  from  all  nour- 
ishments that  can  restore  his  strength,  from  all  pleasure  that  can 
gratify  his  senses.  In  the  revolution  of  the  lunar  year,  the  Rama- 
dan coincides,  by  turns,  with  the  winter  cold  and  the  summer  heat  ; 
and  the  patient  martyr,  without  assuaging  his  thirst  with  a  drop  of 
water,  must  expect  the  close  of  a  tedious  and  sultry  day.  The  inter- 
diction of  wine,  peculiar  to  some  orders  of  priests  or  hermits,  is  con- 
Verted  by  Mahomet  alone  into  a  positive  and  general  law  :  and  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  globe  has  abjured,  at  his  command,  the  use  of 
that  salutary,  though  dangerous,  liquor.  These  painful  restraints 
are,  doubtless,  infringed  by  the  libertine,  and  eluded  by  the  hypo- 
crite ;  but  the  legislator,  by  whom  they  are  enacted,  cannot  surely  be 
accused  of  alluring  his  proselytes  by  the  indulgence  of  their  sensual 
appetites.*  III.  The  charity  of  the  Mahometans  descends  to  the  ani- 
mal creation  ;  and  the  Koran  repeatedly  inculcates,  not  as  a  merit,  hut 
as  a  strict  and  indispensable  duty,  the  relief  of  the  indigent  and  un- 
fortunate. Mahomet,  perhaps,  is  the  only  law  giver  who  lias  defined 
the  precise  measure  of  charity  :  the  standard  may  vary  with  the  de- 
gree and  nature  of  property,  as  it  consists  either  in  money,  in  corn  or 
cattle,  in  fruits  or  merchandise  ;  but  the  Musulman  does  not  accom- 
plish the  law  unless  he  bestows  a  tenth  of  his  revenue  ;  and  if  his 
conscience  accuses  him  of  fraud  or  extortion,  the  tenth,  under  the, 
idea  of  restitution,  is  enlarged  to  a  fifth.  Benevolence  is  the  founda- 
tion of  justice,  since  we  are  forbid  to  injure  those  whom  we  are 
bound  to  assist.  A  prophet  may  reveal  the  secrets  of  Leaven  and  of 
futurity,  but  in  his  moral  precepts  he  can  only  repeat  the  lessons  of 
our  own  hearts. 

The  two  articles  of  belief  and  the  four  practical  duties  of  Islam  f 
are  guarded  by  rewards  and  punishments  ;  and  the  faith  of  the 
Musulman  is  devoutly  fixed  on  the  event  of  the  judgment  and  the 
last  day.  The  prophet  has  not  presumed  to  determine  the  moment  of 

I  hut  awful  catastrophe,  though  he  darkly  announces  the  signs,  both 

*  Forcter  points  out  the  inconsistency  of  this  passage  with  the  one  on  page  230  : 

II  His  voice  Invited  the  Arabs  to  freedom  and  victory,  to  arms  and  rapine,"  to  the 
indulgence  of  their  darling  passions  in  this  world  and  the  other."    (Alahometanism 
Unveiled,  vol.  ii.,  p.  498.)-^8. 

i  The  four  practical  duties  are  prayer,  fasting,  alms,  and  pilgrimase.  (Weil,  Mo- 
Bnmmed,  p.  288,  note.)  It  is  here  obvious  that  Gibbon  had  not  overlooked  the  last, 
though,  he  has  omitted  it  in  the  preceding  enumeration  of  the  ordinary  and  constant 
.— 8. 


LIFE  OP  MAHOMET.  29 

In  heaven  and  earth,  which  will  precede  the  universal  dissolution- 
when  life  shall  be  destroyed,  and  the  order  of  creation  shall  be  con- 
founded in  the  primitive  chaos.  At  the  blast  of  the  trumpet  new 
worlds  will  start  into  being  ;  angels,  genii,  and  men,  will  arise  from 
the  dead,  and  the  human  soul  will  again  be  united  to  the  body.  The 
doctrine  of  the  resurrection  was  first  entertained  by  the  Egyptians  ; 
and  their  mummies  were  embalmed,  their  pyramids  were  constructed, 
to  preserve  the  ancient  mansion  of  the  soul,  during  a  period  of  throe 
thousand  years.  But  the  attempt  is  partial  and  unavailing  ;  and  it  is 
with  a  more  philosophic  spirit  that  Mahomet  relies  on  the  omnipo- 
tence of  the  Creator,  whose  word  can  reanimate  the  breathless  clay, 
and  collect  the  innumerable  atoms  that  no  longer  retain  their  form  or 
Bubstance.  The  intermediate  state  of  the  soul  it  is  hard  to  decide  ;  and 
those  who  most  firmly  believe  her  immaterial  nature  are  at  a  loss  to  un- 
dcistiind  how  she  can  think  or  act  without  the  agency  of  the  organs 
of  sense. 

The  reunion  of  the  soul  and  body  will  be  followed  by  the  final 
judgment  of  mankind  ;  and,  in  his  copy  of  the  Magian  picture,  the 
prophet  has  too  faithfully  represented  the  forms  of  proceeding,  and 
even  the  slow  and  successive  operations  of  an  earthly  tribunal.  By 
his  intolerant  adversaries  he  is  upbraided  for  extending  even  to  them- 
selves the  hope  of  salvation,  for  asserting  the  blackest  heresy,  that 
every  man  who  believes  in  God  and  accomplishes  good  works,  may 
expect  in  the  last  day  a  favorable  sentence.  Such  rational  indiffer- 
ence is  ill  adapted  to  the  character  of  a  fanatic  ;  nor  is  it  probable 
that  a  messenger  from  heaven  should  depreciate  the  value  and  neces- 
sity of  his  own  revelation.  In  the  idiom  of  the  Koran,  the  belief  of 
God  isjuiseparable  from  that  of  Mahomet  :  the  good  works  are  those 
which  he  had  enjoined  ;  and  the  two  qualifications  imply  the  profes- 
sion of  Islam,  to  which  all  nations  and  all  sects  are  equally  invited. 
Their  spiritual  blindness,  though  excused  by  ignorance  and  crowned 
with  virtue,  will  be  scourged  with  everlasting  torments  ;  and  the 
tears  which  Mahomet  shed  over  the  tomb  of  his  mother,  for  whom  he 
was  forbidden  to  pray,  display  a  striking  contrast  of  humanity  and 
enthusiasm.  The  doom  of  the  infidels  is  common  :  the  measure  of 
their  guilt  and  punishment  is  determined  by  the  degree  of  evidence 
which  they  have  rejected,  by  the  magnitude  of  the  errors  which  they 
have  entertained  •  the  eternal  mansions  of  the  Christians,  the  Jews, 
the  Sabians,  the  Magians,  and  the  idolaters,  are  sunk  below  each 
other  in  the  abyss  ;  an  1  the  lowest  hell  is  reserved  for  the  faithless 
hypocrites  who  have  assumed  the  mask  of  religion.  After  the  great- 
er part  of  mankind  has  been  condemned  for  their  opinions,  the  true 
believers  only  will  be  judged  by  their  actions.  The  good  and  evil  of 
each  Musulman  will  be  accurately  weighed  in  a  real  or  allegorical 
balance,  and  a  singular  mode  of  compensation  will  be  allowed  for  the 
payment  of  injuries  :  the  aggressor  will  refund  an  equivalent  of  his 
twn  good  actions  for  the  benefit  of  the  person  whom  he  has  wronged ; 


10  LIFE   OF  MAHOMET. 

and  if  he  should  bo  destitute  of  any  moral  property,  the  weight  of 
his  sins  will  be  loaded  with  an  adequate  share  of  the  demerits  of  the 
sufferer.  According  as  the  shares  of  guilt  or  virtue  shall  preponder- 
ate, the  sentence  will  be  pronounced,  and  all,  without  distinction,  will 
pass  over  the  sharp  and  perilous  bridge  of  the  abyss  ;  but  the  innocent 
treading  in  the  footsteps  of  Mahomet,  will  gloriously  enter  the  gates  of 
paradise,  while  the  guilty  will  fall  into  the  first  and  mildest  of  the 
seven  hells.  The  term  of  expiation  will  vary  from  nine  hundred  to 
seven  thousand  years  but  the  prophet  has  j  udiciously  promised  that 
all  his  disciples,  whatever  may  be  their  sins,  shall  be  saved  by  their 
own  faith  and  his  intercession  from  eternal  damnation.  It  is  not 
surprising  that  superstition  should  act  most  powerfully  on  the  fears 
of  her  votaries,  since  the  human  mind  can  paint  with  more  energy  the 
misery  than  the  bliss  of  a  future  life.  With  the  two  simple  elements 
of  darkness  and  fire,  we  create  a  sensation  of  pain  which  may  be  ag- 
gravated to  an  infinite  degree  by  the  idea  of  endless  duration.  But 
the  same  idea  ope  rates  with  an  opposite  effect  on  the  continuity  of  pleas- 
ure ;  and  too  much  of  our  present  enjoyments  is  obtained  from  the 
relief  or  the  comparison  of  evil.  It  is  natural  enough  that  an  Ara- 
bian prophet  should  dwell  with  rapture  on  the  groves,  the  fountains, 
and  the  rivers  of  paradise ;  but  instead  of  inspiring  the  blessed  in- 
habitants with  a  liberal  taste  for  harmony  and  science,  conversation 
and  friendship,  he  idly  celebrates  the  pearls  and  diamonds,  the  robes 
of  silk,  palaces  of  marble,  dishes  of  gold,  rich  wines,  artificial  dain- 
ties, numerous  attendants,  and  the  whole  train  of  sensual  and  costly 
luxury  which  becomes  insipid  to  the  owner  even  in  the  short  period 
of  this  mortal  life.  Seventy-two  Jiouris,  or  black-eyed  girls  of  re- 
splendent beauty,  blooming  youth,  virgin  purity,  and  exquisite  sensi. 
bility,  will  be  created  for  the  use  of  the  meanest  believer  ;  a  moment 
of  pleasure  will  be  prolonged  to  a  thousand  years,  and  his  faculties 
will  be  increased  a  hundred-fold  to  render  him  worthy  of  his  felicity. 
Notwithstanding  a  vulgar  prejudice,  the  gates  of  heaven  will  be  open 
to  both  sexes  ;  but  Mahomet  has  not  specified  the  male  companions 
of  the  female  elect,  lest  he  should  either  alarm  the  jealousy  of  their 
former  husbands  or  disturb  their  felicity  by  the  suspicion  of  an  ever- 
lasting marriage.  This  image  of  a  carnal  paradise  has  provoked  the 
indignation,  perhaps  the  envy,  of  the  monks  ;  they  declaim  against 
the  impure  religion  of  Mahomet,  and  his  modest  apologists  are  driven 
to  the  poor  excuse  of  figures  and  allegories.  But  the  sounder  and 
more  consistent  party  adhere  without  shame  to  the  literal  interpreta- 
tion of  the  Koran  :  useless  would  be  the  resurrection  of  the  body  un- 
less it  were  restored  to  the  possession  and  exercise  of  its  worthiest 
faculties  ;  and  the  union  of  sensual  and  intellectual  enjoyment  is 
requisite  to  complete  the  happiness  of  the  double  animal,  the  perfect 
man.  Yet  the  joys  of  the  Mahometan  paradise  will  not  be  confined 
to  the  indulgence  of  luxury  and  appetite,  and  the  prophet  has  ex- 
pressly declared  that  all  meaner  happiness  will  be  forgotten  and  do- 


LIFE   OF   MAHOMET.  31 

spised  by  the  saints  and  martyrs  who  shall  be  admitted  to  the  beati- 
tude of  the  divine  vision. 

The  first  and  most  arduous  conquests  of  Mahomet*  were  those  of 

*  The  original  materials  for  a  Life  of  Mahomet  are — I.  The  Koran.— II.  The  tra- 
ditions of  Mahomet's  followers. — III.  Some  poetical  works. — IV.  The  earliest  Ara- 
bian biographies  of  the  prophet. 

I.  The  Koran,  respecting  the  general  integrity  and  authenticity  of  which  Oriental 
scholars  are  agreed,  is  the  great  storehouse  for  the  opinions  and  character  of  Ma- 
homet ;  but  the  events  of  his  outward  life  and  their  connection  are  derived  almost 
entirely  from  tradition. 

II.  After  Mahomet's  death,  such  of  his  followers  as  had  been  much  about  his  per- 
son (Aslidb,  "companions"),  were   surrounded  by  pupils  who  had  not  seen  and 
conversed  with  him,  but  who  were  desirous  of  acquiring  information  from  those 
who  had  enjoyed  that  advantage.    This  second  generation,  who  were  called  Tabiys 
(Tabiiin,  "successors"),  transmitted  in  turn  to  others  the  information  thus  ac- 
quired.  Great  care  was  employed  in  comparing  and  sifting  these  traditions,  which 
were  derived  from  various  and  often  distant  sources  ;  and,  as  a  guarantee  of  authen- 
ticity, the  name  of  the  person  on  whose  authority  they  rested  was  transmitted 
along  with  them.    It  is  possible  that  some  of  them  may  have  been  committed  to 
writing  in  Mahomet's  lifetime  ;  but  the  first  formal  collection  of  them  was  made 
about  a  century  after  his  death,  by  command  of  the  Caliph  Omar  II.     They  multi- 
plied rapidly  ;  and  it  is  said  that  the  books  of  the  historian  Bokhari— who  died  only 
about  two  centuries  after  Mahomet — which  consisted  chiefly  of  these  traditions,  filled 
six  hundred  boxes,  each  a  load  for  two  men.  The  most  important  among  these  collec- 
tions are  the  six  canonical  ones  of  the  Sunnies  and  four  of  the  Shiahs.    The  former 
were  compiled  undar  the  influence  of  the  Abasside  caliphs,  and  were  begun  in  the 
reign  of  Al  Mamun.    The  Shiahs  were  somewhat  later,  and  are  far  less  trustworthy 
than  the  Sunnies,  being  composed  with  the  party  view  of  supporting  the  claims  of 
All  and  his  descendants  to  supreme  power. 

III.  Some  extant  Arabic  poems  were  probably  composed  by  Mahomet's  contem- 
poraries.   They  are  of  much  value  as  adding  confirmation  to  the  corresponding  tra- 
ditions ;  but  there  are  no  facts  in  the  prophet's  life  the  proof  of  which  depends 
upon  these  historical  remains.     Although,    therefore1;  they   are  valuable  because 
confirmatory  of  tradition,  their  practical  bearing  upon  the  biographical-  elements  of 
the  prophet's  life  is  not  of  so  mnch  interest  as  might  have  been  expected.    They  de- 
eerve,  indeed,  deep  attention  as  the  earliest  literary  remains  of  a  period  which  con- 
tained the  germ  of  such  mighty  events,  but  they  give  us  little  new  insight  into  the 
history  or  character  of  Mahomet.     (Calcutta  Review,  No.  xxxvii.,  p.  6t>.) 

IV.  It  seems  that  regular  biographies  of  Mahomet  began  to  be  composed  towards 
the  end  of  the  first  or  early  in  the  second  century  of  the  Hegim  ;  but  the  earliest 
biographical  writers,  whose  works  are  extant  more  or  less  in  their  original  state, 
are— 1.  Ibn  Ishac  ;  2.  IbnIIisham  ;  3.  Wackidi  and  his  secretary  ;  4.  Tabari  —  1.  Ibn 
lahac,  a  Tabiy,  died  A.  H.  ]51  (A.  D.  7(i8).     His  work,  which  was  composed  for  the 
caliph  Al  Mansur,  enjoys  a  high  reputation  among  the  Moslems  ;  and  its  statements 
have  been  incorporated  into  most  of  the  subsequent  biographies  of  the  prophet. 
Dr.  (Sprenger,  however,  (p.  69),  though  hardly,  perhaps,  on  sufficient  grounds,  re- 
gards him  as  little  trustworthy  and  doubts  whether  his  book  has  come  down  to  us 
in  its  original  form.— 2.  Ibn  Ishac  was  succeeded  by  Ibn  Hisham  (died  A.  II.  213. 
A.  1),  838),  whose  work,  still  extant,    is  founded  on  that  of  his  predecessor,  but 
bears  the  reputation  of  being  still  less  trustworthy— 3.  Wackidi,  born  at  Medina 
about  A.  H.  129,  compiled  several  books  relating  to  Mahomet,  but  no  work  of  hi* 
has  come  down  to  us  in  its  original  form .     The  fruits  of  his  researches  were,  how- 


-    npar  ._..,__    f__  . .  „. 

the  best  sources  of  information  respecting  the  prophet.  This  valuable  work  was 
discovered  by  Dr.  Sprenger  at  Cawnpore.  Dr.  Sprenger  observes  that  "this  is  by 
far  the  best  biography  of  the  Arabic  prophet,  but,  being  rare,  it  has  never  been 
need  by  a  European  scholar.  The  veracity  and  knowledge  of  the  author  have  never 


33  LIFE   OF   MAHOMET. 

his  wife,  his  servant,  his  pupil,  and  his  friend  ;  since  he  presented 
himself  as  a  prophet  to  those  who  were  most  conversant  with  his  in- 
firmities as  a  man.  Yet  Cadijah  believed  the  words,  and  cherished 
the  glory  of  her  husband  ;  the  obsequious  and  affectionate  Zeid  was 
tempted  by  the  prospect  of  freedom  ;  the  illustrious  Ali,  the  son  of 
Abu  Taleb,  embraced  the  sentiments  of  his  cousin  with  the  spirit  of 
a  youthful  hero  ;  and  the  weaith,  the  moderation,  the  veracity  of 
Abubeker,  *  confirmed  the  religion  of  the  prophet  whom  he  was  des- 
tined to  succeed.  By  his  persuasion,  ten  of  the  most  respectable  citi- 
zens of  Mecca  were  introduced  to  the  private  lessons  of  Islam  ;  they 
yielded  to  the  voice  of  reason  and  enthusiasm  ;  they  repeated  the 
fundamental  creed,  "  there  is  but  one  God,  and  Mahomet  is  the  apos- 
tle of  God  ; "  and  their  faith,  even  in  this  life,  was  rewarded  with 
riches  and  honors,  with  the  command  of  armies  and  the  government 

been  impugned  by  his  contemporaries,  nor  by  good  early  writers."  It  is  generally 
quoted  under  the  name  of  "  Wackidi,"  probably  for  the  sake  of  brevity.  The 
carefully  collected  traditions  of  Wackidi  must  not  be  confounded  with  the  roman- 
ces of  the  eighth  century  which  bear  the  same  name  and  which  form  the  basis  of 
Ockley'swork.— 4.  Tabari,  the  most  celebrated  of  all  the  Arabic  historians,  died  A. 
H.  310  (A.  D.  929).  A  short  account  of  this  writer  is  given  by  Gibbon  himself  (ch. 
li.,  note  11).  Tabari  wrote  an  account  both  of  Mahomet's  lire  and  of  the  progress 
of  Islam.  The  latter  has  long  been  known  :  and  a  portion  of  it,  in  the  original 
Arabic,  was  published,  with,  a  Latin  translation,  by  Kosegarten  in  1S31.  But  the 
earlier  part,  relating  to  Mahomet,  could  be  read  only  in  an  untrustworthy  Persian 
translation  even  so  late  as  1831,  when  Dr.  Sprenger  published  his  Life  of  Mahomet. 
It  has,  however,  been  subsequently  discovered  in  the  original  language  by  that  gen- 
tleman, during  his  mission  by  the  Indian  Government  to  search  the  native  libraries 
of  Lucknow.  To  Dr.  Sprenger,  therefore,  beiongs  the  honor  of  having  discovered 
two  of  the  most  valuable  works  respecting  the  history  of  Mahomet. 

But  even  the  most  authentic  traditions  respecting  Mahomet  have  been  corrupted 
by  superstition,  faction,  and  other  causes  ;  and  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  a 
European  writer  must  exercise  the  most  careful  and  discriminating  criticism  in  tho 
use  of  them.  Inattention  to  this  point  is  the  defect  of  Gagnier's  otherwise  excellent 
work. 

The  later  Arabic  biographers  of  Mahomet  are  entitled  to  no  credit  as  independent 
authorities.  They  could  add  no  true  information,  but  they  often  add  many  t-puriou» 
traditions  and  fabricated  stories  of  later  days.  Hence  such  a  writer  as  Abulfeda, 
whom  Gibbon  frequently  quotes,  is  of  no  value  as  an  authority. 

The  best  recent  biographies  of  Mahomet  by  Europeans  are  Dr.  Sprenger's  Life  of 
Mohammed  from  original  sources,  Allahabad,  1851,  and  Dr.  Weil's  Mohammed  der 
Prophet,  Stuttgart,  1843.  Dr.  Sprenger's  Life  (part  i.)  only  goes  down  to  the  flight 
from  Mecca,  but  it  is  a  very  valuable  contribution  to  Oriental  literature,  and  has 
been  of  great  service  to  the  editor  of  this  work.— S. 

*  Abubeker,  or,  more  properly,  Abu  Bakr,  literally,  "the  father  of  the  virgin"— 
so  called  because  his  daughter  Ayesha  was  the  only  maiden  whom  Mahomet  mar- 
ried—was a  wealthy  merchant  of  the  Taym  family,  much  respected  for  his  benevo- 
lence and  straightforward  dealing.  He  was  one  of  the  first  to  accept  the  mission  of 
the  prophet,  and  is  said  to  have  believed  in  the  unity  of  God  before  that  event. 

The  faith  of  Abu  Bakr."  says  Dr.  Sprenger,  "is  in  my  opinion  the  greatest  guar- 
antee of  the  sincerity  of  Mohammed  at  the  beginning  of  his  career  ;  and  he  did  more 
for  the  success  of  Islam  than  the  prophet  himself  His  baring  joined  Mohammed 
lent  respectability  to  his  cause ;  he  spent  seven-eighths  of  nis  property,  whku 
amounted  to  40,0<)0  dirhams,  or  a  thousand  pounds,  when  he  embraced  th«  new 
faith,  towards  its  promotion  at  Mecca,  and  h«  continued  the  sama  course  of 
alitj  at  Medina  "  (p.  171).— S, 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  33 

•f  kingdoms.  Three  years  were  silently  employed  in  the  conversion 
of  fourteen  proselytes,  the  first  fruits  of  his  mission;  but  in  the  fourth 
year  he  assumed  the  prophetic  office,  and  resolving  to  impart  to  his 
family  the  light  of  divine  truth,  he  prepared  a  banquet,  a  lamb,  as  it 
is  said,  and  a  bowl  of  milk,  for  the  entertainment  of  forty  guests  of 
the  race  of  Hashem.  "  Friends  and  kinsmen,"  said  Mahomet  to 
the  assembly,  "  I  offer  you,  and  I  alone  can  offer,  the  most  precious 
of  gifts, 'the  treasures  of  this  world  and  of  the  world  to  come.  God 
has  commanded  me  to  call  you  to  his  service.  Who  among  you  will 
support  my  burthen  ?  Who  among  you  will  be  my  companion  and 
my  vizir  ? "  No  answer  was  returned,  till  the  silence  of  astonish- 
ment and  doubt,  and  contempt,  was  at  length  broken  by  the  impa- 
tient courage  of  Ali,  a  youth  in  the  fourteenth  year  of  his  age.  "  O 
prophet,  I  am  the  man  ;  whosoever  rises  against  thee  I  will  dash  out 
his  teeth,  tear  out  his  eyes,  break  his  legs,  rip  up  his  belly.  O  proph- 1 
et,  I  will  be  thy  vizir  over  them."  Mahomet  accepted  his  offer  wit  !i 
transport,  and  Abu  Taleb  was  ironically  exhorted  to  respect  the  su- 
perior dignity  of  his  son.  In  a  more  serious  tone,  the  father  of  Ali 
advised  his  nephew  to  relinquish  his  impracticable  design.  "  Spare 
your  remonstrances,"  replied  the  in-trepid  fanatic  to  his  uncle  and 
benefactor;  "if  they  should  place  the  sun  on  my  right  hand,  and 
the  moon  on  my  left,  they  should  not  divert  me  from  my  course." 
He  persevered  ten  years  in  the  exercise  of  his  mission  ;  and  the  reli- 
gion which  has  overspread  the  East  and  West,  advanced  with  a  slow 
and  painful  progress  within  the  walls  of  Mecca.  Yet  Mahomet  en- 
joyed the  satisfaction  of  beholding  the  increase  of  his  infant  congre- 
gation of  .Unitarians,  who  revered  him  as  a  prophet,  and  to  whom  ho 
seasonably  dispensed  the  special  nourishment  'of  the  Koran.  The 
number  of  proselytes  may  be  estimated  by  the  absence  of  eighty- 
three  men  and  eighteen  women,  who  retired  to  ^Ethopia  in  the  seventh 
year  of  his  mission,  *  and  his  party  was  fortified  by  the  timely  con- 
version of  his  uncle  Harnza,  and  of  the  fierce  and  inflexible  Omar, 
who  signalized  in  the  cause  of  Islam  the  same  zeal  which  he  had  ex- 
erted for  its  destruction.  Nor  was  the  charity  of  Mahomet  confined 
to  the  tribe  of  Koreish,  or  the  precincts  of  Mecca  ;  on  solemn  festi- 
vals, in  the  days  of  pilgrimage,  he  frequented  the  Caaba,  accosted 
the  strangers  of  every  tribe,  and  urged,  both  in  private  converse  and 
public  discourse,  the  belief  and  worship  of  a  sole  Deity.  Conscious 
of  his  reason  and  of  his  weakness,  he  asserted  the  liberty  of  con- 
science, and  disclaimed  the  use  of  religious  violence ;  but  he  called 

*  There  were  two  emi<*rations  to  Abyssinia.  The  first  was  in  the  fifth  year  of 
the  prophet's  mission,  when  twelve  men  and  fonr  women  emigrated.  They  returned 
to  Mecca  in  the  course  of  the  same  year,  upon  hearing  that  a  reconciliation  had 
taken  place  between  the  prophet  and  his  enemies.  The  second  emigration  was  in 
the  seventh  year  of  the  mission,  and  is  the  one  mentioned  in  the  text.  Omar  had 
been  converted  in  the  preceding  year,  the  sixth  of  the  Mission  ;  and  after  his  con- 
version the  number  of  the  faithful  was  almost  immediately  doubled.  (Sprenger,  p. 
1SMHU-S. 

-r 


J4  LIFE   OF  MAHOMET. 

the  Arabs  to  repentance,  and  conjured  them  to  remember  the  ancient 
idolaters  of  Ad  and  Thamud,  whom  the  divine  justice  had  swept 
away  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  people  of  Mecca  were  hardened  in  their  unbelief  by  super- 
stition and  envy.  The  elders  of  the  city,  the  uncles  of  the  prophet, 
affected  to  despise  the  presumption  of  an  orphan,  the  reformer  of  his 
country  ;  the  pious  orations  of  Mahomet  in  the  Caaba  were  answered 
by  the  clamors  of  Abu  Taleb.  "Citizens  and  pilgrims,  listen  not  to 
the  tempter,  hearken  not  to  his  impious  novelties.  Stand  fast  in  the 
worship  of  Al  Lata  and  Al  Uzzah."  Yet  the  son  of  Abdallah  wae 
ever  dear  to  the  aged  chief  :  and  he  protected  the  fame  and  person  of  hia 
nephew  against  the  assaults  of  the  Koreishites,  who  had  long  been 
jealous  of  the  pre-eminence  of  the  family  of  Hashem.  *  Their  mal- 
aee  was  colored  with  the  pretence  of  religion  ;  in  the  age  of  Job,  the 
crime  of  impiety  was  punished  by  the  Arabian  magistrate  ;  and  Ma- 
homet was  guilty  of  deserting  and  denying  the  national  deities.  But 
so  loose  was  the  policy  of  Mecca,  that  the  leaders  of  the  Koreish,  in- 
stead of  accusing  a  criminal,  were  compelled  to  employ  the  measures 
of  persuasion  or  violence.  They  repeatedly  addressed  Abu  Taleb  in 
the  style  of  reproach  and  menace.  "Thy  nephew  reviles  onr  re- 
ligion ;  he  accuses  our  wise  forefathers  of  ignorance  and  folly  ;  silence 
him  quickly,  lest  he  kindle  tumult  and  discord  in  the  city.  If  he 
persevere,  we  shall  draw  our  swords  against  him  and  his  adherents, 
and  thou  wilt  be  responsible  for  the  blood  of  thy  fellow-citizens." 
The  weight  and  moderation  of  Abu  Taleb  eluded  the  violence  of  re- 
ligious faction  ;  the  most  helpless  or  timid  of  the  disciples  retired  to 
Ethiopia,  and  the  prophet  withdrew  himself  to  various  places  of 
strength  in  town  and  country,  f  As  he  was  still  supported  by  his 
family,  the  rest  of  the  tribe  of  Koreish  engaged  themselves  to  re- 
nounce all  intercourse  with  the  children  of  Hashem,  neither  to  buy 
nor  sell,  neither  to  marry  nor  give  in  marriage,  but  to  pursue  them 
with  implacable  enmity,  till  they  should  deliver  the  person  of  Ma- 
homet to  the  justice  of  the  gods.  The  decree  was  suspended  in  the 
Caaba  before  the  eyes  of  the  nation  ;  the  messengers  of  the  Koreish 
pursued  the  Musulman  exiles  in  the  heart  of  Africa  ;  they  besieged 
the  prophet  and  his  most  faithful  followers,  intercepted  their  water, 
and  inflamed  their  mutual  animosity  by  the  retaliation  of  injuries  and 
insults.  A  doubtful  truce  restored  the  appearances  of  concord,  till 
the  death  of  Abu  Taleb  abandoned  Mahomet  to  the  power  of  his 
enemies,  at  the  moment  when  he  was  deprived  of  his  domestic  com- 

,  *  On  one  occasion  Mahomet  narrowly  escaped  being  strangled  in  the  Caaba ;  and 
Abu  Bekr.  who  camo  to  his  aid,  was  beaten  with  sandals  till  nis  nose  was  flattened. 
(Weil,  p.  56.}— S. 

t  Especially  to  a  fortress  or  castle  in  a  defile  near  Mecca,  in  which  be  seems  to 
have  spent  nearly  three  years,  often  in  want  of  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  obliged 
to  chan«e  his  bed  every  night  for  fear  of  being  surprised  by  assassins.  (Weil.  p.  6&.) 
*-  8. 


LIFE  OP  MAHOMET,  35 

forts  by  the  loss  of  his  faithful  and  generous  Cadijah.  Abu  Sophian, 
the  chief  of  the  branch  of  Ommiyah,  succeeded  to  the  principality  of 
the  republic  of  Mecca.  A  zealous  votary  of  the  idols,  a  mortal  foe  «f 
the  line  of  Hashem,  he  convened  an  assembly  of  the-Koreishites  and 
their  allies,  to  decide  the  fate  of  the  apostle.  His  imprisonment 
might  provoke  the  despair  of  his  enthusiasm  ;  and  the  exile  of  an  elo- 
quent and  popular  fanatic  would  diffuse  the  mischief  through  the 
provinces  of  Arabia.  His  death  was  resolved  ;  and  they  agreed  that" 
a  sword  from  each  tribe  should  be  buried  in  his  heart,  to  divide  the 
guilt  of  his  blood,  and  baffle  the  vengeance  of  the  Hashemites.  An 
angel  or  a  spy  revealed  their  conspiracy,  and  flight  was  the  only  re- 
source of  Mahomet.  At  the  dead  of  night,  accompanied  by  his  friend 
Abubeker,  he  silently  escaped  from  his  house  ;  the  assassins  watched 
at  the  door ;  but  they  were  deceived  by  the  figure  of  All,  who  re- 
posed on  the  bed,  and  was  covered  with  the  green  vestment  of  the 
apostle.  The  Koreish  respected  the  piety  of  the  heroic  youth  ;  but 
some  verses  of  All,  which  are  still  extant,  exhibit  an  interesting  pic- 
ture of  his  anxiety,  his  tenderness,  and  his  religious  confidence. 
Three  days  Mahomet  and  his  companions  were  concealed  in  the  cave 
«f  Thor,  at  the  distance  of  a  league  from  Mecca  ;  and  in  the  close  of 
each  evening,  they  received  from  the  son  and  daughter  of  Abubeker 
a  secret  supply  of  intelligence  and  food.  The  diligence  of  the  Ko- 
reish explored  every  haunt  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  city  ;  they  ar- 
rived at  the  entrance  of  the  cavern,  but  the  providential  deceit  of  a 
spider's  web  and  a  pigeon's  nest,  is  supposed  to  convince  them  that 
the  place  was  solitary  and  inviolate.  *  "  We  are  only  two,"  said  the 
trembling  Abukeker.  "  There  is  a  third,"  replied  the  prophet  ;  "it 
is  God  himself."  No  sooner  was  the  pursuit  abated,  than  the  two 
fugitives  issued  from  the  rock  and  mounted  their  camels  ;  on  the  road 
to  Medina,  they  were  overtaken  by  the  emissaries  of  the  Koreish ; 
they  redeemed  themselves  with  prayers  and  promises  from  their 
hands.  In  this  eventful  moment,  the  lance  of  an  Arab  might  have 
changed  the  history  of  the  world.  The  flight  of  the  prophet  from 
Mecca  to  Medina  has  fixed  the  memofable  era  of  the  Heyira(a)  which, 
at  the  end  of  twelve  centuries,  still  discriminates  the  lunar  years  or 
the  Mahometan  nations. 

The  religion  of  the  Koran  might  have  perished  in  its  cradle,  had 
not  Medina  embraced  with  faith  and  reverence  the  holy  outcasts  of 

*  According  to  another  legend,  which  is  less  known,  a  tree  grew  up  before  the 
•Qtraace  of  the  cayern,  at  the  command  of  the  prophet.    (Weil,  p.  79,  note  96.)— S. 


(a}  The  Hegira  was  instituted  by  Omar,  the  second  caliph,  in  imitation  of  the  era 
of  the  martyrs  of  the  Christiana  (D'Herbelot,  p.  444);  and  properly  commenced 
sixty-eight  days  before  the  flight  of  Mahomet,  with  the  first  of  Mohan-en,  or  first 
day  of  that  Arabian  year,  which  coincides  with  Friday.  July  16th.  A.  D.  622.  (Abul- 
*eda,  Vit.  Moham  ,  c.  32,  23,  j>.  45-50  ;  and  Greaves'*  edition  of  Ullug  Beg's  Epoch* 
Arabum,  &c,,  c.  1,  p.  8, 10,  &c.) 


86  LIFE  OP  MAHOMET. 

Mecca.  Medina,  or  the  city*  known  under  the  name  of  Tethreb  bd- 
fore  it  was  sanctified  by  the  throne  of  the  prophet,  was  divided  be- 
tween the  tribes  of  the  Charegitesf  and  the  Awsites,  whose  heredi- 
tary feud  was  rekindled  by  the  slightest  provocation  :  two  colonies  of 
Jews,  who  boasted  a  sacerdotal  race,  were  their  humble  allies,  and 
without  converting  the  Arabs,  they  introduced  the  taste  of  science 
and  religion,  which  distinguished  Medina  as  the  city  of  the  Book. 
Some  of  her  noblest  citizens,  in  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Caaba,  were  con- 
verted by  the  preaching  of  Mahomet ;  on  their  return  they  diffused 
the  belief  of  God  and  his  prophet,  and  the  new  alliance  was  ratified 
by  their  deputies  in  two  secret  and  nocturnal  interviews  on  a  hill  in 
the  suburbs  of  Mecca.  In  the  first,  ten  Charegites  and  two  Awsites, 
united  in  faith  and  love,  protested  in  the  name  of  their  wives,  their 
children,  and  their  absent  brethren,  that  they  would  forever  profess 
the  creed  and  observe  the  precepts  of  the  Koran.:}:  The  second  was 
a  political  association,  the  first  vital  spark  of  the  empire  of  the  Sara- 
cens. Seventy-three  men  and  two  women  of  Medina  held  a  solemn 
conference  with  Mahomet,  his  kinsmen,  and  his  disciples  ;  and  pledged 
themselves  to  each  other  by  a  mutual  oath  of  fidelity.  They  prom- 
ised in  the  name  of  the  city  that  if  he  should  be  banished  they  would 
receive  him  as  a  confederate,  obey  him  as  a  leader,  and  defend  him  to 
the  last  extremity,  like  their  wives  and  children.  • "  But  if  you  are 
recalled  by  your  country,"  they  asked  with  a  flattering  anxiety,  "  will 
you  not  abandon  your  new  allies?"  "All  things,"  replied  Mahomet 
with  a  smile,  "are  now  common  between  us ;  your  blood  is  as  my 
blood,  your  ruin  as  my  ruin.  We  are  bound  to  each  other  by  the  ties  of 
honor  and  interest.  I  am  your  friend,  and  the  enemy  of  your  foes." 
"  But  if  we  are  killed  in  your  service,  what."  exclaimed  the  deputies 
of  Medina,  "  will  be  our  reward  ?"  "  PARADISE,"  replied  the  proph- 
et. "  Stretch  forth  thy  hand."  He  stretcht'd  it  forth,  and  they  reit- 
erated the  oath  of  allegiance  and  fidelity.  Their,  treaty  was  rat i lied 
by  the  people,  who  unanimously  embraced  the  profession  of  Jshmi : 
they  rejoiced  hi  the  exile  of  the  apostle,  but  they  trembled  for  his 
winy,  and  impatiently  expected,  his  arrival.  After  a  perilous  mid 
rapid  journey  along  the  sea-coast  he  halted  at  Koba,  two  miles  from 
the  city,  and  made  his  public  entry  into  Medina,  sixteen  days  after 
his  flight  from  Mecca.  Five  hundred  of  the  citizens  advanced  to 
meet  him  ;  he  was  hailed  with  acclamations  of  loyalty  and  devotion  ; 
Mahomet  was  mounted  on  a  she-camel,  an  umbrella  shaded  his  head, 
and  a  turban  was  unfurled  before  him  to  supply  the  deficiency  of  a 
standard.  His  bravest  disciples,  who  had  been  scattered  by  the  storm, 

*  It  was  at  first  called  ifedtoatalnabi,  "  the  city  of  the  prophet :  "  and  afterwards 
eimply  "  the  city."    (Conde,  Hist,  de  la  Domination  des  Arabea,  1.  44,  note  )— S. 
t  More  properly  Ctiazrajites,  of  the  tribe  Chazra}.    (Sprenger,  p  203,  Weil,  p.  71.) 

j  This  first  alliance  was  called  "the  agreement  of  women,"  because  it  did  not 
«ot*Um  th«  duty  of  fighting  for  the  Iglam.    (gprengsr,  p.  30B.)— 8. 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  S7 

assembled  round  las  person  ;  and  the  equal  though  various  merit  of 
the  Moslems  was  distinguished  by  the  names  of  Mohageridns  and 
Ansars,  the  fugitives  of  Mecca,  and  the  auxiliaries  of  Medina.  To 
eradicate  the  seeds  of  jealousy,  Mahomet  judiciously  coupled  his 
principal  followers  with  the  rights  and  obligations  of  brethren,  and 
when  AH  found  himself  without  a  peer  the  prophet  tenderly  declared 
that  he  would  be  the  companion  and  brother  of  the  noble  youth.  The 
expedient  was  crowned  with  success  ;  the  holy  fraternity  was  respect- 
ed in  peace  and  war,  and  the  two  parties  vied  with  each  other  in  a 
generous  emulation  of  courage  and  fidelity.  Once  only  the  concord 
was  slightly  ruffled  by  an  accidental  quarrel  ;  a  patriot  of  Medina 
arraigned  the  insolence  of  the  strangers,  but  the  hint  of  their  expul- 
sion was  heard  with  abhorrence,  and  his  own  son  most  eagerly  offered 
to  lay  at  the  apostle's  feet  the  head  of  his  father. 

From  his  establishment  at  Medina,  Mahomet  assumed  the  exercise 
of  the  regal  and  sacerdotal  office  ;  and  it  was  impious  to  appeal  from 
a  judge  whose  decrees  were  inspired  by  the  divine  wisdom.  A  small 
po  tion  of  ground,  the  patrimony  of  two  orphans,  was  acquired  by 
gift  or  purchase  ;  on  that  chosen  spot  he  built  a  house  and  a  mosch, 
more  venerable  in  their  rude  simplicity  than  the  palaces  and  temples 
of  the  Assyrian  caliphs.  His  seal  of  gold,  or  silver,  was  inscribed 
with  the  apostolic  title  ;  when  he  prayed  and  preached  in  the  weekly 
assembly,  he  leaned  against  the  trunk  of  a  palm-tree ;  and  it  was 
long  before  he  indulged  himself  in  the  use  of  a  chair  or  pulpit  of 
rough  timber.  After  a  reign  of  six  years,  fifteen  hundred  Moslems, 
in  arms  and  in  the  field,  renewed  their  oath  of  allegiance  ;  and  their 
chief  repeated  the  assurance  of  protection  till  the  death  of  the  hist 
member,  or  the  final  dissolution  of  the  party.  It  was  in  the  same 
camp  that  the  deputy  of  Mecca  was  astonished  by  the  attention  of 
the  faithful  to  the  words  and  looks  of  the  prophet,  by  the  eagerness 
with  which  they  collected  his  spittle,  a  hair  that  dropt  on  the  ground, 
the  refuse  water  of  his  lustrations,  as  if  they  participated  in  some 
degree  of  the  prophetic  virtue.  "I  have  seen,"  said  he,  "the 
Chosroes  of  Persia  and  the  Caasar  of  Rome,  but  never  did  I  behold  a 
king  among  his  subjects  like  Mahomet  among  his  companions."  The 
devout  fervor  of  enthusiasm  acts  with  more  energy  and  truth  than 
the  cold  and  formal  servility  of  courts. 

In  the  state  of  nature  every  man  has  a  right  to  defend,  by  force  of 
arms,  his  person  and  his  possessions  ;  to  repel,  or  even  to  prevent, 
the  violence  of  his  enemies,  and  to  extend  his  hostilities  to  a  reasona- 
ble measure  of  satisfaction  and  retaliation.  In  the  free  society  of  the 
Arabs,  the  duties  of  subject  and  citizen  imposed  a  feeble  restraint; 
and  Mahomet,  in  the  exercise  of  a  peaceful  and  benevolent  mission, 
had  been  despoiled  and  banished  by  the  injustice  of  his  countrymen. 
The  choice  of  an  independent  people  had  exalted  the  fugitive  of 
Mecca  to  the  rank  of  a  sovereign,  and  he  was  invested  with  the  just 
prerogative  of  forming  alliances,  and  of  waging  offensive  and  defon- 
A.B.— 6 


38  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

sive  war.  The  imperfection  of  human  rights  was  supplied  and  armeti 
by  the  plenitude  of  divine  power :  the  prophet  of  Medina  assumed, 
in  his  new  revelations,  a  fiercer  and  more  sanguinary  tone,  which 
proves  that  his  former  moderation  was  the  effect  of  weakness :  the 
means  of  persuasion  had  been  tried,  the  season  of  forbearance  waa 
elapsed,  and  he  was  now  commanded  to  propagate  his  religion  by  the 
sword,  to  destroy  the  monuments  of  idolatry,  and,  without  regarding 
tho  sanctity  of  days  or  months,  to  pursue  the  unbelieving  nations  of 
the  earth.  The  same  bloody  preceptSj  so  repeatedly  inculcated  in  the 
Koran,  are  ascribed  by  the  author  to  the  Pentateuch  and  the  Gospel. 
But  the  mild  tenor  of  the  evangelic  style  may  explain  an  ambiguous 
text,  that  Jesus  did  not  bring  peace  on  the  earth,  but  a  sword :  his 
patient  and  humble  virtues  should  not  be  confounded  with  the  intol- 
erant zeal  of  princes  and  bishops,  who  have  disgraced  the  name  of 
his  disciples.  In  the  prosecution  of  religious  war  Mahomet  might 
appeal  with  more  propriety  to  the  example  of  Moses,  of  the  judges 
and  the  kings  of  Israel.  The  military  laws  of  the  Hebrews  are  still 
more  rigid  than  those  of  the  Arabian  legislator.  The  Lord  of  hosts 
marched  in  person  before  the  Jews :  if  a  city  resisted  their  summons, 
the  males,  without  distinction,  were  put  to  the  sword :  the  seven 
nations  of  Canaan  were  devoted  to  destruction;  and  neither  repent- 
ance nor  conversion  could  shield  them  from  the  inevitable  doom,  that 
no  creature  within  their  precincts  should  be  left  alive.  The  fair 
option  of  friendship,  or  submission,  or  battle,  was  proposed  to  the 
enemies  of  Mahomet.  If  they  professed  the  creed  of  Islam,  they  were 
admitted  to  all  the  temporal  and  spiritual  benefits  of  his  primitive 
disciples,  and  marched  under  the  same  banner  to  extend  the  religion 
which  they  had  embraced.  The  clemency  of  the  prophet  was  decided 
by  his  interest,  yet  he  seldom  trampled  on  a  prostrate  enemy  ;  and  he 
seems  to  promise  that,  on  the  payment  of  a  tribute,  the  least  guilty 
of  his  unbelieving  subjects  might  be  indulged  in  their  worship,  or  al 
least  in  their  imperfect  faith.  In  the  first  months  of  his  reign,  lie 
practised  the  lessons  of  holy  warfare,  and  displayed  his  white  banner 
before  the  gates  of  Medina  :  the  martial  apostle  fought  in  person  at 
nine  battles  or  sieges  ;  and  fifty  enterprises  of  war  were  achieved  in 
ten  years  by  himself  or  his  lieutenants.  The  Arab  continued  to  unite 
the  professions  of  a  merchant  and  a  robber  ;  and  his  petty  excursion? 
for  the  defence  or  the  attack  of  a  caravan  insensibly  prepared  his 
troops  for  the  conquest  of  Arabia.  The  distribution  of  the  spoil  waa 
regulated  by  a  divine  law  ;  the  whole  was  faithfully  collected  in 
one  common  mass ;  a  fifth  of  the  gold  and  silver,  the  prisoners  and 
cattle,  the  movables  and  immovables,  was  reserved  by  the  prophet  for 
pious  and  charitable  uses;*  the  remainder  was  shared  in  adequate  por- 

*  Before  the  time  of  Mnhomrt  it  was  customary  for  the  head  of  the  tribe,  or  gen 
eral,  to  retain  one-fourth  of  t!  e  booty  ;  *o  that  tliis  new  regulation  must  have  bee» 
regarded  with  favur  by  the  army.  (Weil,  p.  111.)— 8. 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  s» 

tions  by  the  soldiers  who  had  obtained  the  victory  or  guarded  the 
camp  ;  the  rewards  of  the  slain  devolved  to  their  widows  and  orphans  ; 
and  the  increase  of  cavalry  was  encouraged  by  the  allotment  of  a 
double  share  to  the  horse  and  to  the  man.  From  all  sides  the  roving 
Arabs  were  allured  to  the  standard  of  religion  and  plunder  ;  tike  apos- 
tle sanctified  the  license  of  embracing  the  female  captives  as  their  wives 
«r  concubines  ;  and  the  enjoyment  of  wealth  and  beauty  was  a  feeble 
type  of  the  joys  of  paradise  prepared  for  the  valiant  martyrs  of  the 
faith.  "  The  sword,"  says  Mahomet,  "is  the  key  of  heaven  and  of 
hell ;  a  drop  of  blood  shed  in  the  cause  of  God,  a  night  spent  in  arms, 
is  of  more  avail  than  two  months  of  fasting  and  prayer ;  whosoever 
falls  in  battle,  his  sins  are  forgiven  ;  at  the  day  of  judgment  his 
wounds  shall  be  resplendent  as  vermilion,  and  odoriferous  as  musk  ; 
and  the  loss  of  his  limbs  shall  be  supplied  by  the  wings  of  angels  and 
cherubim."  The  intrepid  souls  of  the  Arabs  were  fired  with  enthusi- 
asm .  the  picture  of  the  invisible  world  was  strongly  painted  on  their 
imagination  ;  and  the  death  which  they  had  always  despised  became 
an  object  of  hope  and  desire.  The  Koran  inculcates,  in  the  most 
absolute  sense,  the  tenets  of  fate  a»d  predestination,  which  would 
extinguish  both  industry  and  virtue,  if  the  actions  of  man  were  gov- 
erned by  his  speculative  belief.  Yet  their  influence  in  every  age  has 
exalted  the  courage  of  the  Saracens  and  Turks.  The  first  companions 
of  Mahomet  advanced  to  battle  with  a  fearles*  confidence :  there  is 
no  danger  where  there  is  no  chance  :  they  were  ordained  to  perish  in 
their  beds  ;  or  they  were  safe  and  invulnerable  amidst  the  darts  of 
the  enemy. 

Perhaps  the  Koreish  would  have  been  content  with  the  flight  of 
Mahomet,  had  they  not  been  provoked  and  alarmed  by  the  vengeance 
of  an  enemy,  \\  ho  could  intercept  their  Syrian  trade  as  it  passed  and 
repassed  through  the  territory  of  Medina.  Abu  Sophian  himself, 
with  only  thirty  or  forty  followers,  conducted  a  wealthy  caravan  of  a 
thousand  camels  ;  the  fortune  or  dexterity  of  his  march  escaped  the 
vigilance  of  Mahomet ;  but  the  chief  of  the  Koreish  was  informed 
that,  the  holy  robbers  were  placed  in  ambush  to  await  his  return.  He 
dispatched  a  messenger  to  his  brethren  of  Mecca,  and  they  were  roused, 
by  the  fear  of  losing  their  merchandise  and  their  provisions,  unless 
they  hastened  to  his  relief  with  the  military  force  of  the  city.  The 
sacred  band  of  Mahomet  was  formed  of  three  hundred  and  thirteen 
Moslems,  of  whom  seventy-seven  were  fugitives,  and  the  rest  auxili- 
aries :  they  mounted  by  turns  a  train  of  seventy  camels  (the  camels 
of  Yathreb  were  formidable  in  war) ;  but  such  was  the  poverty  of  his 
first  disciples  that  only  two  could  appear  on  horseback  in  the  field. 
In  the  fertile  and  famous  vale  of  Beder,  three  stations  from  Medina, 
he  was  informed  by  his  scouts  of  the  caravan  that  approached  on  one 
side  ;  of  the  Koreish,  one  hundred  horse,  eight  hundred  and  fifty 
foot,*  who  advanced  on  the  other.  After  a  short  debate,  he  sacrificed 

*  Of  these,  however,  300  of  the  tribe  of  Zohra  returned  to  Mecca  before  the  en- 


40  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET, 

the  prospect  of  wealth  to  the  pursuit  of  glory  and  revenge ;  and  » 
elight  intrenchment  was  formed,  to  cov»r  his  troops,  and  a  stream  of 
fresh  water  that  glided  through  the  valley.  "  O  God,"  he  exclaimed, 
as  the  numbers  of  the  Koreish  descended  from  the  hills,  "  O  God,  if 
these  are  destroyed,  by  whom  wilt  thou  be  worshipped  on  the  earth  ? — 
Courage,  my  children,  close  your  ranks  ;  discharge  your  arrows,  and 
the  day  is  your  own."  At  these  words  he  placed  himself,  with  Abu- 
beker,  on  a  throne  or  pulpit,*  and  instantly  demanded  the  succor  of 
Gabriel  and  three  thousand  angels.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  field 
of  battle  :  the  Musulmans  fainted  and  were  pressed  :  in  that  decisive 
moment  the  prophet  started  from  his  throne,  mounted  his  horse,  and 
cast  a  handful  of  sand  into  the  air  ;  "let  their  faces  be  covered  with 
confusion."  Both  armies  heard  the  thunder  of  his  voice  :  their  fancy 
beheld  the  angelic  warriors  :  the  Koreish  trembled  and  fled  :  seventy 
of  the  bravest  were  slain  ;  and  seventy  captives  adorned  the  first  vic- 
tory of  the  faithful.f  The  dead  bodies  of  the  Koreish  were  despoiled 
and  insulted  :  two  of  the  most  obnoxious  prisoners  were  punished 
with  death  ;  and  the  ransom  of  the  others,  four  thousand  drachms  of 
silver,  compensated  in  some  degree  the  escape  of  the  caravan.  But 
it  was  in  vain  that  the  camels  of  Abu  Sophian  explored  a  new  road 
through  the  desert  and  along  the  road  through  the  Euphrates  :  they 
were  overtaken  by  the  diligence  of  the  Musulmans  ;  and  wealthy 
must  have  been  the  prize,  if  twenty  thousand  drachms  could  be  set 
apart  for  the  fifth  of  the  apostle.  The  resentment  of  the  public  and 
private  loss  stimulated  Abu  Sophian  to  collect  a  body  of  three  thou- 
sand men,  seven  hundred  of  whom  were  armed  with  cuirasses,  and 
two  hundred  were  mounted  on  horseback  ;  three  thousand  camels  at- 
tended on  his  march  ;  and  his  wife  Henda,  with  fifteen  matrons  of 
Mecca,  incessantly  sounded  their  timbrels  to  animate  the  troops,  and 
to  magnify  the  greatness  of  Hobal,  the  most  popular  deity  of  the 

gagement,  and  were  joined  by  many  others .  The  battle  began  with  a  fight,  like 
that  of  the  Horatii  and  Curiatii,  of  three  on  ejch  side.  (Weil,  p.  105-111  (—8. 

*  Weil  (p.  103)  calls  it  a  hut  (Hiitte),  which  his  followers  had  erected  for  him  on  a 
gentle  eminence  near  the  field  of  battle.  Gibbon  is  solicitous  for  the  reputation  of 
Mahomet,  whom  he  has  before  characterized  (supra,  p.  67)  as  possessing  "the  cour- 
age both  of  thought  and  action."  Weil,  however,  draws  a  very  differ,  nt  portrait  of 
him  (p.  844).  "According  to  his  Mnsulinan  biographers,  whom  Europeans  have 
followed  without  further  inquiry,  his  physical  strength  was  accompanied  with  the 
greatest  valor;  yet  not  only  is  this  assertion  destitute  of  all  proof,  but  his  behavior 
in  his  different  campaigns,  as  well  as  in  the  first  years  of  his  appearance  as  a  prophet 
and  also_  towards  the  close  of  his  life,  when  he  was  become  very  powerful,  compel 
us,  despite  his  endurance  and  perseverance,  to  characterize  him  as  very  timorous. 
It  was  not  till  after  the  conversion  of  Omar  and  Hamza  that  he  ventured  openly  to 
appear  in  the  mosque  along  with  the  professors  of  his  faith,  as  a  Moslem.  He  not 
only  took  no  part  in  the  fight  in  the  battle  of  Bedr.  but  kept  at  some  distance  from 
the  field,  and  had  some  dromedaries  ready  before  his  tent,  in  order  to  fly  in  case  of  a 
reverse."— S. 

t  According  to  others,  44.  (Weil,  p.  109.)  Among  the  captives  was  Abbas,  the 
rich  uncle  of  Mahomet,  who  was  obliged  to  pay  ransom,  although  he  alleged  that 
iniranlly  he  was  a  believer,  and  had  been  forced  to  take  part  in  the  expedition.  He 
returnee  to  Mecca,  where,  it  is  said,  he  served  Mahomet  as  a  spy.  (Ib.,  p.  109-114.) — 8. 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  41 

Caaba.  The  standard  of  God  and  Mahomet  was  upheld  by  nine  hun- 
dred and  fifty  believers  ;  the  disproportion  of  numbers  was  not  more 
alarming  than  in  the  field  of  Beder  ;  and  their  presumption  of  vic- 
tory prevailed  against  the  divine  and  human  sense  of  the  apostle  * 
The  second  battle  was  fought  on  Mount  Ohud,  six  miles  to  the  north 
of  Medina  ;  the  Koreish  advanced  in  the  form  of  a  crescent ;  and  the 
right  wing  of  cavalry  was  led  by  Caled,  the  fiercest  and  most  success- 
ful of  the  Arabian  warriors.  The  troops  of  Mahomet  were  skilfully 
posted  on  the  declivity  of  a  hill,  and  their  rear  was  guarded  by  a  de- 
tachment of  fifty  archers.  The  weight  of  their  charge  impelled  and 
broke  the  centre  of  their  idolaters  ;  but  in  the  pursuit  they  lost  the 
advantage  of  their  ground  :  the  archers  deserted  their  station  ;  the 
Musulmans  were  tempted  by  the  spoil,  disobeyed  their  general,  and 
disordered  their  ranks.  The  intrepid  Caled,  wheeling  his  cavalry  on 
their  flank  and  rear,  exclaimed  with  a  loud  voice,  that  Mahomet  was 
slain.  He  was  indeed  wounded  in  the  face  with  a  javelin  ;  two  of  his 
teeth  were  shattered  with  a  stone  ;  f  yet  in  the  midst  of  tumult  and 
dismay,  he  reproached  the  infidels  with  the  murder  of  a  prophet,  and 
blessed  the  friendly  hand  that  staunched  his  blood,  and  conveyed  him 
to  a  place  of  safety.  \  Seventy  martyrs  died  for  the  sins  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  they  fell,  said  the  apostle,  in  pairs,  each  brother  embracing  his 
lifeless  companion  ;  their  .bodies  were  mangled  by  the  inhuman  fe- 
males of  Mecca  ;  and  the  wife  of  Abu  Sophian  tasted  the  entrails  of 
Ham/a,  the  uncle  of  Mahomet.  They  might  applaud  their  supersti- 
tion, and  satiate  their  fury  ;  but  the  Musulmans  soon  rallied  in  the 
field,  and  the  Koreish  wanted  strength  or  courage  to  undertake  the 
siege  of  Medina.  It  was  attacked  the  ensuing  year  by  an  army  of  ten 
thousand  enemies ;  and  this  third  expedition  is  variously  named  from 
the  it  i 'i Ho  aft,  which  marched  under  the  banner  of  Abu  Sophian,  from 
the  ditch  which  was  drawn  before  the  city,  and  a  camp  of  three  thou- 
sand Musulmans.  The  prudence  of  Mahomet  declined  a  general  en- 
gagement ;  the  valor  of  Ali  was  signalized  in  single  combat  j_  and  the 
war  was  protracted  twenty  days,  till  the  final  separation  of  the  con- 
federates. A  tempest  of  wind,  rain,  and  hail,  overturned  their  tents  ; 


*  But  on  this  occasion  Abd  Allah,  with  203  men,  abandoned  Mahomet,  so  that  the 
disproportion  of  forces  was  vastly  greater  than  at  Bcdr.  See  note  *  supra,  page  139. 
(Weil,  p.  124.)— S. 

t  Two  of  Mahomet's  teeth  are  (or  were)  preserved  at  Constantinople  ;  but  as,  ac- 
cording to  the  best  authorities,  he  only  lost  one  on  this  occasion,  one-half  at  least  of 
these  relics  must  be  regarded  with  the  same  suspicion  that  attaches  to  most  other 
articles  of  the  same  description.  (See  Weil,  p.  127.)— S. 

t  The  person  of  the  prophet  was  protected  by  a  helmet  and  double  coat  of  mail. 
Pie  was  recognized  among  the  wounded  by  Caab,  the  son  of  Malek  ;  by  whom,  Abu 
Bekr,  Omar,  and  ten  or  twelve  others,  he  was  carried  to  a  cave  upon  an  eminence. 
Here  he  was  pursued  by  Ubejj  Ibn  Challaf.  who  had  long  been  keeping  a  horse  in 
extraordinary  condition  for  the  purpose  of  surprising  and  killing  Mahomet ;  but  the 
latter  dealt  him  a  blow  of  which  he  died.  This  was  the  only  time  that  Mahomet 
took  any  personal  share  in  an  action.  (Weil,  p.  128.)— S. 


42  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

their  private  quarrels  were  fomented  by  an  insidious  adversary  ;  and 
the  Koreish,  deserted  by  ther  allies,  no  longer  hoped  to  subvert  the 
throne,  or  to  check  the  conquests  of  their  invincible  exile. 

The  choice  of  Jerusalem  for  the  first  kebla  of  prayer  discovers  the 
early  propensity  of  Mahomet  in  favor  of  the  Jews  ;  and  happy  would 
it  have  been  for  their  temporal  interest,  had  they  recogni/ed,  in  the 
Arabian  prophet,  the  hope  of  Israel  and  the  promised  Messiah.  Their 
obstinacy  converted  his  friendship  into  implacable  hatred,  with  which 
he  pursued  that  unfortunate  people  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life ; 
and  in  the  double  character  of  an  apostle  and  a  conqueror,  his  perse- 
cution was  extended  to  both  worlds.  The  Kainoka  dwelt  at  Medina 
under  the  protection  of  the  city  ;  he  seized  the  occasion  of  an  acci- 
dental tumult,  and  summoned  them  to  embrace  his  religion  or  con- 
tend with  him  in  battle.  "  Alas  !"  replied  the  trembling  Jews,  "  we 
are  ignorant  of  the  use  of  arms,  but  we  persevere  in  the  faith  and 
worship  of  our  fathers  ;  why  wilt  thou  reduce  us  to  the  necessity  of 
a  just  defence?"  The  unequal  conflict  was  terminated  in  fifteen  days  ; 
and  it  was  with  extreme  reluctance  that  Mahomet  yielded  to  the  im- 
portunity of  his  allies,  and  consented  to  spare  the  lives  of  his  captives. 
But  their  riches  were  confiscated,  their  arms  became  more  effectual 
in  the  hands  of  the  Musulmans ;  and  a  wretched  colony  of  seven 
hundred  exiles  were  driven  with  their  wives  aud  children  to  implore 
a  refuge  on  the  confines  of  Syria.  The  Nadhirites  were  more  guilty, 
since  they  conspired  in  a  friendly  interview  to  assassinate  the  prophet. 
He  besieged  their  castle,  three  miles  from  Medina,  but  their  resolute 
defence  obtained  an  honorable  capitulation  ;  and  the  garrison,  sound- 
ing their  trumpets  and  beating  their  drums,  was  permitted  to  depart 
with  the  honors  of  war.  The  Jews  had  excited  and  joined  the  war 
of  the  Koreish ;  no  sooner  had  the  nations  retired  from  the  ilitrli , 
than  Mahomet,  without  laying  aside  his  armor,  marched  on  the  same 
day  to  extirpate  the  hostile  race  of  the  children  of  Koraidha.  After 
a  resistance  of  twenty-five  days  they  surrendered  at  discretion.  They 
trusted  to  the  intercession  of  their  old  allies  of  Medina  :  they  could 
not  be  ignorant  that  fanaticism  obliterates  the  feelings  of  humanity. 
A  venerable  elder,  to  whose  judgment  they  appealed,  pronounced  the 
sentence  of  their  death  :  seven  hundred  Jews  were  dragged  in  chains 
to  the  market  place  of  the  city  ;  they  descended  alive  into  the  grave 
prepared  for  their  execution  and  burial ;  and  the  apostle  beheld  with 
an  inflexible  eye  th«  slaughter  of  his  helpless  enemies.  Their  sheep 
and  camels  were  inherited  by  the  Musulmans  ;  three  hundred  cuirasses, 
five  hundred  pikes,  a  thousand  lances,  composed  the  most  useful  por- 
tion of  the  spoil.  Six  days'  journey  to  the  northeast  of  Medina,  the 
ancient  aud  wealthy  town  of  Chaibar,  was  the  seat  of  the  Jewish 
power  in  Arabia :  the  territory,  a  fertile  spot  m  the  desert,  was  cov- 
ered with  plantations  and  cattle,  and  protected  by  eight  castles,  some 
of  which  were  esteemed  of  impregnable  strength.  The  forces  of 
Mahoinet  consisted  of  two  hundred  horse  and  fourteen  hundred  foot ; 


LIFE   OP  MAHOMET,  43 

in  the  succession  of  eight  regular  and  painful  sieges  they  were  ex- 
posed to  danger,  and  fatigue,  and  hunger ;  and  the  most  undaunted 
chiefs  despaired  of  the  event.  The  apostle  revived  their  faith  and 
courage  by  the  example  of  All,  on  whom  he  bestowed  the  surname 
of  the  Lion  of  God ;  perhaps  we  may  believe  that  a  Hebrew  cham- 
pion of  gigantic  stature  was  cloven  to  the  chest  by  his  irresistible  scym- 
itar  ;  but  we  cannot  praise  the  modesty  of  romance,  which  represents 
him  as  tearing  from  its  hinges  the  gates  of  a  fortress,  and  wielding 
the  ponderous  buckler  in  his  left  hand.  After  the  reduction  of  the 
castles,  the  town  of  Chaibar  submitted  to  the  yoke.  The  chief  of  the 
tribe  was  tortured  in  the  presence  of  Mahomet,  to  force  a  confession 
of  his  hidden  treasure  :  the  industry  of  the  shepherds  and  husband- 
men was  rewarded  with  a  precarious  toleration  •  they  were  permitted, 
so  long  as  it  should  please  the  conqueror,  to  improve  their  patrimony 
in  equal  shares,  for  his  emolument  and  their  own.  Under  the  reign 
of  Omar,  the  Jews  of  Chaibar  were  transplanted  to  Syria  ;  and  the 
caliph  alleged  the  injunction  of  his  dying  master,  that  one  and  the 
true  religion  should  be  professed  in  his  native  land  of  Arabia. 

Five  times  each  day  the  eyes  of*  Mahomet  were  turned  towards 
Mecca,  and  he  was  urged  by  the  most  sacred  and  powerful  motives  to 
revisit,  as  a  conqueror,  the  city  and  temple  from  whence  he  had  been 
driven  as  an  exile.  Tlie  Caaba  was  present  to  his  waking  and  sleep- 
ing fancy  ;  an  idle  dream  was  translated  into  vision  and  prophecy  ;  he 
unfurled  the  holy  banner  ;  and  a  rash  promise  of  success  too  hastily 
dropped  from  the  lips  of  the  apostle.  His  march  from  Medina  to 
Mecca  displayed  the  peaceful  and  solemn  pomp  of  a  pilgrimage  : 
seventy  camels  chosen  and  bedecked  for  sacrifice  preceded  the  van  ; 
the  sacred  territory  was  respected  ;  and  the  captives  were  dismissed 
without  ransom  to  proclaim  his  clemency  and  devotion.  But  no 
sooner  did  Mahomet  descend  into  the  plain,  within  a  day's  journey  of 
the  city,  than  he  exclaimed,  "  They  have  clothed  themselves  with  the 
skins  of  tigers  : "  the  numbers  and  resolution  of  the  Koreish  opposed 
his  progress  ;  and  the  roving  Arabs  of  the  desert  might  desert,  or  lie- 
tray  a  leader  whom  they  had  followed  for  the  hopes  of  spoil.  The 
intrepid  fanatic  sunk  into  a  cool  and  cautious  politician  :  he  waved  in 
the  treaty  his  title  of  apostle  of  God,  *  concluded  with  the  Koreish 
and  their  allies  a  truce  of  ten  years,  engaged  to  restore  the  fugitives 
of  Mecca  who  should  embrace  his  religion,  and  stipulated  only,  for 
the  ensuing  year,  the  humble  privilege  of  entering  the  city  as  a  friend,! 
and  of  remaining  three  days  to  accomplish  the  rites  of  the  pilgrim 
age.  A  cloud  of  shame  and  sorrow  hung  oh  the  retreat  of  the  Mus- 
ulinans,  and  their  disappointment  might  justly  accuse  the  failure  of 
a  prophet  who  had  so  often  appealed  to  the  evidence  of  success.  The 
faith  and  hope  of  the  pilgrims  wero  rekindled  by  the  prospect  of 


*  He  struck  out  the  title  with  hia  owm  hand,  as  All  had  refused  to  do  it.    (Weil, 
p.  178.)— S. 


44  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

Mecca  •,  their  swords  were  sheathed  :  seven  times  in  the  footsteps  of 
the  apostle  they  encompassed  the  Caaba  :  the  Koreish  had  retired  to 
the  hills,  and  Mahomet,  after  the  customary  sacrifice,  evacuated  the 
city  on  the  fourth  day.  The  people  were  edified  by  his  devotion  ;  the 
hostile  chiefs  were  awed,  or  divided,  or  seduced  ;  and  both  (.'aled 
and  Amrou,  the  future  conquerors  of  Syria^  and  Egypt,  most  season- 
ably deserted  the  sinking  cause  of  idolatry.  The  power  of  Mahomet 
was  increased  by  the  submission  of  the  Arabian  tribes  ;  ten  thousand 
soldiers  were  assembled  for  the  conquest  of  Mecca  ;  *  and  the  idola- 
ters, the  weaker  party,  were  easily  convicted  of  violating  the  truce. 
Enthusiasm  and  discipline  impelled  the  march  and  preserved  the  se- 
cret, till  the  blaze  of  ten  thousand  fires  proclaimed  to  the  astonished 
Koreish  the  design,  the  approach,  and  the  irresistible  force  of  the 
enemy.  The  haughty  Abu  Sophian  presented  the,  keys  of  ihe  city; 
admired  the  variety  of  arms  and  ensigns  that  passed  before  him  in  re- 
view ;  observed  that  the  son  of  Abdallah  had  acquired  a  mighty 
kingdom  ;  and  confessed  under  the  scymitar  of  Omar,  that  he  was 
the  apostle  of 'the  true  God.  The  return  of  Marius  and  Sylla  was  stained 
with  the  blood  of  the  Romans  :  the  revenge  of  Mahomet  was  stimulated 
by  religious  zeal,  and  his  injured  followers  were  eager  to  execute  or  to 
prevent  the  order  of  a  massacre.  Instead  of  indulging  their  passions 
and  his  own,  the  victorious  exile  forgave  the  guilt,  and  united  the 
factions  of  Mecca.  His  troops,  in  three  divisions,  marched  into  the 
city  :  eight  and  t\venly  of  the  inhabitants  were  slain  by  the  sword  of 
Caled  ;  •(•  eleven  men  and  six  women  were  proscribed  by  the  sentence 
of  Mahomet ;  \  but  he  blamed  the  cruelty  of  his  lieuten  mt  ;  and  sev- 
eral of  the  most  obnoxious  victims  were  indebted  for  their  lives  to  his 
cl  mency  or  contempt.  The  chiefs  of  the  Koreish  were  prostrate  at 
his  i'eet.  "  What  mercy  can  you  expect  from  the  man  whom  you 
have  wronged?"  "We  confide  in  the  generosity  of  our  kinsman." 

*  The  expedition  of  Mahomet  against  Mecca  took  place  in  the  10th  Kamadhan  of 
the  8th  Hegira  (1  Jan.  fi30).  (Weil,  p.  212.)— S. 

t  These  men — their  numbers  are  variously  given  at  less  and  more- -were  slain  on 
the  hill  called  Chandama  before  the  entrance  or  Chaled  into  the  city,  which  they  had 
opposed.  It  was  on  a  different  occasion  that  Chaled  incurred  the  censure  of  Ma- 
homet. The  prophet  had  sent  him  on  an  expedition  to  the  province  of  Tdiania, 
and,  on  passing  through  the  territory  of  the  Beni  Djasima,  Chaled  caused  a  consid- 
erable number  of  them  to  be  put  to  death,  although  they  were  already  Musulmang. 
Unfortunately,  when  required  to  confess  their  faith,  they  had,  from  ancient  custom, 
used  the  word  Saba1  na  (converts  or  renegades),  instead  of  the  usual  Moslem  expres- 
sion, Aaiamna.  On  hearing  of  the  act,  Mahomet  raised  his  hands  to  heaven,  and 
exclaimed,  'O  God,  I  am  pure  before  thee,  and  have  taken  no  part  in  Chaled's 
deed."  Mchomet  compensated  the  Beni  Djasima  for  the  slaughter  of  their  kins- 
men ;  but  the  services  of  Chaled  obliged  him  to  overlook  his  offence.  (Weil,  p. 
230.) — S. 

£  Klevcn  men  and  four  women  ;  but  the  sentence  was  executed  on'y  on  three  of 
the  former  and  one  of  the  latter.  (Weil,  p.  2^0. )  Mahomet  remained  two  or  three 
weeks  in  Mscca,  during  which  he  sent  his  captains  to  destroy  the  idols  in  the  sur- 
rounding' /  >untry,  and  to  summon  the  Arabians  to  submission  and  belief.  (Weil, 
p.  228.)—  P 


LIFE  OP  MAHOMET.  45 

"  And  you  shall  not  confide  in  vain  ;  begone  !  you  are  safe,  you  are 
free."  The  people  of  Mecca  deserved  their  pardon  by  the  profession 
of  Islam  ;  and  after  an  exile  of  s^-ven  years,  the  fugitive  missionary 
was  enthroned  as  the  prince  and  prophet  of  his  native  country.  But 
the  three  hundred  and  sixty  idols  of  the  Caaba  were  ignomini- 
(Hisly  broken  :  the  house  of  God  was  purified  and  adorned  :  as  an  ex- 
•mple  to  future  times,  the  apostle  again  fulfilled  the  duties  of  a  pil- 
grim ;  and  a  perpetual  law  was  enacted  that  no  unbeliever  should 
dare  to  set  his  foot  on  the  territory  of  the  holy  city. 

The  conquest  of  Mecca  determined  the  faith  and  obedience  of  the 
Arabian  tribes  ;  who,  according  to  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  had 
obeyed  or  disregarded  the  eloquence  or  the  arms  of  the  prophet.  In- 
difference for  rites  and  opinions  still  marks  the  character  of  the  Be- 
do weens,  and  they  might  accept,  as  loosely  as  they  hold,  the  doctrine 
of  the  Koran.  Yet  an  obstinate  remnant  still  adhered  to  the  religion 
and  liberty  of  their  ancestors,  and  the  war  of  Ilonain  derived  a 
proper  appellation  from  the  idols  whom  Mahomet  had  vowed  to  de- 
stroy and  whom  the  confederates  of  Tayef  had  sworn  to  defend. 
Four  thousand  pagans  advanced  with  secrecy  and  speed  to  surprise 
the  conqueror  :  they  pitied  and  despised  the  supine  negligence  of  the 
Koreish,  but  they  depended  on  the  wishes  and  perhaps  the  aid  of  a 
people  who  had  so  lately  renounced  their  gods  and  bowed  beneath 
the  yoke  of  their  enemy.  The  banners  of  Medina  and  Mecca  wen- 
displayed  by  the  prophet ;  a  crowd  of  Bedoweens  increased  the 
strength  or  numbers  of  the  army,  and  twelve  thousand  Musulmans 
entertained  a  rash  and  sinful  presumption  of  their  invincible  strength. 
They  descended  without  precaution  into  the  valley  of  Ilonain  :  tho 
heights  had  been  occupied  by  the  archers  and  slingers  of  the  con 
federates;  their  numbers  were  oppressed,  their  discipline  was  con- 
founded, their  courage  was  appalled,  and  the  Koreish  smiled  at  the;;1 
impending  destruction.  The  prophet  on  his  white  mule  was  encom- 
passed by  the  enemies  :  he  attempted  to  rush  against  their  spears  in 
search  of  a  glorious  death  ;  ten  of  his  faithful  companions  interposed 
their  weapons  and  their  breasts  ;  three  of  these  fell  dead  at  his  feet  ; 
"  0  my  brethren,"  he  repeatedly  cried  with  sorrow  and  indignation, 
"  I  am  the  son  of  Abdallah,  I  am  the  apostle  of  truth  !  O  man,  stand 
fast  in  the  faith  !  O  God,  send  down  thy  succor  !  "  His  uncle  Abbas, 
who,  like  the  heroes  of  Homer,  excelled  in  the  loudness  of  his  voice, 
made  the  valley  resound  with  the  recital  of  the  gifts  and  promises  of 
God  ;  the  flying  Moslems  returned  from  all  sides  to  the  holy  standard  ; 
and  Mahomet  observed  with  pleasure  that  the  furnace  was  again  re- 
kindled :  his  conduct  and  example  restored  the  battle,  and  he  ani- 
mated his  victorious  troops  to  inflict  a  merciless  revenge  on  the  au- 
thors of  their  shame.  From  the  field  of  Ilonain  he  marched  without 
delay  to  the  siege  of  Tayef,  sixty  miles  to  the  southeast  of  Mecca,  a 
fortress  of  strength  whose  fertile  lands  produce  the  fruits  of  Syria 
in  tho  midst  of  the  Arabian  desert.  A  friendly  tribe  instructed  (I 


46  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

knu\v  not  how)  in  the  art  of  sieges,  supplied  him  with  a  train  of  bat 
tering  rains  and  military  engines,  w.ith  a  body  of  five  hundred  artifi- 
cers. But  it  was  in  vain  that  he  offered  freedom  to  the  slaves  of 
Tayef  ;  that  he  violated  his  own  laws  by  the  extirpation  of  the  fruit- 
trees  ;  that  the  ground  was  opened  by  the  miners  ;  that  the  breach 
was  assaulted  by  the  troops.  After  a  siege  of  twenty  days  thea 
.prophet  sounded  a  retreat,  but  he  retreated  with  a  song  of  devout  tri- 
'umph,  and  affected  to  pray  for  the  repentance  and  safety  of  the  un- 
believing city.  The  spoil  of  this  fortunate  expedition  amounted  to 
six  thousand  captives,  twenty-four  thousand  camels,  forty  thousand 
sheep,  and  four  thousand  ounces  of  silver  :  a  tribe  who  had  fought 
at  Honain  redeemed  their  prisoners  by  the  sacrifice  of  their  idols  ;  but 
Mahomet  compensated  the  loss  by  resigning  to  the  soldiers  his  fifth 
of  the  plunder,  and  wished,  for  their  sake,  that  he  possessed  as  many 
head  of  cattle  as  there  were  trees  in  the  province  of  Tehama.  Instead 
of  chastising  the  disaffection  of  the  Koreish  he  endeavored  to  cut  out 
their  tongues  (his  own  expression)  and  to  secure  their  attachment  by 
a  superior  measure  of  liberality  ,  Abu  Sophian  alone  was  presented  with 
three  hundred  camels  and  twenty  ourices  of  silver ;  and  Mecca  was 
sincerely  converted  to  the  profitable  religion  of  the  Koran. 

The  fugitives  and  auxiliaries  complained  that  they  who  had  borne 
the  burthen  were  neglected  in  the  season  of  victory.  "  Ala?,"  re- 
plied the  artful  leader,  "  suffer  me  to  conciliate  these  recent  enemies, 
these  doubtful  proselytes,  by  the  gift  of  some  perishable  goods.  To 
your  guard  I  intrust  my  life  and  fortunes.  You  are  the  companions 
of  my  exile,  of  my  kingdom,  of  my  paradise."  *  He  was  followed  by 
the  deputies  of  Tayef,  who  dreaded  the  repetition  of  a  siege,  f 
"  Grant  us,  O  apostle  of  God  !  a  truce  of  three  years,  with  the  tolera- 
tion of  our  ancient  worship."  "  Not  a  month,  not  an  hour."  "  Ex- 

*  Weil  gives  this  address  of  Mahomet's  differently  (from  the  Insan  Al  Ujun,  and 
Sirat  Arrasul),  observing  that  it  has  not  before  been  presented  to  the  European 
reader.  His  version  is  as  follows  :— "Were  ye  not  wandering  in  the  paths  of  error 
when  I  caine  unto  yon,  and  was  it  not  through  me  that  you  obtained  the  guidance 
of  God  ?  Were  ye  not  poor,  and  are  ye  not  now  rich  f  Were  ye  not  at  variance, 
and  are  ye  not  now  united  f"  They  answered,  "Surely,  O  Prophet  of  God,  thou 
hast  overloaded  us  with  be.ieflts."  Mahomet  proceeded  :— "Lo  !  ye  auxiliaries,  if 
ye  would,  ye  might  with  all  truth  object  to  me.  Thou  earnest  to  us  branded  for  a 
liar,  yet  we  believed  in  thce  ;  as  a  persecutor,  and  we  protected  thee  ;  as  a  fugitive, 
and  we  harbored  thee  ;  as  one  in  need  of  assistance,  and  we  supported  thee.  Vet 
Mich  are  not  your  thoughts  ;  how,  then,  can  ye  find  fault  with  me  because  1  have 
given  a  few  worldly  toys  to  some  persons  in  order  to  win  tneir  hearts  ?  Are  ye  not 
content,  ye  auxiliaries,  if  these  people  return  home  with  sheep  and  camels,  whilst 
ye  return  with  ilie  prophet  of  God  in  the  midst  of  you  ?  By  him  in  w'mxe  hand  is 
Mohammed's  soul,  were  it  not  t.he  reward  of  the  fugitives,  I  should  wish  to  belong 
to  yon  ;  and,  when  all  the  world  went  one  way  and  you  another,  I  would  choose 
yours.  God  be  merciful  unto  you,  and  to  yonr  children,  and  your  children's 
children  !  "  At  these  words  the  auxiliaries  sobbed  aloud,  and  exclaimed,  "  We  are 
content  with  our  lot."  (Weil.  p.  241.)— S. 

f  The  deputation  from  Ta'if,  as  well  as  from  innumerable  other  tribes,  for  th« 
most  part  to  tender  their  submission,  took  place  in  the  following;  year,  which,  on 
this  account,  has  been  called  "  the  year  of  deputation*."  (See  Weil,  p.  248>  sqq.)— S. 


LIFE  OP  MAHOMED.  4? 

euse  us  at  least  from  the  obligation  of  prayer."  "  Without  prayer 
religion  is  of  no  avail."  They  submitted  in  silence  :  their  temples 
were  demolished,  and  the  same  sentence  of  destruction  was  executed 
on  all  the  idols  of  Arabia.  His  lieutenants  on  the  shores  of  the  Red 
Sea,  the  ocean,  and  the  gulf  of  Persia,  were  saluted  by  the  acclama- 
tions of  a  faithful  people  ;  and  the  ambassadors  who  knelt  before  the 
throne  of  Medina  were  as  numerous  (says  the  Arabian  proverb)  as 
the  dates  that  fall  from  the  maturity  of  a  palm-tree.  The  nation  sub- 
mitted to  the  God  and  the  sceptre  of  Mahomet  :  the  opprobrious 
name  of  tribute  was  abolished  :  the  spontaneous  or  reluctant  obla- 
tions of  alms  and  tithes  were  applied  to  the  service  of  religion  ;  and 
one  hundred  and  fourteen  thousand  Moslems  accompanied  the  last 
pilgrimage  of  the  apostle.* 

When  Heraclius  returned  in  triumph  from  the  Persian  war,  he  en- 
tertained at  Emesa,  one  of  the  ambassadors  of  Mahoment,  who  in- 
vited the  princes  and  nations  of  the  earth  to  the  profession  of  Islam. 
On  this  foundation  the  zeal  of  the  Arabians  has  supposed  the  secret 
conversion  of  the  Christian  emperor  ;  the  vanity  of  the  Greeks  has 
feigned  a  personal  visit  to  the  prince  of  Medina,  who  accepted  from 
the  royal  bounty  a  rich  domain,  and  a  secure  retreat  in  the  province 
of  Syria.  But  the  friendship  of  Heraclius  and  Mahomet  was  of  short 
continuance  :  the  new  religion  had  inflamed  rather  than  assuaged  the 
rapacious  spirit  of  the  Saracens  ;  and  the  murder  of  an  envoy  afford  - 
ed  a  decent  pretence  for  invading  with  three  thousand  soldiers  the 
territory  of  Palestine,  that  extends  to  the  eastward  of  the  Jordan. 
The  holy  banner  was  intrusted  to  Zeid  ;  and  such  was  the  discipline 
or  enthusiasm  of  the  rising  sect,  that  the  noblest  chiefs  served  with- 
out reluctance  under  the  slave  of  the  prophet.  On  the  event  of  his 
decease,  Jaafar  and  Abdallah  were  successively  substituted  to  the 
command  ;  and  if  the  three  should  perish  in  the  war,  the  troops  were 
authorized  to  elect  their  general.  The  three  leaders  were  slain  in  the 
battle  of  Muta,  the  first  military  action  which  tried  the  valor  of  the 
Moslems  against  a  foreign  enemy.  Zeid  fell,  like  a  soldier,  in  the 
foremost  ranks  ;  the  death  of  Jaafar  was  heroic  and  memorable  :  he 
lost  his  right  hand  ;  he  shifted  the  standard  to  his  left  :  the  left  was 
severed  from  his  body  :  he  embraced  the  standard  with  his  bleeding 
stumps,  till  he  was  transfixed  to  the  ground  with  fifty  honorable 
wounds.  "  Advance,"  cried  Abdallah,  who  stepped  into  the  vacant 
place,  "advance  with  confidence:  either  victory  or  paradise  is  oun 
own."  The  lance  of  a  Roman  decided  the  alternative  ;  bat  the  falling 
standard  was  rescued  by  Caled,  the  proselyte  of  Mecca  ;  nine  swords 
•were  broken  in  his  hand  ;  and  his  valor  withstood  and  repulsed  the 
superior  numbers  of  the  Christians.  In  the  nocturnal  council  of  the 
camp  he  was  chosen  to  command  ;  his  skilful  evolutions  of  the  en- 

*  The  more  probable  traditions  mention  4^.000.  This,  the  last  pilgrimage  of  Ma 
hornet,  took  place  in  the  tenth  year  of  the  Hegira.  (Weil,  ch.  8.)— 8. 


48  LIFE  OP  MAHOMET. 

suing  day  secured  either  the  victory  or  the  retreat  of  the  Scaracens  j 
ami  Caled  is  renowned  among  his  brethren  and  his  enemies  by  the 
glorious  appellation  of  the  titoord  of  God.  In  the  pulpit,  Mahomet 
described  with  prophetic  rapture  the  crowns  of  the  blessed  martyrs  ; 
but  in  private  he  betrayed  the  feelings  of  human  nature  :  he  was  sur 
prised  as  he  wept  over  the  daughter  of  Zeid  :  "  What  do  I  see?"  said 
the  astonished  votary.  "You  see,"  replied  the  apostle,  "a  friend 
who  is  deploring  the  loss  of  his  most  faithful  friend."  After  the 
conquest  of  Mecca,  *  the  sovereign  of  Arabia  affected  to  prevent  the 
hostile  preparations  of  Heraclius ;  and  solemnly  proclaimed  war 
against  the  Romans,  without  attempting  to  disguise  the  hardships  and 
dangers  of  the  enterprise:  The  Moslems  were  discouraged  ;  they 
alleged  the  want  of  money,  or  horses;  or  provisions  ;  the  season  of 
harvest,  and  the  intolerable  heat  of  the  summer  :  "  Hell  is  much  hot- 
ter," said  the  indignant  prophet;  He  disdained  to  compel  their  ser 
vice ;  but  on  his  return  he  admonished  the  most  guilty,  by  an 
excommunication  of  fifty  days.  Their  desertion  enhanced  the  merit 
of  Abubeker,  Othman,  and  the  faithful  companions  who  devoted  their 
lives  and  fortunes ;  and  Mahomet  displayed  his  banner  at  the  head  of 
ten  thousand  horse  and  twenty  thousand  foot.  Painful  indeed  was 
the  distress  of  the  march  ;  lassitude  and  thirst  were  aggravated  by 
the  scorching  and  pestilential  winds  of  the  desert  :  ten  men  rode  by 
turns  on  the  same  camel ;  and  they  were  reduced  to  the  shameful  ne- 
rcssity  of  drinking  the  water  from  the  belly  of  that  useful  animal. 
In  the  mid-way,  ten  days' journey  from  Medina  and  Damascus,  they 
reposed  near  the  grove  and  fountain  of  Tabuc.  Beyond  that  place 
Mahomet  declined  the  prosecution  of  the  war ;  he  declared  himself 
satisfied  with  the  peaceful  intentions  ;  he  was  more  probably  daunted 
by  the  martial  array  of  the  emperor  of  the  East,  f  But  the  *ctive 
oind  intrepid  Caled  spread  around  the  terror  of  his  name  ;  and 

*  The  battle  of  Mnta  took  place  before  the  conquest  of  Mecca,  as  Gibbon  here 
rightly  assumes,  though  Von  Hammer  places  it  offer  that  event.  (Weil,  p.  206,  note 
313.)  Weil  supposes  that  tho  defeat  of  the  Mnsulmans  on  that  occasion  encouraged 
;  o  Mnccans  to  violate  the  truce.  (Tb.,  p.  207  )— S. 

t  The  expedition  of  Tabuc  was  undertaken  in  the  month  of  Radjab,  of  the  ninth 
/ear  of  the  Hegira  (A.  D.  631^.  Mahomet's  more  devoted  friends  gave  a  great  part 
of  I  lii'ir  substance  towards  defraying  its  expenses.  Abu  Bekr  gave  the  whole  of  his 
property,  consisting  of  4,000  drachms  ;  and  when  Mahomet  inquired,  "What  then 
fiiisi,  thoii  left  for  thy  family  ?"  he  answered,  "  God  and  his  prophet."  The  tradi- 
tions vary  exceedingly  respecting  the  number  of  the  army  assembled  on  this  occa- 
sion. Thirty  thousand  is  the  lowest  number  assigned  ;  but  even  this  is  probably 
exaggerated,  and  a  large  part  deserted  at  the  commencement  of  the  march.  iWril, 
Miiham.,  p  260)  When  Mahomet,  at  Tabuc,  consulted  his  companions  as  to  the 
furthiT  prosecution  of  the  enterprise,  Omar  said,  "If  you  are  commanded  by  God 
to  go  farther,  do  it."  Mohamet  answered,  "  If  I  had  the  command  of  God,  I  should 
not  ii.-k  your  advice."  Omar  replied,  "  O  prophet  of  God  !  the  Greeks  are  a  numer- 
ous people,  and  there  is  not  a  single  Musulman  among  them.  Moreover  we  have 
already  nearly  approached  them,  and  your  neigh borhooa  has  struck  them  with  terror. 
This  year,  therefore,  let  us  return,  till  you  find  it  convenient  to  undertake  anothei 
campaign  against  them,  or  till  GoJ  offers  some  opportunity."  (Weil,  note  405.}--*. 


LIFE   OF   MAHOMET.  4d 

the  prophet  received  the  submission  of  the  tribes  and  cities, 
f  rorn  the  Euphrates  to  Ailah,  at  the  head  of  the  Red  Sea.  To  his 
Christian  subjects,  Mahomet  readily  granted  the  security  of  their 
persons,  the  freedom  of  their  trade,  the  property  of  their  goods,  and 
the  toleration  of  their  worship,  The  weakness  of  their  Arabian 
brethren  had  restrained  them  from  opposing  his  ambition  ;  the  dis- 
ciples of  Jesus  were  endeared  to  the  enemy  of  the  Jews  ;  and  it  was 
the  interest  of  a  conqueror  to  propose  a  fair  capitulation  to  the  most 
powerful  religion  of  the  earth. 

Till  the  age  of  sixty- three  years,  the  strength  of  Mahomet  was 
equal  to  the  temporal  and  spiritual  fatigues  of  his  mission.  His  epi- 
leptic fits,  and  absurd  calumny  of  the  Greeks,  would  be  an  object  of 
pity  rather  than  abhorrence  ;  *  but  he  seriously  believed  that  he  was 
poisoned  at  Chaibar  by  the  revenge  of  a  Jewish  female.  During  four 
years,  the  health  of  the  prophet  declined  ;  his  infirmities  increased  ; 
but  his  mortal  disease  was  a  fever  of  fourteen  days,  which  deprived 
him  by  intervals  of  the  use  of  reason.  As  soon  as  he  was  conscious 
of  his  danger,  he  edified  his  brethren  by  the  humility  of  his  virtue  or 
penitence.  "  If  there  be  any  man,"  said  the  apostle  from  the  pulpit, 
"  whom  I  have  unjustly  scourged,  I  submit  my  own  back  to  the  lash 
of  retaliation.  Have  I  aspersed  the  reputation  of  a  Musulman  ?  let 
him  proclaim  my  faults  in  the  face  of  the  congregation.  Has  any  one 
been  despoiled  of  his  goods  ?  the  little  that  I  possess  shall  compensate 
the  principle  arid  the  interest  of  the  debt."  "  Yes,"  replied  a  voice 
from  the  crowd,  "lam  entitled  to  three  drachms  of  silver."  Ma- 
homet heard  the  complaint,  satisfied  the  demand,  and  thanked  his 
creditor  for  accusing  him  in  this  world  rather  than  at  the  day  of 
judgment.  He  beheld  with  temperate  firmness  the  approach  of 
death  ;  enfranchised  his  slaves  (seventeen  men,  as  they  are  named, 
and  eleven  women) ;  minutely  directed  the  order  of  his  funeral,  and 
moderated  the  lamentations  of  his  weeping  friends,  on  whom  he  be- 
stowed the  benediction  of  peace.  Till  the  third  day  before  his  death, 
he  regularly  performed  the  functions  of  public  prayer  :  the  choice  of 
Abubeker  to  supply  his  place  appeared  to  mark  that  ancient  and 
faithful  friend  as  his  successor  in  the  sacerdotal  and  regal  office.; 
but  he  prudently  declined  the  risk  and  envy  of  a  more  explicit  nom 
ination.  At  a  moment  when  his  faculties  were  visibly  unpaired,  he 
called  for  a  pen  and  ink  to  write,  f  or  more  properly  to  dictate  a  di- 

*  The  opinion,  however,  of  modern  Oriental  scholars  tends  the  other  way.    Dr. 
Sprenger  (p.  77)  shows,  on  the  authority  of  Ibn  Ishac,  that  Mahomet,  whilst  still  an 
infant  under  the  care  of  his  foster  mother,  had  an  attack  which  at  all  events  very 
much  resembled  epilepsy.    Three  other  fits  are  recorded  (Ib..  p.  78,  note  4).    Dr. 
Weil  (Mohammed,  p  26,  note  1 1 )  remarks  that  the  word  Vzsiba,  which  Abulfeda 
ases  with  regard  to  Mahomet,  is  particularly  used  of  epileptic  attacks      The  same 
author  has  collected  several  instances  of  these  fits  (Ib.,  p.  42,  note  48,  and  in  tha 
Journal  Asiatique,  Juillet,  1842),  and  is  of  opinion  that  nis  visions  were,  for  the 
mostpart,  connected  with  them  — S. 

*  The  tradition  seems  to  be  doubtful ;  but,  if  true,  it  proves,  as  Dr.  Weil  remarks, 


50  LIFE  OP  MAHOMET. 

vinfe  book,  the  sum  and  accomplishment  of  all  his  revelations  ;  a  dis 
pute  Arose  in  the  chamber,  whether  he  should  be  allowed  to  super- 
sede the  authority  of  the  Koran  ;  and  the  prophet  was  forced  to  re- 
prove the  indecent  vehemence  of  hia  disciples.  If  the  slightest  credit 
may  be  afforded  to  the  traditions  of  his  wives  and  companions,  he 
maintained  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  and  to  the  last  moments  of  his 
life  the  dignity  of  an  apostle  and  the  faith  of  an  enthusiast ;  described 
the  visits  of  Gabriel,  who  bade  an  everlasting  farewell  to  the  earth,  and 
expressed  his  lively  confidence,  not  only  of  the  mercy,  but  of  the  favor of 
the  Supreme  Being.  In  a  familiar  discourse  he  had  mentioned  his  spe- 
cial prerogative,  that  the  angel  of  death'  was  not  allowed  to  take  his 
soul  till  he  had  respectfully  asked  the  permission  of  the  prophet.  The 
request  was  granted  ;  and  Mahomet  immediately  fell  into  the  agony 
of  his  dissolution  ;  his  head  was  reclined  on  the  lap  of  Ayesha,  the 
best  beloved  of  all  his  wives  ;  he  fainted  with  the  violence  of  pain  ; 
recovering  his  spirits,  he  raised  his  eyes  towards  the  roof  of  the 
house,  and,  with  a  steady  look,  though  a  faltering  voice,  uttered  the 
last  broken,  though  articulate  words:  "O  God!  .  .  pardon  my  sins 
.  .  Yes,  .  .  I  come,  .  .  .  among  my  fellow-citizens  on  high  ; "  and 
thus  peaceably  expired  on  a  carpet  spread  upon  the  floor.  An  expe- 
dition for  the  conquest  of  Syria  was  stopped  by  this  mournful  event : 
the  army  halted  at  the  gates  of  Medina  ;  the  chiefs  were  assembled 
around  their  dying  master.  The  city,  more  especially  the  house  of 
the  prophet,  was  a  scene  of  clamorous  sorrow  or  silent  despair  :  fanat- 
icism alone  could  suggest  a  ray  of  hope  and  consolation.  "  How  can 
he  be  dead,  our  witness,  our  intercessor,  our  mediator  with  God  ?  By 
God  he  is  not  dead  :  like  Moses  and  Jesus,  he  is  wrapt  in  a  holy  trance, 
and  speedily  will  he  return  to  his  faithful  people."  The  evidence  of 
sense  was  disregarded  ;  and  Omar,  unsheathing  his  scymitar,  threat- 
ened to  strike  off  the  heads  of  the  infidels  who  should  dare  to  affirm 
that  the  prophet  was  no  more.  The  tumult  was  appeased  by  the 
weight  and  moderation  of  Abubeker.  "  Is  it  Mahomet,"  said  he  to 
Omar  and  the  multitude,  "or  the  God  of  Mahomet,  whom  you  wor- 
ship? The  God  of  Mahomet  liveth  forever:  but  the  apostle  was  a 
mortal  like  ourselves,  and  according  to  his  own  prediction,  he  has  ex- 
perienced the  common  fate  of  mortality."  *  He  was  piously  interred 

Mahomet's  ability  to  write.    There  is  no  authority  for  Gibbon's  addition,  "  or, 

more  properly,  to  dictate,"  which  seems  to  be  a  salvo  for  his  own  theory.    Aceord- 

°u0n£  yers.ion  he  Baid>  "  Bring  me  parchment,  or  a  table,  I  will  write  something 

lor  Abu  I5ekr,  in  order  that  nobody  may  oppose  him."    (Weil,  p.  330  and  note  526.) 

agmer,  whom  Gibbon  follows,  has  erroneously  translated  "book."    It  was  only 

*  i  °ro-!)ape,r       '  Mahomet  wished  to  write,  probably  to  name  his  successor.    (Ib., 

*  After  this  address,  Abu  Bekr  read  the  following  verse  from  the  Koran  :— "  Mo- 

is  only  a  prophet ;  many  prophets  have  departed  before  him  ;  will  ye  then, 

n  he  has  been  slam,  or  died  an-iturnl  death,  turn  upon  your  heels  (i.  e.,  forsake 

Si"  cJf? \?    Jc  wl.'-<?  does  thiH  can""t  harm  God,  but  God  rewards  those  who  are 

Sura  in    v.  144.)    The  people  seemed  never  to  have  heard  of  this  verse, 

yet  they  accepted  it  from  Abu  Bekr,  and  it  ran  from  mouth  to  mouth.    Omar  him- 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  51 

by  the  hands  of  his  nearest  kinsman,  on  the  same  spot  on  which  he 
expired.  *  (a)  Medina  has*  been  sanctified  by  the  death  and  burial  of 
Mahomet  ;  and  the  innumerable  pilgrims  of  Mecca  often  turn  aside 
from  the  way  to  bow  in  voluntary  devotion,  before  the  simple  tomb 
of  the  prophet. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  life  of  Mahomet,  it  may  perhaps  be  ex- 
pected that  I  should  balance  his  faults  and  virtues,  that  I  should  de- 
cide whether  the  title  of  enthusiast  or  impostor  more  properly  belongs 
to  that  extraordinary  man.  Had  I  been  intimately  conversant  with 
the  son  of  Abdallah,  the  task  would  still  be  difficult,  and  the  success 
uncertain  :  at  the  distance  of  twelve  centuries,  I  darkly  contemplate 
his  shade  through  a  cloud  of  religious  incense  ;  and  could  I  truly  de- 
lineate the  portrait  of  an  hour,  the  fleeting  resemblance  would  not 
equally  apply  to  the  solitary  of  Mount  Hera,  to  the  preacher  of  Mecca, 
and  to  the  conqueror  of  Arabia.  The  author  of  a  mighty  revolution 
appears  to  have  been  endowed  with  a  pious  and  contemplative  dispo- 
sition :  so  soon  as  marriage  had  raised  him  above  the  pressure  of 
want,  he  avoided  the  paths  of  ambition  and  avarice  ;  and  till  the  age 
of  forty,  he  lived  with  innocence  and  would  have  died  without  a 
name.  The  unity  of  God  is  an  idea  most  congenial  to  nature  and 
reason  ;  and  a  slight  conversation  with  the  Jews  and  Christians  would 
teach  him  to  despise  and  detest  the  idolatry  of  Mecca.  It  was  the 
duty  of  a  man  and  a  citizen  to  impart  the  doctrine  of  salvation,  to 
rescue  his  country  from  the  dominion  of  sin  and  error.  The  energy 
of  a  mind  incessantly  bent  on  the  same  object,  would  convert  a  gen- 
eral obligation  into  a  particular  call ;  the  warm  suggestions  of  the  un- 
derstanding or  the  fancy  would  be  felt  as  the  inspirations  of  heaven  ; 
the  labor  of  thought  would  expire  in  rapture  and  vision  ;  and  the  in- 
self  was  so  struck  when  he  heard  it  that  he  fell  to  the  ground,  and  perceived  that 
Mahomet  was  dead.  Weil  (p.  333)  observes  that  this  anecdote,  which  is  important 
to  a  critical  view  of  the  Koran,  is  entirely  new  to  Europeans. — S. 

*  That,  is,  in  the  house  of  his  wife  Ayesha  ;  but  after  the  enlargement  of  the 
mosque  by  the  chalif  Walid,  his  grave  was  comprehended  within  its  walls.  (Weil, 
p.  339.)— S.  

(a)  The  Greeks  and  Latins  have  invented  and  propagated  the  vulgar  and  ridiculous 
etory  that  Mahomet's  iron  tomb  is  suspended  in  the  air  at  Mecca  (o-rj/ia  ^exempt 
£6/oicroi'.  Laonicus  Chalcocondyles  de  Rebus  Turcicis,  1.  iii.  p.  66)  by  the  action  of 
equal  and  potent  loadstones.  (Dictionnaire  de  Bayle,  MAHOMET,  Rem.  EE.  FF.) 
Without  any  philosophical  inquiries,  it  may  suffice  that,  1.  The  prophet  was  not 
buried  at  Mecca  ;  and,  2.  That  ais  tomb  at  Medina,  which  has  been  visited  by  mil- 
lions, is  placed  on  the  ground  (Reland.  de  Relig.  Moham.  1.  ii.,  c.  19,  p.  20&-211.) 
Gagnier.  (Vie  de  Mahomet,  torn,  iii.,  p.  263-268.)  * 


*  Most  of  the  biographers  of  Mahomet  state  that  he  died  on  Monday  the  I2th 
Rabia-1-Awwl,  in  the  year  11  of  the  Hegira,  which  answers  to  7th  of  June,  A.  D.  632. 
This,  however,  fell  on  a  Sunday,  but,  as  a  contemporary  poem  mentions  Monday  as 
the  day  of  his  death,  it  is  probable  that  a  mistake  has  been  made  in  the  day  of  the 
month,  and  tliat  he  died  on  the  8th  of  June.  (Weil,  p.  331.)— S. 


52  LIFE   OF  MAHOMET. 

ward  sensation,  the  invisible  monitor,  would  be  described  with  the 
form  and  attributes  of  an  angel  of  God.  From  enthusiasm  to 
Imposture  the  step  is  perilous  and  slippery;  the  daemon  of  Socrates 
affords  a  memorable  instance  how  a  wise  man  may  deceive  himse.lt, 
how  a  good  man  may  deceive  others,  how  the  conscience  may  slumber 
in  a  mixed  and  middle  state  between  self-illusion  and  voluntary 
fraud.  Charity  may  believe  that  the  original  motives  of  Mahomet 
were  those  of  pure  and  genuine  benevolence  ;  but  a  human  miss  on- 
ary  is  incapable  of  cherishing  the  obstinate  unbelievers  who  reject  his 
'  claims,  despise  his  arguments,  and  persecute  his  life  ;  he  might  for- 
give his  personal  adversaries,  he  might  lawfully  hate  the  enemies  of 
God  ;  the  stern  passions  of  pride  and  revenge  were  kindled  in  the 
bosom  of  Mahomet,  and  he  sighed,  like  the  prophet  of  Nineveh,  for 
the  destruction  of  the  rebels  whom  he  had  condemned.  The  injustice 
of  Mecca  and  the  choice  of  Medina  transformed  the  citizen  into  a 
prince,  the  humble  preacher  into  the  leader  of  armies  ;  but  his  sword 
was  consecrated  by  the  example  of  the  saints  ;  and  the  same  God  who 
afflicts  a  sinful  world  with  pestilence  and  earthquakes,  might  inspire 
for  their  conversion  or  chastisement  the  valor  of  his  servants.  In  the 
exercise  of  political  government,  he  was  compelled  to  abate  the 
stern  rigor  of  fanaticism,  to  comply  in  some  measure  with  the  pre- 
judices and  passions  of  his  followers,  and  to  employ  even  the  vices  of 
mankind  as  the  instruments  of  their  salvation.  The  use  of  fraud  and 
perfidy,  of  cruelty  and  injustice,  were  often  subservient  to  the  prop- 
agation of  the  faith  :  an  I  Mahomet  commanded  or  approved  the  as- 
sassination of  the  Jews  and  idolaters  who  ha  1  escaped  from  the  field 
of  battle.  By  the  repetition  of  such  acts,  the  character  of  Mahomet 
must  have  been  gradually  stained  :  and  the  influence  of  such  perni- 
cious habits  would  be  poorly  compensated  by  the  practice  of  the  per- 
sonal and  social  virtues  which  are  necessary  to  maintain  the  reputation 
of  a  prophet  among  his  sectaries  and  friends.  Of  his  last  years,  am- 
bition was  the  ruling  passion  ;  and  a  politician  will  suspect  that  he 
secretly  smiled  (the  victorious  impostor  !)  at  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
youth  and  the  credulity  of  his  proselytes.  A  philosopher  will  ob- 
serve, that  their  credulity  and  his  success  would  tend  more  strongly 
to  fortify  the  assurance  of  his  divine  mission,  that  his  interest  and  re- 
ligion were  inseparably  connected,  and  that  his  conscience  would  be 
soothed  by  the  persuasion,  that  he  alone  was  absolved  by  the  Deity 
from  the  obligation  of  positive  and  moral  laws.  If  he  retained  any 
vestige  of  his  native  innocence,  the  sins  of  Mahomet  may  be  allowed 
as  an  evidence  of  his  sincerity.  In  the  support  of  truth,  the  arts  of 
fraud  and  fiction  may  be  deemed  less  criminal ;  and  he  would  have 
started  at  the  foulness  of  the  means,  had  he  not  been  satisfied  of  the 
importance  and  justice  of  the  end.  Even  in  a  conqueror  or  a  priest,  I 
can  surprise  a  word  or  action  of  unaffected  humanity  ;  and  the  decree 
of  Mahomet,  that  in  the  aale  of  captives  the  mothers  should  uevet 


LIFE  OP  MAHOMET.  53 

be  separated  from  their  children,  may  suspend  or  moderate  the  cen- 
sure of  the  historian.  * 

*  It  may  be  remarked  that,  in  estimating  Mahomet's  character,  Gibbon  entirely 
leaves  out  of  sight  his  physical  temperament.  Thus  he  indignantly  rejects  the  ac- 
counts of  his  epileptic  seizures,  and  everywhere  directs  his  attention  to  the  moral 
qualities  of  the  prophet,  either  as  a  philosophical  and  contemplative  enthusiast,  or, 
as  he  seems  to  consider  him  in  the  latter  part  of  his  career,  as  a  political  impostor, 
"i'et  the  physical  constitution  of  Mahomet  was  of  BO  peculiar  a  kind,  that  it  can 
hardly  be  passed  over  in  a  complete  and  accurate  sketch  of  his  character,  upon 
which  it  must  have  undoubtedly  exercised  a  wonderful  influence  ;  and  we  have, 
therefore,  inserted  the  following  interesting  details  from  the  pages  of  Dr.  Sprenger  :— 

"  The  temperament  of  Mohammed  was  melancholic  and  in  the  highest  degree 
nervous.  He  was  generally  low-spirited,  thinking  and  restless  ;  and  he  spoke  little, 
and  never  without  necessity.  His  eyes  were  mostly  cast  on  the  ground,  and  he 
seldom  raised  them  towards  heaven.  The  excitement  under  which  he  composed  the 
more  poetical  Suras  of  the  Koran  was  so  great,  that  he  said  that  they  had  caused  him 
grey  hair ;  his  lips  were  quivering  and  his  hands  shaking  whilst  he  received  the 
inspirations.  An  offensive  smell  made  him  so  uncomfortable,  that  he  forbade  per- 
sons who  had  eaten  garlic  or  onions  to  come  into  his  place  of  worship.  In  a  man 
of  semi-barbarous  habits  this  is  remarkable.  He  had  a  woollen  garment,  and  was 
obliged  to  throw  it  away  when  it  began  to  smell  of  perspiration,  on  account  of  his 
delicate  constitution.  When  he  was  taken  ill,  he  sobbed  like  a  woman  in  hysterics 
— or,  as  Ayesha  says,  he  roared  like  a  camel ;  and  his  friends  reproached  him  for 
his  unmanly  bearing.  During  the  battle  of  Bedr,  his  nervous  excitement  seem*  to 
have  bordered  on  frenzy.  The  faculties  of  his  mind  were  very  unequally  developed; 
he  was  unfit  for  the  common  duties  of  life,  and,  even  after  his  mission,  he  was  led 
in  all  practical  questions  by  his  friends.  But  he  had  a  vivid  imagination,  the  great- 
est elevation  of  mind,  refined  sentiments,  and  a  taste  for  the  sublime.  Much  as  he 
disliked  the  name,  he  was  a  poet ;  and  a  harmonious  language  and  sublime  lyric 
constitute  the  principal  merits  of  the  Koran.  His  mind  dwelt  constantly  on  the 
contemplation  of  God ;  he  saw  his  finger  in  the  rising  sun,  in  the  falling  rain,  in 
the  growing  crop ;  he  heard  his  voice  in  the  thunder,  in  the  murmuring  of  the 
waters,  and  in  the  hymns  which  the  birds  sing  to  his  praise ;  and  in  the  lonely 
deserts  and  ruins  of  ancient  cities  he  saw  the  traces  of  his  anger."  (Life  of  Mo- 
hammed, p.  89.)  "The  mental  excitement  of  the  prophet  was  much  increased  dur- 
ing the  fatrah  (intermission  of  revelations)  ;  and,  like  the  ardent  scholar  in  one  of 
Schiller's  poems,  who  dared  to  lift  the  veil  of  truth,  he  was  nearly  annihilated  by 
the  light  which  broke  in  upon  him.  He  usually  wandered  about  in  the  hills  near 
Mecca,  and  was  so  absent,  that  on  one  occasion  his  wife,  being  afraid  that  he  was 
lost,  sent  men  in  search  of  him.  He  suffered  from  hallucinations  of  his  senses]; 
and,  to  finish  his  sufferings,  he  several  times  contemplated  suicide,  by  throwing 
himself  down  from  a  precipice.  His  friends  were  alarmed  at  his  state  of  mind. 
Some  considered  it  as  the  eccentricities  of  a  poetical  genius  ;  others  thought  that 
he  was  a  ka/iin,  or  soothsayer ;  but  the  majority  took  a  less  charitable  view,  and 
declared  that  he  was  insane  ;  and  as  madness  and  melancholy  are  ascribed  to  super- 
natur  1  influence  in  the  East,  they  said  that  he  was  in  the  power  of  Satan  and  his  agents, 
the  jinn."  (Ib.,  p.  105.)  "One  day,  whilst  he  was  wandering  about  in  the  hills  near 
Mecca,  with  the  intention  of  destroying  himself,  he  heard  a  voice,  and  on  raising 
his  head  he  beheld  Gabriel  between  heaven  and  earth  ;  and  the  angel  assured  him 
that  he  was  the  prophet  of  God.  Frightened  by  this  apparition,  he  returned  home, 
and,  feeling  unwell,  he  called  for  covering.  He  had  a  fit,  and  they  poured  cold 
water  upon  him,  and  when  he  was  recovering  from  it  he  received  the  revelation  :— 
'.O  thou  covered,  arise  and  preach,  and  magnify  thy  Lord,  and  cleanse  thy  garment, 
and  fly  every  abomination  ; '  and  henceforth,  we  are  told,  he  received  revelations 
without  intermission,  that  is  to  say,  the  fatrah  was  at  an  end,  and  he  assumed  his 
office."  (P.  109.)  "  Some  authors  consider  the  fits  of  the  prophet  as  the  principal 
evidence  of  his  mission,  and  it  is,  therefore,  necessary  to  say  a  few  words  on  them. 
They  were  preceded  by  great  depression  of  spirits,  and  his  face  was  clouded  ;  and 
they  were  ushered  in  by  coldness  of  the  extremities  and  ehivering.  He  shook  as  if 


54  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

The  good  sense  of  Mahomet  despised  the  pomp  of  royalty  ;  the 
apostle  of  God  submitted  to  the  menial  offices  of  the  family  ;  he  kin- 
dled the  fire,  swept  the  floor,  milked  the  ewes,  and  mended  with  his 
own  hands  his  shoes  and  his  woollen  garments.  Disdaining  the  pen- 
ance and  merit  of  a  hermit,  he  observed,  without  effort  or  vanity,  the 
abstemious  diet  of  an  Arab  and  a  soldier.  On  solemn  occasions  he 
feasted  his  companions  with  rustic  and  hospitable  plenty  ;  but  in  his 
domestic  life,  many  weeks  would  elapse  without  a  fire  being  kindled 
on  the  hearth  of  the  prophet.  The  interdiction  of  wine  was  con- 
firmed by  his  example  ;  his  hunger  was  appeased  with  a  sparing 
allowance  of  barley-bread  :  he  delighted  in  the  taste  of  milk  and 
honey  ;  but  his  ordinary  food  consisted  of  dates  and  water.  Per- 
fumes and  women  were  the  two  sensual  enjoyments  which  his  nature 
required,  and  his  religion  did  not  forbid  ;  and  Mahomet  affirmed  that 
the  fervor  of  his  devotion  was  increased  by  these  innocent  pleasures. 
The  heat  of  the  climate  inflames  the  blood  of  the  Arabs,  and  their 
libidinous  complexion  has  been  noticed  by  the  writers  of  antiquity. 
Their  incontinence  was  regulated  by  the  civil  and  religious  laws  of 
the  Koran  ;  their  incestuous  alliances  were  blamed  ;  the  boundless 
license  of  polygamy  was  reduced  to  four  legitimate  wives  or  concu- 
bines ;  their  rights  both  of  bed  and  dowry  were  equitably  deter- 
mined ;  the  freedom  of  divorce  was  discouraged  ;  adultery  was  con- 
demned as  a  capital  offence  ;  and  fornication,  in  either  sex,  was 
punished  with  a  hundred  stripes.  Such  were  the  calm  and  rational 
precepts  of  the  legislator  ;  but  in  his  private  conduct  Mahomet  in- 
dulged the  appetites  of  a  man,  and  abused  the  claims  of  a  prophet. 
A  special  revelation  dispensed  him  from  the  laws  which  he  had  im- 
posed on  his  nation  ;  the  female  sex,  without  reserve,  was  abandoned 
to  his  desires  ;  and  this  singular  prerogative  excited  the  envy  rather 
than  the  scandal,  the  veneration  rather  than  the  envy,  of  the  devout 
Musulmans.  If  we  remember  the  seven  hundred  wives  and  three 
hundred  concubines  of  the  wise  Solomon,  we  shall  applaud  the  mod- 
esty of  the  Arabian,  who  espoused  no  more  than  seventeen  or  fifteen 
wives  ;  eleven  are  enumerated  who  occupied  at  Medina  their  separate 
apartments  round  the  house  of  the  apostle,  and  enjoyed  in  their  turns 
the  favor  of  his  conjugal  society.  What  is  singular  enough,  they 
were  all  widows,  excepting  only  Ayesha,  the  daughter  of  Abubeker. 

he  were  suffering  from  ague,  and  called  out  for  covering.  His  mind  was  in  a  most 
painfully  excited  state,  lie  heard  a  tinkling  in  his  ears  as  if  bells  were  ringing,  or 
a  bumming  as  if  bees  were  swarming  round  nis  head,  and  his  lips  quivered,  but  this 
[motion  was  under  the  control  of  volition.  If  the  attack  proceeded  beyond  this 
stage,  his  eyes  became  fixed  and  staring,  and  the  motions  of  his  head  convulsive 
and  automatic.  At  length  perspiration  broke  out,  which  covered  his  face  in  large 
drops  ;  and  with  this  ended  the  attack.  Sometimes,  however,  if  he  had  a  violent 
fit,  he  fell  comatose  to  the  ground,  like  a  person  who  is  intoxicated  ;  and  (at  least 
at  a  later  period  of  his  life)  his  face  was  flushed,  and  his  respiration  stertorous,  and 
ic  remained  in  that  state  for  some  time.  The  bystanders  spri:  kled  water  in  hia 
face  :  but  he  himself  fancied  that  he  would  derive  a  great  benefit  from  being  cupped 
on  the  head. "  (H>.,  p.  Ill .)— s . 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  55 

She  was  doubtless  a  virgin,  since  Mahomet  consummated  his  nuptials 
(such  is  the  premature  ripeness  of  the  climate)  when'she  was  only 
nine  years  of  age.  The  youth,  the  beauty,  the  spirit  of  Ayesha  gave 
her  a  superior  ascendant ;  she  was  beloved  and  trusted  by  the  pro- 
phet ;  and,  after  his  death,  the  daughter  of  Abubeker  was  long  re- 
vered as  the  mother  of  the  faithful.  Her  behavior  had  been  ambigu- 
ous and  indiscreet :  in  a  nocturnal  march  she  was  accidentally  left 
behind,  and  in  the  morning  Ayesha  returned  to  the  camp  with  a  man. 
The  temper  of  Mahomet  was  inclined  to  jealousy  ;  but  a  divine  reve- 
lation assured  him  of  her  innocence :  he  chastised  her  accusers,  and 
published  a  law  of  domestic  peace,  that  no  woman  should  be  con- 
demned unless  four  male  witnesses  had  seen  her  in  the  act  of  adul- 
tery.* In  his  adventures  with  Zeineb,  the  wife  of  Zeid,  and  with 
Mary,  an  Egyptian  captive,  the  amorous  prophet  forgot  the  interest 
of  his  reputation.  At  the  house  of  Zeid,  his  freedman  and  adopted 
son,  he  beheld,  in  a  loose  undress,  the  beauty  of  Zeinib,  and  burst 
forth  into  an  ejaculation  of  devotion  and  desire.  The  servile,  or 
grateful,  freedman  understood  the  hint,  and  yielded  without  hesita- 
tion to  the  love  of  his  benefactor.  But  as  the  filial  relation  had 
excited  some  doubt  and  scandal,  the  angel  Gabriel  descended  from 
heaven  to  ratify  the  deed,  to  annul  the  adoption,  and  gently  to  re- 
prove the  prophet  for  distrusting  the  indulgence  of  his  God.  One  of 
his  wives,  Hafna,  the  daughter  of  Omar,  surprised  him  on  her  own 
bed,  in  the  embraces  of  his  Egyptian  captive  :  she  promised  secrecy 
and  forgiveness  :  he  swore  that  he  would  renounce  the  possession  of 
Mary.  Both  parties  forgot  their  engagements  ;  and  Gabriel  again 
descended  with  a  chapter  of  the  Koran,  to  absolve  him  from  his  oath, 
and  to  exhort  him  freely  to  enjoy  his  captives  and  concubines,  with- 
out listening  to  the  clamors  of  his  wives.  In  a  solitary  retreat  of 
thirty  days,  he  labored,  alone  with  Mary,  to  fulfil  the  commands  of 
the  angel.  When  his  love  and  revenge  were  satiated,  he  summoned 
to  his  presence  his  eleven  wives,  reproached  their  disobedience  and 
i  I'tion,  and  threatened  them  with  a  sentence  of  divorce,  both  in 
this  world  and  in  the  next — a  dreadful  sentence,  since  those  who  had 
ascended  the  bed  of  the  prophet  were  forever  excluded  from  the  hope 
of  a  second  marriage.  Perhaps  the  incontinence  of  Mahomet  may  be 
palliated  by  the  tradition  of  his  natural  or  preternatural  gift  ;  he 
united  the  manly  virtue  of  thirty  of  the  children  of  Adam  ;  and  the 
apostle  might  rival  the  thirteenth  labor  of  the  Grecian  Hercules.  A 
more  serious  and  decent  excuse  may  be  drawn  from  his  fidelity  to 
Cadijah.  During  the  twenty-four  years  of  their  marriage,  her  youth- 
ful husband  abstained  from  the  right  of  polygamy,  and  the  pride  or 

*  This  law,  however,  related  only  to  accusations  by  strangers.  By  a  subsequent 
law  (Sura  24,  v.  6-1 .)  a  hu  band  who  suspected  his  wife  might  procure  a  divorce  by 
taking  four  oaths  to  the  truth  of  hi->  charge,  and  a  fifth  invoking  God's  curse  upon 
him  if  he  had  sworn  falsely.  TIiu  woman  escaped  punishment  if  she  took  an  oath 
of  the  same  description  (\Vcil,  p.  273.; — S. 


56  LIFE  OP  MAHOMET. 

tenderness  of  the  venerable  matron  was  never  insulted  by  the  society 
of  ii  rival.  Xfter  her  death  he  placed  her  in  the  rank  of  the  four 
perfect  women,  with  the  sister  of  Moses,  the  mother  of  Jesus,  and 
Fitinia,  the  best  beloved  of  his  daughters.  "Was  she  not  old?" 
said  Ayesha,  with  the  insolence  of  a  blooming  beauty  ;  "  has  not  God 
given  you  a  better  in  her  place?"  "No,  by  God,"  said  Mahomet, 
vithan  effusion  of  honest  gratitude,  "there  never  can  be  a  better ! 
'She  believed  in  me  when  men  despised  me  ;  she  relieved  my  wants 
when  I  was  poor  and  persecuted  by  the  world." 

In  the  largest  indulgence  of  polygamy,  the  founder  of  a  religion 
and  empire  might  aspire  to  multiply  the  chances  of  a  numerous  pos- 
terity and  a  lineal  succession.  The  hopes  of  Mahomet  were  fatally 
disappointed.  The  virgin  Ayesha,  and  his  ten  widows  of  mature  age 
and  approved  fertility,  were  barren  in  his  potent  embraces.  The 
four  sons  of  Cadi j ah  died  in  their  infancy.  Mary,  his  Egyptian  con- 
cubine, was  endeared  to  him  by  the  birth  of  Ibrahim.  At  the  end  of 
fifteen  months  the  prophet  wept  over  his  grave  ;  but  he  sustained 
with  firmness  the  raillery  of  his  enemies,  and  checked  the  adulation 
or  credulity  of  the  Moslems,  by  the  assurance  that  an  eclipse  of  the 
sun  was  not  occasioned  by  the  death  of  the  infant.  Cadijah  had 
likewise  given  him  four  daughters,  who  were  married  to  the  most 
faithful  of  his  disciples  :  the  three  eldest  died  before  their  father  ; 
but  Fatima,  who  possessed  his  confidence  and  love,  became  the  wife 
of  her  cousin  Ali,  and  the  mother  of  an  illustrious  progeny.  The 
merit  and  misfortunes  of  Ali  and  his  descendants  will  lead  me  to  an- 
ticipate, in  this  place,  the  series  of  the  Saracen  caliphs,  a  title  which 
describes  the  commanders  of  the  faithful  as  the  vicars  and  successors 
of  the  apostles  of  God.* 

The  birth,  the  alliance,  the  character  of  Ali,  which  exalted  him 
above  the  rest  of  his  countrymen,  might  justify  his  claim  to  the  va- 
cant throne  of  Arabia.  The  son  of  Abu  Taleb  was,  in  his  own  right, 
the  chief  of  the  family  of  Hashem,  and  the  hereditary  prince  or 
guardian  of  the  city  and  temple  of  Mecca.  The  light  of  propheev 
was  extinct  ;  but  the  husband  of  Fatima  might  expect  the  inheritance 
and  blessing  of  her  father  :  the  Arabs  had  sometimes  been  patient  of 
a  female  reign  ;  and  the  two  grandsons  of  the  prophet  had  often  been 
fondled  in  his  lap,  and  shown  in  his  pulpit,  as  the  hope  of  his  age 
and  the  chief  of  the  youth  of  paradise.  The  first  of  the  true  believ- 
ers might  aspire  to  march  before  them  in  this  world  and  in  the  next ; 
Mini  if  some  were  of  a  graver  and  more  rigid  cast,  the  zeal  and  virtue 
of  Ali  were  never  outstripped  by  any  recent  proselyte.  He  united 
the  qualifications  of  a  poet,  a  soldier,  and  a  saint ;  1m  wisdom  still 
breathes  in  a  collection  of  moral  and  religious  sayings;  and  every 

*  The  moet  valuable  work  Bince  Gibbon's  time  upon  the  history  of  the  Caliphs  is 
Weirs  '•  ( Jeschichte  der  Chalifen  "  (Mannheim,  3  vols.  8vo,  1*48,  seq.).  founded  upon 
orkMnal  sources.  This  work  is  referred  to  in  sebsequent  notes  under  the  name  of 
Weil. — S. 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  67 

antagonist,  in  the  combats  of  the  tongue  or  of  the  sword,  was  eub- 
dued  by  his  eloquence  and  valor.  From  the  first,  hour  of  his  mission 
to  the  last  rites  of  his  funeral,  the  apostle  was  never  forsaken  by  a 
generous  friend,  whom  he  delighted  to  name  his  brother,  his  vicege- 
rent, and  the  faithful  Aaron  of  a  second  Moses.  The  son  of  Abu 
Taleb  was  afterwards  reproached  for  neglecting  to  secure  his  interest 
by  a  solemn  declaration  of  his  right,  which  would  have  silenced  all 
competition  and  sealed  his  succession  by  the  decrees  of  Heaven 
But  the  unsuspecting  hero  confided  in  himself  :  the  jealousy  of  em- 
pire, and  perhaps  the  fear  of  opposition,  might  suspend  the  resolu- 
tions of  Mahomet  ;  and  th  j  bed  of  sickness  was  besieged  by  the  art- 
ful Ayesha,  the  daughter  of  Abubeker,  and  the  enemy  of  Ali.*. 

The  silence  and  death  of  the  prophet  restored  the  liberty  of  the 
people  :  and  his  companions  convened  an  assembly  to  deliberate  on  the 
choice  of  his  successor.  The  hereditary  claim  and  lofty  spirit  of  Ali 
were  offensive  to  an  aristocracy  of  elders,  desirous  of  bestowing  and 
resuming  the  sceptre  by  a  free  and  frequent  election  :  the  Koreish 
could  never  be  reconciled  to  the  proud  pre-eminence  of  the  line  of 
Hashem  :  the  ancient  discord  of  the  tribes  was  rekindled  :  the  fugi- 
tives of  Mecca  and  the  auxiliaries  of  Medina  asserted  their  respective 
merits  ;  and  the  rash  proposal  of  choosing  two  independent  caliphs, 
would  have  crushed  in  their  infancy  the  religion  and  empire  of  the 
Saracens.  The  tumult  was  appeased  by  the  disinterested  resolution 
of  Omar,  who,  suddenly  renouncing  his  own  pretensions,  stretched 
forth  his  hand  and  declared  himself  the  first  subject  of  the  mild  and 
venerable  Abubeker.  The  urgency  of  the  moment  and  the  acquies- 
cence of  the  people  might  excuse  this  illegal  and  precipitate  measure  ; 
but  Omar  himself  confessed  from  the  pulpit,  that  if  any  Musulman 
should  hereafter  presume  to  anticipate  the  suffrage  of  his  brethren, 
both  the  elector  and  the  elected  would  be  worthy  of  death,  (a)  After 

*  Gibbon  wrote  chiefly  from  the  Arabic  or  Sunnite  account  of  these  transactions, 
the  only  sources  accessible  at   the  time  when   he  composed  his  history.    Major 
Price,  writing  from  Persi  in  authorities,  affords  us  the  advantage  of  comparing 
throughout  what  may  be  fairly  considered  the  Shiite  version.    The  glory  of  Ali  is 
the  constant  burden  of  their  strain.    He  was  destined,  and,  according  to  dome  ac- 
counts, designated,  for  the  caliphate  by  the  prophet ;  but  while  the  others  were 
fiercely  pushing  their  own  interests,  Ali  was  watching  the  remains  of  Mahomet  with 
pious  fidelity.    His  disinterested  magnanimity,  on  each  separate  occasion,  declined 
the  sceptre,  and  gave  the  noble  example  of  obedience  to  the  appointed  caliph.    He 
ia  described  in  retirement,  on  the  throne,  and  in  the  field  of  battle,  as  transcendently 
pious,  magnanimous,  valiant,  and  humane.    He  lost  his  empire  through  his  excess 
of  virtue  and  love  for  the  fuithful ;  his  life  through  his  confidence  in  God,  and  sub- 
mission to  the  decrees  of  fate. 

Compare  the  curious  account  of  this  apathy  in  Price,  chap.  3.  It  is  to  be  regret' 
ted,  I  must  add,  that  Major  Price  has  contente  1  himself  with  quoting  the  names  of 
the  Persian  works  which  he  follows,  without  any  account  of  their  character,  age, 
and  authority.— M. 

(a)  Ockley  (Hist,  of  the  Saracens,  vol.  i.,  p.  5,  6)  from  an  Arabian  MS.  represents 
Ayesha  as  adverse  t  >  the  substitution  of  her  father  in  the  place  of  the  apostle.* 

*  The  anecdote  here  mentioned  seems  to  be  an  allusion  to  the  following  scene, 


68  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

the  simple  inauguration  of  Abubeker,  he  was  obeyed  in  Medina,  Mec- 
ca, and  the  provinces  of  Arabia  :  the  Ilashernites  alone  declined  the 
oath  of  fidelity  ;  and  their  chief  in  his  own  house  maintained  above 
six  months  a  sullen  and  independent  reserve,  without  listening  to  the 
threats  of  Omar,  who  attempted  to  consume  with  fire  the  habitation 
of  the  daughter  of  the  apostle.  The  death  of  Fatima  and  the  decline 
of  his  party  subdued  the  indignant  spirit  of  All :  he  condescended  to 
salute  the  commander  of  the  faithful,  accepted  his  excuse  of  the 
necessity  of  subjugating  their  common  enemies,  and  wisely  rejected 
his  courteous  offer  of  abdicating  the  government  of  the  Arabians.  After 
a  reign  of  two  years  the  aged  caliph  *  was  summoned  by  the  angel  of 
death.  In  his  testament,  with  the  tacit  approbation  of  his  compan- 
ions, he  bequeathed  the  sceptre  to  the  firm  and  intrepid  virtue  of 
Omar.  "I  have  no  occasion,"  said  the  modest  candidate,  "for  the 
place."  ""But  the  place  has  occasion  for  you,"  replied  Abubeker  ;  f 
who  expired  with  a  fervent  prayer  that  the  God  of  Mahomet  would 
ratify  his  choice,  and  direct  the  Musulmans  in  the  way  of  concord  and 
obedience.  The  prayer  was  not  ineffectual,  since  All  himself,  in  a 
life  of  privacy  and  prayer,  professed  to  revere  the  superior  worth  and 
dignity  of  his  rival  ;  who  comforted  him  for  the  loss  of  empire  by  the 
most  nattering  marks  of  confidence  and  esteem.  In  the  twelfth  {year 
of  his  reign,  Omar  received  a  mortal  wound  from  the  hand  of  an  as- 
sassin ;  he  rejected  with  equal  impartiality  the  names  of  his  son  and 
of  All,  refused  to  load  his  conscience  with  the  sins  of  his  successor, 
and  devolved  on  six  of  the  most  respectable  companions  the  arduous 
task  of  electing  a  commander  of  the  faithful.  On  this  occasion  Ali 
was  again  blamed  by  his  friends  for  submitting  his  right  to  the  judg- 
ment of  men,  for  recognizing  their  jurisdiction  by  accepting  a  place 
among  the  six  electors.  He  might  have  obtained  their  suffrage  had 
he  deigned  to  promise  a  strict  and  servile  conformity,  not  only  to  the 
Koran  and  tradition,  but  likewise  to  the  determinations  of  two 
senior8.§  With  these  limitations,  Othman,  the  secretary  of  Mahomet, 

which  took  place  before  the  death  of  Mahomet :  Finding  fhat  h"?  had  not  stnMigth 
to  offer  up  the  evening  prayer,  the  prophet  ordered  that  Abu  Bckr  should  pray  in 
his  place.  Ayesha,  however,  several  times  requested  that  Omar  should  perform  the 
service,  since  her  father  was  so  touched  that  he  could  not  pray  aloud.  But  Mahomet 
answered,  "Thou  art  a  second  Potiphar's  wife  " — that  is,  as  great  a  hypocrite  as 
she  ;  since  he  well  knew  that  she  must  wish  her  father,  and  nobody  else,  by  offer- 
ing up  the  priycrs.  to  appear  in  a  certain  degree  as  his  representative.  (Weil,  Mo- 
hammed, p.  887.)— 8. 

*  Caliph  in  Arabic  means  "successor."— S. 

t  Abu  Be  kr  died  on  the  22d  August,  634,  after  a  reign  of  two  years,  three  months, 
and  a  few  days .  (Weil,  vol.  i.,  p.  40  and  53.)— S. 

%  Eleventh..  Gibbon's  computation  is  wrong  on  his  own  showing.  Omar's  reign 
lasted  ten  lunar  years,  six  months,  and  four  days.  He  died  on  the  3d  November, 
W4.  (Weil,  vol.  i  ,  p.  130,  seq.)— S. 

§  This  conjecture  of  Gibbon's  is  confirmed  by  Dr.  Weil's  narrative  of  the  election 
faap  Arabian  authorities  (vol.  i.,  p.  153).  The  nomination  was  finally  intrusted  to 
Alxl  Krrahnum,  who  had  been  appointed  one  of  the  six  electors,  but  who  declined 
for  binuelf  all  pretensions  to  the  caliphate.  He  did  not,  however,  discharge  his 
office  without  first  consulting  the  people.  (Ib.,  p.  130,  131,  and  150-155.)— S. 


LIFE   OF   MAHOMET.  68 

accepted  tlie  government ;  nor  was  it  till  after  the  third  caliph, 
twenty- four  years  after  the  death  of  the  prophet,  that  Ali  was  invest- 
ed by  the  popular  choice  with  the  regal  and  sacerdotal  office.  The 
manners  of  the  Arabians  retained  their  primitive  simplicity,  and  the 
son  of  Abu  Taleb  despised  the  pomp  and  vanity  of  this  world.  At 
the  hour  of  prayer  he  repaired  to  the  mosch  of  Medina,  clothed  in  a 
thin  cotton  gown,  a  coarse  turban  on  his  head,  his  slippers  in  one 
hand,  and  his  bow  in  the  other  instead  of  a  walking-staff.  The  com- 
panions of  the  prophet  and  the  chiefs  of  the  tribes  saluted  their  new 
sovereign,  and  gave  him  their  right  hands  as  a  sign  of  fealty  and  al- 
legiance. 

The  mischiefs  that  flow  from  the  contests  of  ambition  are  usually 
confined  to  the  times  and  countries  in  which  they  have  been  agitated. 
But  the  religious  discord  of  the  friends  and  enemies  of  Ali  has  been 
renewed  in  every  age  of  the  Hegira,  and  is  still  maintained  in  the  im- 
mortal hatred  of  the  Persians  and  Turks.  The  former,  who  are 
branded  with  the  appellation  of  Shiites  or  sectaries,  have  enriched  the 
Mahometan  creed  with  a  new  article  of  faith  ;  and  if  Mahomet  be  the 
apostle,  his  companion  Ali  is  the  vicar  of  (rod.  In  their  private  con- 
Verse,  in  their  public  worship,  they  bitterly  execrate  the  three  usurp- 
ers who  intercepted  his  indefeasible  right  to  the  dignity  of  Imam  and 
Caliph  ;  and  the  name  of  Omar  expresses  in  their  tongue  the  perfect 
accomplishment  of  wickedness  and  impiety.*  The  Sonnites,  who  are 
.supported  by  the  general  consent  and  orthodox  traditions  of  the 
Musulmans,  entertain  a  more  impartial,  or  at  least  a  more  decent, 
opinion.  They  respect  the  memory  of  Abubeker,  Omar,  Othman,  and 
Ali,  the  holy  and  legitimate  successors  of  the  prophet.  But  they 
assign  the  last  and  most  humble  place  to  the  husband  of  Fatima,  in 
the  persuasion  that  the  order  of  succession  was  determined  by  the 
degrees  of  sanctity.  An  historian  who  balances  the  four  caliphs  with 
a  hand  unshaken  by  superstition  will  calmly  pronounce  that  their 
manners  were  alike  pure  and  exemplary  ;  that  their  zeal  was  fervent 
and  probably  sincere  ;  and  that,  in  the  midst  of  riches  and  power,  their 
lives  were  devoted  to  the  practice  of  moral  and  religious  duties.  But 
the  public  virtues  of  Abubeker  and  Omar,  the  prudence  of  the  first, 
the  severity  of  the  second,  maintained  the  peace  and  prosperity  of 
their  reigns.  The  feeble  temper  and  declining  age  of  Othman  were 
incapable  of  sustaining  the  weight  of  conquest  and  empire.  He  chose, 
and  he  was  deceived  ;  he  trusted,  and  he  was  betrayed  :  the  most  de- 
serving of  the  faithful  became  useless  or  hostile  to  his  government, 

*  The  first  sect  that  arose  among  the  Moslems  was  a  political  one,  and  had  for  its 
object  the  dethronement  of  Othman.  It  was  founded  in  Egypt  by  Abdallah  Ibn 
Saba,  a  native  of  Yemen,  and  of  Jewish  descent,  whom  Othman  had  banished  from 
Medina  for  finding  fault  with  his  government.  Abdallah  maintained  that  Ali  had 
been  Mahomet's  assistant,  or  vizier,  and  as  such  was  entitled  to  the  caliphate,  out 
of  which  he  had  been  cheated  by  Abd  Errahman.  The  chief  article  of  his  specula- 
tive belief  was  that  Mahomet  would  return  to  life,  whence  his  sect  wae  named  that 
of  "the  return."  (Weil,  vol.  i.,  p.  173,  eeq.)— S. 


80  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

and  his  lavish  bounty  was  productive  only  of  ingratitud  >  and  discon 
tent.  The  spirit  of  discord  went  forth  in  the  provinces  ;  their  depu- 
ties assembled  at  Medina  ;  and  the  Charegites,  the  desperate  fanatics 
who  disclaimed  the  yoke  of  subordination  and  reason,  were  confound- 
ed among  the  free-born  Arabs,  who  demanded  the  redress  of  their 
wrongs  and  the  punishment  of  their  oppressors.  From  Cufa,  from 
Bassm-a,  from  Egypt,  from  the  tribes  of  the  desert,  they  rose  in  anus, 
encamped  about  a  league,  from  Medina,  and  dispatched  a  haughty 
mandate  to  their  sovereign  requiring  him  to  execute  justice  or  to  de- 
scend from  the  throne.*  His  repentance  began  to  disarm  and  disperse 
the  insurgents  ;  but  their  fury  was  rekindled  by  the  arts  of  his  ene- 
mies ,  and  the  forgery  of  a  perfidious  secretary  was  contrived  to  blast 
his  reputation  and  precipitate  his  fall.  The  caliph  had  lost  the  only 
guard  of  his  predecessors,  the  esteem  and  confidence  of  the  Mos- 
lems ;  during  a  siege  of  six  weeks  his  water  and  provisions  were  inter- 
cepted, and  the  feeble  gates  of  the  palace  were  protected  only  by  the 
scruples  of  the  more  timorous  rebels.  Forsaken  by  those  who  had 
abused  his  simplicity,  the  helpless  and  venerable  caliph  expected  the 
approacli  of  death  :  the  brother  of  Ayesha  marched  at  the  head  of  the 
assassins  ;  and  Othman, f  with  the  Koran  in  his  lap,  was  pierced  with 
a  multitude  of  wounds.  A  tumultuous  anarchy  of  five  days  was  ap- 
peased by  the  inauguration  of  Ali  :  his  refusal  would  have  provoked 
a  general  massacre.  In  this  painful  situation  he  supported  the  be- 
coming pride  of  the  chief  of  the  Hashemites  ;  declared  that  he  had 
rather  serve  than  reign  ;  rebuked  the  presumption  of  the  strangers, 
and  required  the  formal  if  not  the  voluntary  assent  of  the  chiefs  of 
the  nation.  lie  has  never  been  accused  of  prompting  the  assassin  of 
Omar,  though  Persia  indiscreetly  celebrates  the  festival  of  that  holy 
martyr.  The  quarrel  between  Othman  and  his  subjects  was  assuaged 
by  the  early  mediation  of^Ali  ;  and  Hassan,  the  eldest  of  his  sons, 
was  insulted  and  wounded  in  the  defence  of  the  caliph.  Yet  it 
is  doubtful  whether  the  father  of  Hassan  was  strenuous  and  sincere  in 
his  opposition  to  the  rebels;  and  it  is  certain  that  he  enjoyed  the, 
lienetit  of  their  crime.  The  temptation  was  indeed  of  such  magnitude 
as  might  stagger  and  corrupt  the  most  obdurate  virtue.  The  ambi- 
tious candidate  no  longer  aspired  to  the  barren  sceptre  of  Arabia  :  the 
Saracens  had  been  victorious  in  the  East  and  Wegt ;  and  the  wealthy 

*  The  principal  complaints  of  the  rebels  were  that  Othman,  on  the  occasion  of  his 
new  edition  of  the  Koran— which  probably  contained  some  alterations— had  caused 
all  the  previous  copies  to  be  burned  ;  that  he  had  enclosed  and  appropriated  tra 
Ix'.-t  pasturages  ;  that  ho  had  recalled  Ilakam,  who  had  been  banished  by  Mahomet-,' 
that  he  had  ill-treated  some  of  the  companions  of  the  prophet  ;  and  that  he  had 
named  several  young  persons  as  governors  merely  because  they  were  his  relations, 
lie  «ti«  likewise  accused  of  neglecting  to  trend  in  the  footsteps  of  his  predecessors, 
as  lie  bad  promised  to  do  at  his  election  ;  and  on  this  point  Abd  Errahman  himself, 
who  had  nominated  him,  was  his  accuser.  (Weil,  vol.  i.,  p.  178.) — 8. 

t  Died  June  17,  656.  Othman  was  uowards  of  eighty  years  of  age  at  the  time  ol 
his  death.  (W«U,  rol.  i..  p.  185.J-S. 


LIFE   OF   MAHOMET.  01 

kingdoms  of  Persia,  Syria,  and  Egypt  Were  the  patrimony  of  the  com- 
mander of  the  fa'thful. 

A  life  of  prayer  and  contemplation  had  not  chilled  the  martial  ac- 
tivity of  Ali  ;  but  in  a  mature  age,  after  a  long  experience  of  mankind, 
he  still  betrayed  in  his  conduct  the  rashness  and  indiscretion  of  youth. 
In  the  first  days  of  his  reign  he  neglected  to  secure,  either  by  gifts  or 
fetters,  the  doubtful  allegiance  of  Telha  and  Zobeir,  two  of  "the  most 
[powerful  of  the  Arabian  chiefs.  They  escaped  from  Medina  to  Mecca, 
and  from  thence  to  Bassora ;  erected  the  standard  of  revolt  ;  and 
usurped  the  government  of  Irak,  or  Assyria,  which  they  had  vainly  so- 
licited as  the  reward  of  their  services.  The  mask  of  patriotism  id  al- 
lowed to  cover  the  most  glaring  inconsistencies  ;  and  the  enemies, 
perhaps  the  assassins,  of  Othman  now  demanded  vengeance  for  his 
blood.  They  were  accompanied  in  their  flight  by  Ayesha,  the  widow 
of  the  prophet,  who  cherished  to  the  last  hour  of  her  life  an  implaca- 
ble hatred  against  the  husband  and  the  posterity  of  Fatima.*  The 
most  reasonable  Moslems  were  scandalized,  that  the  mother  of  the 
faithful  should  expose  in  a  camp  her  person  and  character  ;  but  the 
superstitious  crowd  was  confident  that  her  presence  would  sanctify 
the  justice  and  assure  the  success  of  their  cause.  At  the  head  of 
twenty  thousand  of  his  loyal  Arabs,  and  nine  thousand  valiant  auxili- 
aries of  Cufa,  the  caliph  encountered  and  defeated  the  superior  num- 
bers of  the  rebels  under  the  walls  of  Bassora. f  Their  leaders,  Telha 
and  Zobeir,:]:  were  slain  in  the  first  battle  that  stained  with  civil  blood 
the  arms  of  the  Moslems.  After  passing  through  the  ranks  to  ani- 
mate the  troops,  Ayesha  had  chosen  her  post  amidst  the  dangers  of 
the  field.  In  the  heat  of  the  action  seventy  men  who  held  the  bridle 
of  her  camel  were  successively  killed  or  wounded ;£  and  the  cage,  or 
litter,  in  which  she  sat  was  struck  with  javelins  and  darts  like  the 
quills  of  a  porcupine.  The  venerable  captive  sustained  with  firmness 
the  reproaches  of  the  conqueror,  and  was  speedily  dismissed  to  her 
proper  station,  at  the  tomb  of  Mahomet,  with  the  respect  and  tender- 
ness that  was  still  due  to  the  widow  of  the  apostle.  ||  After  this  vic- 
tory, which  Avas  styled  the  Day  of  the  Camel, ^[  Ali  marched  against  a 

*  Ali  is  said  to  have  incurred  her  hatred  by  remarking  to  Mahomet,  at  the  time 
when  he  was  dejected  by  his  suspicions  of  her  unfaithfulness—"  Why  do  yon  take 
it  so  much  to  heart  j  There  are  plenty  more  women  in  the  world."  (Weil,  vol.  i,, 
p.  r.:i>.)— S. 

t  The  reluctance  of  Ali  to  shed  the  blood  of  true  believers  is  st.ikingly  described 
by  Maj  r  Price's  Persian  historians.  (Price,  p.  222.) — M. 

$  See  (in  Price)  the  .singular  adventures  of  Zobeir.  He  was  murdered  after  haviflg 
abandoned  the  army  of  the  insurgents.  Telha  was  about  to  do  the  s.-irne,  when  lii< 
1  'g  was  pierced  with  an  arrow  by  one  of  hia  own  party.  The  wound  was  mortal. 
(  'rice,  p.  2)).)— M  . 

§  According  to  Price,  two  hundred  and  eighty  of  the  Benni  Beianziat  alone  lost  a 
r!  ,ht  hand  in  tin's  service  (p.  225). — M. 

She  was  escorted  by  a  guard  of  females  disguised  as  soldiers.  When  she  dis- 
covered this,  AS  c  ha  vas  as  much  gratified  by  the  delicacr  of  the  arrangement  as 
she  had  been  oflx  ixled  l\y  the  familiar  approach  of  .so  many  men.  (Price,  p.  22>.) — M. 

^  From  the  cunicl  which  Ayesha  rode.    (Weil,  vol.  i.,  p.  210.)— S. 


62  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

more  formidable  adversary ;  against  Moawiyah,  the  son  of  Abu 
Sophian,  who  had  assumed  the  title  of  caliph,  and  whose  claim  was 
supported  by  the  forces  of  Syria  and  the  interest  of  the  house  of 
Ommiyah.  From  the  passage  of  Thapsacus  the  plain  of  Siffin  ex- 
tends along  the  western  bank  of  the  Euphrates.  On  this  spacious  and 
level  theatre  the  two  competitors  waged  a  desultory  war  of  one  hun- 
dred and  ten  days.  In  the  course  of  ninety  actions  or  skirmishes,  the 
loss  of  Ali  was  estimated  at  twenty-five,  that  of  Moawiyah  at  forty-five, 
thousand  soldiers  ;  and  the  list  of  the  slain  was  dignified  with  the 
names  of  five- and-t wen ty  veterans  who  had  fought  at  Beder  under  the 
standard  of  Mahomet.  In  this  sanguinary  contest  the  lawful  *  caliph 
displayed  a  superior  character  of  valor  and  humanity.  His  troops 
were  strictly  enjoined  to  await  the  first  onset  of  the  enemy,  to  spare 
their  flying  brethren,  and  to  respect  the  bodies  of  the  dead  and  the 
chastity  of  the  female  captives.  He  generously  proposed  to  save  the 
blood  of  the  Moslems  by  a  single  combat ;  but  his  trembling  rival  de- 
clined the  challenge  as  a  sentence  of  inevitable  death.  The  ranks  of 
the  Syrians  were  broken  by  the  charge  of  a  hero  who  was  mounted  on 
a  piebald  horse,  and  wielded  with  irresistible  force  his  ponderous  and 
two-edged  sword.  As  often  as  he  smote  a  rebel  he  shouted  the  Allah 
Acbar,  ' '  God  is  victorious  ! "  and  in  the  tumult  of  a  nocturnal  battle, 
he  was  heard  to  repeat  four  hundred  times  that  tremendous  exclama- 
tion. The  prince  of  Damascus  already  meditated  his  flight  ;  but  the 
certain  victory  was  snatched  from  the  grasp  of  Ali  by  the  disobedience 
and  enthusiasm  of  his  troops.  Their  conscience  was  awed  by  the 
solemn  appeal  to  the  books  of  the  Koran  which  Moawiyah  exposed 
on  the  foremost  lances  ;  and  A1!  was  compelled  to  yield  to  a  disgrace- 
ful truce  and  an  insidious  compromise.  He  retreated  with  sorrow 
and  indignation  to  Cufa  ;  his  party  was  discouraged  ;  the  distant 
provinces  of  Persia, f  of  Yemen,  and  of  Egypt  were  subdued  or  se- 
duced by  his  crafty  rival ;  and  the  stroke  of  fanaticism,  which  was 
aimed  against  the  three  chiefs  of  the  nation,  was  fatal  only  to  the 
cousin  of  Mahomet.  In  the  temple  of  Mecca  three  Charegites,!  or 
enthusiasts,  discoursed  of  the  disorders  of  the  church  and  state  :  they 

*  Weil  remarks  that  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  history  of  the  first  caliphs 
was  collected  or  forged  under  the  reign  of  tue  Abassides.  with  whom  it  was  a  life 
and  death  point  to  depress  Moawiyah  and  the  Ommijahds.  and  to  elevate  Ali.  If 
all  is  true  that  Is  related  in  All's  praise,  it  is  incomprehensible  how  he  should  have 
been  set  aside  by  Abu  Bekr,  Omar,  and  Othman,  and  should  not  even  have  been 
affle  to  maintain  his  ground  when  named  caliph.  (Vol.  i.,  p.  254,  seq.)— 8. 

t  According  to  Weil,  Ali  retained  Persia.    (Vol.  i..  p.  847.)— 8. 

J  Chawarij,  or  Charijites  (deserters,  rebels),  was  the  name  given  to  all  those  who 
revolted  from  the  lawful  Imam.  Gibbon  seems  here  to  confound  them  with  the 
CTiazrajitea,  one  of  the  two  tribes  of  Medina.  (See  above,  p.  36.)  They  were 
divided  into  six  principal  sects  ;  but  they  all  agreed  in  rejecting  the  authority  both 
of  Othman  and  Ali,  and  the  damnation  of  those  caliphs  formed  their  chief  t  net. 
(Well,  vol.  i.,  p.  £«.)  They  were  very  numerous,  and  had  risen  in  open  rebellion 
against  Ali,  who  was  obliged  to  resort  to  force  to  reduce  them  to  obedience.  (Tb., 
p.  i-;r.  i— s. 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET.  68 

soon  agreed  that  the  deaths  of  All,  of  Moawiyah,  and  of  his  friend 
Amrou,  the  viceroy  of  Egypt,  would  restore  the  peace  and  unity  of 
r?ligion.  Each  of  the  assassins  chose  his  victim,  poisoned  his  dag- 
ger, devoted  his  life,  and  secretly  repaired  to  the  scene  of  action. 
Their  resolution  was  equally  desperate  :  but  the  first  mistook  the  per. 
son  of  Amrou,  and  stabbed  the  deputy  who  occupied  his  sc;it  ;  tin* 
prince  of  Damascus  was  dangerously  hurt  by  the  second  ;  the  lawful 
caliph,  in  the  mosch  of  Cufa,  received  a  mortal  wound  from  the  hand 
of  the  third.  He  expired  in  the  sixty-third  year  of  his  age,*  and 
mercifully  recommended  to  his  children  that  they  would  dispatch  the 
murderer  by  a  single  stroke.  The  sepulchre  of  AH  was  concealed 
from  the  tyrants  of  the  house  of  Ommiyah  ;  but  in  the  fourth  age  of 
the  Hegira,  a  tomb,  a  temple,  a  city,  arose  near  the  ruins  of  Cufa. 
Many  thousands  of  the  Shiites  repose  in  holy  ground  at  the  foot  of  the 
vicar  of  God  ;  and  the  desert  is  vivified  by  the  numerous  and  annual 
visits  of  the  Persians,  who  esteem  their  devotion  not  less  meritorious 
than  the  pilgrimage  of  Mecca. 

The  persecutors  of  Mahomet  usurped  the  inheritance  of  his  chil- 
dren ;  and  the  champions  of  idolatry  became  the  supreme  heads  of 
his  religion  and  empire.  The  opposition  of  Abu  Sophian  had  been 
fierce  and  obstinate  ;  his  conversion  was  tardy  and  reluctant  ;  his 
new  faith  was  fortified  by  necessity  and  interest  ;  he  served,  he 
fought,  perhaps  he  believed  ;  and  the  sins  of  the  time  of  ignorance 
were  expiated  by  the  recent  merits  of  the  family  of  Ommiyah. 
Moawiyah,  the  son  of  Abu  Sophian  and  of  the  cruel  Henda,  was 
dignified  in  his  early  youth  with  the  office  or  title  of  secretary  of  the 
prophet :  the  judgment  of  Omar  intrusted  him  with  the  government 
of  Syria  ;  and  he  administered  that  important  province  above  forty 
years,  either  in  a  subordinate  or  supreme  rank.  Without  renouncing 
the  fame  of  valor  and  liberality,  he  affected  the  reputation  of  hu- 
manity and  moderation  :  a  grateful  people  were  attached  to  their 
benefactor  ;  and  the  victorious  Moslems  were  enriched  with  the  spoils 
of  Cyprus  and  Rhodes.  The  sacred  duty  of  pursuing  the  assassins 
of  Othman  was  the  engine  and  pretence  of  his  ambition.  The  bloody 
shirt  of  the  martyr  was  exposed  in  the  mosch  of  IJarnascus  :  the  emir 
deplored  the  fate  of  his  injured  kinsman  ;  and  sixty  thousand  Syrians 
were  engaged  in  his  service  by  an  oath  of  fidelity  and  revenge.  Am- 
rou, the  conqueror  of  Egypt,  himself  an  army,  was  the  first  whc 
saluted  the  new  monarch,  and  divulged  the  dangerous  secret  that  the 
Arabian  caliphs  might  be  created  elsewhere  than  in  the  city  of  the 
prophet.  The  policy  of  Moawiyah  eluded  the  valor  of  his  rival  ;  and, 
after  the  death  of  AM,  he  negotiated  the  abdication  of  his  son  Hassan, 
whose  mind  was  either  above  or  below  the  government  of  the  world, 
and  who  retired  without  a  sigh  from  the  palace  of  "Cufa  to  an  humble 

*  On  the  21st  of  January.  661,  two  days  after  the  mortal  blow.  (Weil,  vol.  i.,  p. 
250.)— S, 


64  LIFE  OF  MAHOMET. 

cell  near  the  tomb  of  his  grandfather.  The  aspiring  wishes  of  tha 
caliph  were  finally  crowned  by  the  important  change  of  an  elective  to 
an  hereditary  kingdom.  Some  murmurs  of  freedom  or  fanaticism  at- 
tested the  reluctance  of  the  Arabs,  and  four  citizens  of  Medina  re- 
fused the  oath  of  fidelity  ;  *  but  the  designs  of  Moawiyah  were  con- 
ducted with  vigor  and  address  ;  and  his  son  Yezid,  a  feeble  and  dis- 
solute youth,  was  proclaimed  as  the  commander  of  the  faithful  and 
the  successor  of  the  apostle  of  God. 

A  familiar  story  is  related  of  the  benevolence  of  one  of  the  sons  of 
All.  In  serving  at  table,  a  slave  had  inadvertently  dropped  a  dish  of 
scalding  broth  on  his  master  :  the  heedless  wretch  fell  prostrate  to 
deprecate  his  punishment,  and  repeated  a  verse  of  the  Koran  :  "  Para- 
dise is  for  those  who  command  their  anger  :  " — "  I  am  not  angry  :  "- 
"and  for  those  who  pardon  offences:" — "I  pardon  your  offence:" 
—"and  for  those  who  return  good  for  evil :" — "I  give  you  your 
liberty  and  four  hundred  pieces  of  silver."  With  an  equal  measure 
of  piety,  Hosein,  the  younger  brother  of  Hassan,  inherited  a  remnant 
of  his  father's  spirit,  and  served  with  honor  against  the  Christians  in 
I  lie  siege  of  Constantinople.  The  primogeniture  of  the  line  of  Hash- 
em,  and  the  holy  character  of  grandson  of  the  apostle,  had  centred  in 
his  person,  and  he  was  at  liberty  to  prosecute  his  claim  against  Yezid, 
the  tyrant  of  Damascus,  whose  vices  he  despised,  and  whose  title  he 
had  never  deigned  to  acknowledge.  A  list  was  secretly  transmit- 
ted from  Cufa  to  Medina  of  one  hundred  and  forty  thousand  Moslems 
who  professed  their  attachment  to  his  cause,  and  who  were  eager  to 
draw  their  swords  so  soon  as  he  should  appear  on  the  banks  of  the 
Euphrates.  Against  the  advice  of  his  wisest  friends,  he  resolved  to 
trust  his  person  and  family  in  the  hands  of  a  perfidious  people.  lie 
traversed  the  desert  of  Arabia  with  a  timorous  retinue  of  women  and 
children  ;  but  as  he  approached  the  confines  of  Irak,  he  was  alarmed 
by  the  solitary  or  hostile  face  of  the  country,  and  suspected  either  the 
defection  or  ruin  of  his  party.  His  fears  were  just  :  Obeidollah,  the 
governor  of  Cufa,  had  extinguished  the  first  sparks  of  an  insurrection  ; 
and  Ilnse'm,  in  the  plain  of  Kerbela,  was  encompassed  by  a  body  of 
five  thousand  horsemen,  who  intercepted  his  communication  with  the 
i  i  y  and  the  river.  He  might  still  have  escaped  to  a  fortress  in  the 
d.-sert  i  hat  had  defied  the  power  of  Caesar  and  Chosroes,  and  confided 

*  These  were,  Hosein,  Ali's  son  ;  Abd  Allah,  the  son  of  Zubeir  ;  Abd  Errahman, 
son  of  Abu  liekr ;  and  Abd  Allah,  son  of  Omar.  Moawiyah,  having  failed  in  his 
attempts  to  gain  them  over,  caused  them  to  be  seized  and  led  into  the  mosch.  each 
accompanied  by  two  soldiers  with  drawn  swords,  who  were  ordered  to  stab  them  if 
they  attempted  to  speak.  Moawiyah  then  mounted  the  pulpit,  and,  addressing  the 
assembly,  said  that  he  had  seen  the  necessity  of  having  his  son's  title  recognized 
before  his  death,  but  that  he  had  not  taken  this  step  without  consulting  Uie  four 
principal  men  in  Mecca,  who  were  then  present,  and  who  had  entirely  a'greed  with 
Ul  news.  He  then  called  upon  the  assembly  to  do  homage  to  his  son  :  and  as  the 
four  prisoners  did  not  venture  to  contradict  his  assertion,  Yezid  was  acknowledged 
by  those  present  as  Moavnyah's  successor.  (Weil,  vol,  i.,  p.  380.)— S. 


LIFE  OP  MAHOMET.  65 

fn  the  fidelity  of  the  tribe  of  Tai,  which  would  have  armed  ten  ttou- 
and  warriors  in  his  defence.  In  a  conference  with  the  chief  of  the 
enemy,  he  proposed  the  option  of  three  honorable  conditions  :  that 
lie  should  be  allowed  to  return  to  Medina,  or  bo  stationed  in  a  fron- 
tier garrison  against  the  Turks,  or  safely  conducted  to  the.presence  of 
Yezid.  But  the  commands  of  the  caliph,  or  his  lieutenant,  were 
stern  and  absolute  ;  and  Hosein  was  informed  that  he  must  either 
submit  as  a  captive  and  a  criminal  to  the  commander  of  the  faithful, 
or  expect  the  consequences  of  his  rebellion.  "  Do  you  think,"  replied 
he,  "  to  terrify  me  with  death  V"  And  during  the  short  respite  of  a 
night,  he  prepared  with  calm  and  solemn  resignation  to  encounter 
his  fate.  He  checked- the  lamentations  of  his  sister  Fatima,  who  de- 
plored the  impending  ruin  of  his  house.  "  Our  trust,"  said  Hosein, 
"  is  in  (Jod  alone.  All  things,  both  in  heaven  and  earth,  must  perish 
and  return  to  their  Creator.  My  brother,  my  father,  my  mother,  were 
better  than  me,  and  every  Musulman  has  an  example  in  the  prophet." 
He  pressed  his  friends  to  consult  their  safety  by  a  timely  flight  :  they 
unanimously  refused  to  desert  or  survive  their  beloved  master  ;  and 
their  courage  was  fortified  by  a  fervent  prayer  and  the  assurance  of 
paradise.  On  the  morning  of  the  fatal  day  he  mounted  on  horseback, 
with  his  sword  in  one  hand  and  the  Koran  in  the  other  :  his  generous 
band  of  martyrs  consisted  only  of  thirty-two  horse  and  forty  foot ; 
but  their  flanks  and  rear  were  secured  by  the  tent  ropes,  and  by  a 
deep  trench  which  they  had  filled  with  lighted  faggots,  according  to 
the  practice  of  the  Arabs.  The  enemy  advanced  with  reluctance,  and 
one  of  their  chiefs  deserted  with  thirty  followers,  to  claim  the  part- 
nership of  inevitable  death.  In  every  close  onset  or  single  combat, 
the  despair  of  the  Fatimites  was  invincible;  but  the  surrounding 
multitudes  galled  them  from  a  distance  wit.i  a  cloud  of  arrows,  and 
Iho  horses  and  men  were  successively  slain  :  a  truce  was  allowed  on 
both  sides  for  the  hour  of  prayer  ;  and  the  battle  at  length  expired 
by  the  death  of  the  last  of  the  champions  of  llosein.  Alone,  weary 
and  wounded,  he  seated  himself  at  the  door  of  his  tent.  As  he  tasted 
a  drop  of  water,  he  was  pierced  in  the  mouth  with  a  dart ;  and  his  son 
and  nephew,  two  beautiful  youths,  were  killed  in  his  arms.  He  lifted 
his  hands  to  heaven — they  were  full  of  blood — and  he  uttered  a  fune- 
ral prayer  for  the  living  and  the  dead.  In  a  transport  of  despair  his 
sister  issued  from  the  tent,  and  adjured  the  general  of  the  Cufians 
that  he  would  not  suffer  Hosein  to  be  murdered  before  his  eyes  :  a 
tear  trickled  down  his  venerable  beard  ;  and  the  boldest  of  his  sol- 
diers fell  back  on  every  side  as  the  dying  hero  threw  himself  among 
them.  The  remorseless  Shamer,  a  name  detested  by  the  faithful,  re- 
proached their  cowardice  ;  and  the  grandson  of  Mahomet  was  slain 
with  three  and  thirty  strokes  of  lances  and  swords.  After  they  had 
trampled  on  his  body,  they  carried  his  head  to  the  castle  of  Cufa,  and 
the  inhuman  Obeidollah  struck  him  on  the  mouth  with  a  cans. 
•  \!:is|"  exclaimed  an  aged  Musulman,  "on  these  lip.s  have  T  seen 


QF>  LIFE   OF   MAHOMET. 

the  lips  of  the  apostle  of  God  ! "  In  a  distant  age  and  climate  the 
tragic  scene  of  the  death  of  Hosein  will  awaken  the  sympathy  of  the 
mlilrst.  reader.  On  the  annual  festival  of  his  martyrdom,  in  the  de- 
vout pilgrimage  to  his  sepulchre,  his  Persian  votaries  abandon  their 
souls  to  the  religious  frenzy  of  sorrow  and  indignation. 

When  the  sisters  and  children  of  All  were  brought  in  chains  to  the 
throne  of  Damascus,  the  caliph  was  advised  to  extirpate  the  enmity 
of  a  popular  and  hostile  race,  whom  he  had  injured  beyond  the  hope 
of  reconciliation.  But  Yezid  preferred  the  counsels  of  mercy  ;  and 
the  mourning  family  was  honorably  dismissed  to  mingle  their  tears 
with  their  kindred  at  Medina.  The  glory  of  martyrdom  superseded 
the  right  of  primogeniture  ;  and  the  twelve  IMAMS  or  pontiffs  of  the 
Persian  creed  are  All,  Hassan,  Hosein,  and  the  lineal  descendants  of 
Hosein  to  the  ninth  generation.  Without  arms  or  treasures,  or  sub- 
jects, they  successively  enjoyed  the  veneration  of  the  people  and  pro- 
voked the  jealousy  of  the  reigning  caliphs  ;  their  tombs  at  Mecca  or, 
Medina,  on  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates,  or  in  the  prorince  of  Chora- 
san,  are  still  visited  by  the  devotion  of  their  sect.  Their  names  were 
often  the  pretence  of  sedition  and  civil  war  ;  but  these  royal  saints 
despised  the  pomp  of  the  world,  submitted  to  the  will  of  God  and  the 
injustice  of  man,  and  devoted  their  innocent  lives  to  the  study  and 
practice  of  religion.  The  twelfth  and  last  of  the  Imams,  conspicuous 
by  the  title  of  Mahadi,  or  'the  Guide,  surpassed  the  solitude  and 
sanctity  of  his  predecessors.  He  concealed  himself  in  a  cavern  near 
Bagdad  :  the  time  and  place  of  his  death  are  unknown  ;  and  his  vo- 
taries pretend  that  he  still  lives,  and  will  appear  before  the  day  of 
judgment  to  overthrow  the  tyranny  of  Dejal,  or  the  Antichrist.  In 
the  lapse  of  two  or  three  centuries  the  posterity  of  Abbas,  the  uncle 
of  Mahomet,  had  multiplied  to  the  number  of  thirty-three  thousand  ; 
the  race  of  Ali  might  be  equally  prolific  ;  the  meanest  individual  was 
above  the  first  and  greatest  of  princes  ;  and  the  most  eminent  were 
supposed  to  excel  the  perfection  of  angels.  But  their  adverse  fortune 
and  the  wide  extent  of  the  Musulman  empire,  allowed  an  ample 
scope  for  every  bold  and  artful  impostor  who  claimed  affinity  with  the 
holy  seed ;  the  sceptre  of  the  Almohades  in  Spain  and  Africa,  of  the 
Fatimites  in  Egypt  and  Syria,  of  the  sultans  of  Yemen,  and  of  the 
sophis  of  Persia,  has  been  consecrated  by  this  vague  and  ambiguous 
title.  Under  their  reigns  it  might  be  dangerous  to  dispute  the  legiti- 
macy of  their  birth  ;  and  one  of  the  Fatimite  caliphs  silenced  an  in- 
discreet question  by  drawing  his  scymitar  :  "This,"  said  Moez,  "is 
my  pedigree;  and  these,"  casting  a  handful  of  gold  to  his  soldiers, 
"and  these  are  my  kindred  and  my  children."  In  the  various  con- 
ditions of  princes,  or  doctors,  or  nobles,  or  merchants,  or  beggars,  a 
swarm  of  the  genuine  or  fictitious  descendants  of  Mahomet  and  Ali  is 
honored  with  the  appellation  of  sheiks,  or  sherifs,  or  emirs.  In  the 
Ottoman  empire  they  are  distinguished  by  a  green  turban,  receive  a 
Stipend  from  the  treasury,  are  judged  only  by  their  chief,  and,  how- 


LIFE  OP  MAHOMET.  67 

ever  debased  by  fortune  or  character,  still  assert  the  proud  pre- 
eminence of  their  birth.  A  family  of  three  hundred  persons,  th# 
pure  and  orthodox  branch  of  the  caliph  Hassan,  is  preserved  without 
taint  or  suspicion  in  the  holy  cities  of  Mecca  and  Medina,  and  still  re- 
tains after  the  revolutions  of  twelve  centuries  the  custody  of  the  tern 
pie  and  the  sovereignty  of  their  native  land.  The  fame  and  merit 
of  Mahomet  would  ennoble  the  plebeian  race,  and  the  ancient  blood  ol 
the  Koreish  transcends  the  recent  majesty  of  the  kings  of  the  earth.' 
The  talents  of  Mahomet  entitle  him  to  our  applause,  but  his  success 
has  perhaps  too  strongly  attracted  our  admiration.  Are  we  surprised 
that  a  multitude  of  proselytes  should  embrace  the  doctrine  and  the 
passions  of  an  eloquent  fanatic  ?  In  the  heresies  of  the  church  the 
same  seduction  has  been  tried  and  repeated  from  the  time  of  the 
apostles  to  that  of  the  reformers.  Does  it  seem  incredible  that  a  pri- 
vate citizen  should  grasp  the  sword  and  the  sceptre,  subdue  his  na- 
tive country,  and  erect  a  monarchy  by  his  victorious  arms  ?  In  the 
moving  picture  of  the  dynasties  of  the  East,  a  hundred  fortunate 
usurpers  have  arisen  from  a  baser  origin,  surmounted  more  formida- 
ble obstacles,  and  filled  a  larger  scope  of  empire  and  conquest.  Ma- 
homet was  alike  instructed  to  preach  and  to  fight,  and  the  union  of 
these  opposite  qualities,  while  it  enhanced  his  merit,  contributed  to 
his  success  :  the  operation  of  force  and  persuasion,  of  enthusiasm  and 
fear,  continually  acted  on  each  other  till  every  barrier  yielded  to  their 
irresistible  power.  His  voice  invited  the  Arabs  to  freedom  and  vic- 
tory, to  arms  and  rapine,  to  the  indulgence  of  their  darling  passions 
in  this  world  and  the  other  ;  the  restraints  which  he  imposed  were 
requisite  to  establish  the  credit  of  the  prophet  and  to  exercise  the 
obedience  of  the  people  ;  and  the  only  objection  to  his  success  was 
his  rational  creed  of  the  unity  and  perfections  of  God.  It  is  not  the 
propagation,  but  the  permanency  of  his  religion  that  deserves  our 
wonder  :  the  same  pure  and  perfect  impression  which  he  engraved  at 
Mecca  and  Medina  is  preserved  after  the  revolutions  of  twelve  cen 
turies  by  the  Indian,  the  African,  and  the  Turkish  proselytes  of  the 
Koran.  If  the  Christian  apostles,  St.  Peter  or  St.  Paul,  could  return 
to  the  Vatican,  they  might  possibly  inquire  the  name  of  the  Deity 
who  is  worshipped  with  such  mysterious  rites  in  that  magnificent 
temple  :  at  Oxford  or  Geneva  they  would  experience  less  surprise  ; 
but  it  might  still  be  incumbent  on  them  to  peruse  the  catechism  of 
the  church,  and  to  study  the  orthodox  commentators  on  their  own 
writings  and  the  words  of  their  Master.  But  the  Turkish  dome  of 
St.  Sophia,  with  an  increase  of  splendor  and  size,  represents  the  hum- 
ble taberfiacle  erected  at  Medina  by  the  hands  of  Mahomet.  The 
Mahometans  have  uniformly  withstood  the  temptation  of  reducing 
the  objects  of  their  faith  and  devotion  to  a  level  with  the  sens« 
and  imagination  of  man.  "I  believe  in  one  God,  and  Mahomet  the 
apostle  of  God,"  is  the  simple  and  invariable  profession  of  Islam. 
The  intellectual  image  of  the  Deity  has  never  been  degraded  by  any 


CS  LIFE   OF  MAHOMET. 

visible  idol  ;  the  honors  of  the  prophet  have  never  transgressed  the 
measure  of  human  virtue;  and  his  living  precepts  have  restrained 
the  gratitude  of  his  disciples  within  the  bounds  of  reason  and  religion. 
Tin-  votaries  of  All  have  indeed  consecrated  the  memory  of  their 
hero,  his  wife,  and  his  children  ;  and  some  of  the  Persian  doctors 
pretend  tliat  the  divine  essence  was  incarnate  in  the  person  of  the 
Imams  ;  but  their  superstition  is  universally  condemned  by  the  Son- 
nites  ;  and  their  impiety  has  afforded  a  seasonable  warning  againstj 
the  worship  of  saints  and  martyrs.  The  metaphysical  questions  on 
the  attributes  of  God  and  the  liberty  of  man  have  been  agitated  in 
the  schools  of  the  Mahometans  as  well  as  ia  those  of  the  Christians  ; 
but  among  the  former  they  have  never  enraged  the  passions  of  the 
people  or  disturbed  the  tranquillity  of  ths  state.  The  cause  of  this 
important  difference  may  be  found  in  the  separation  or  union  of  the 
rega  I  and  sacerdotal  characters.  It  was  the  interest  of  the  caliphs, 
the  successors  of  the  prophet  and  commanders  of  the  faithful,  to  re- 
press and  discourage  all  religious  innovations  :  the  order,  the  disci- 
pline, the  temporal  and  spiritual  ambition  of  the  clergy,  are  unknown 
to  the  Moslems  ;  and  the  sages  of  the  law  are  the  guides  of  their  con- 
science and  the  oracles  of  their  faith.  From  the  Atlantic  to  the  Gan- 
ges the  Koran  is  acknowledged  as  the  fundamental  code,  not  only  of 
theology  but  of  civil  and  criminal  jurisprudence  ;  and  the  laws  which 
regulate  the  actions  and  the  property  of  mankind,  are  guarded  by  the 
in  fallible  and  immutable  sanction  of  the  will  of  God.  This  religious 
servitude  is  attended  with  some  practical  disadvantage  ;  the  illiterate 
legislator  had  been  often  misled  by  his  own  prejudices  and  those  of 
liis  country  ;  and  the  institutions  of  the  Arabian  desert  may  be  ill 
adapted  to  the  wealth  and  numbers  of  Ispahan  and  Constantinople. 
On  these  occasions  the  Cadhi  respectfully  places  on  his  head  the  holy 
volume,  and  substitutes  a  dexterous  interpretation  more  apposite  to 
the  principles  of  equity,  and  the  manners  and  policy  of  the  times. 

His  beneficial  or  pernicious  influence  of  the  public  happiness  is  the 
last  consideration  in  the  character  of  Mahomet.  The  most  bitter  or 
most,  bigoted  of  his  Christian  or  Jewish  foes,  will  surely  allow  that 
he  assumed  a  false  commission  to  inculcate  a  salujary  doctrine  less 
perfect  only  than  their  own.  He  piously  supposed,  as  the  basis  of  his 
religion,  the  truth  and  sanctity  of  their  prior  revelations,  the  virtues 
and  miracles  of  their  founders.  The  idols  of  Arabia  were  broken  be- 
fore the  throne  of  God-;  the  blood  of  human  victims  was  expiated  by 
prayer,  and  fasting,  and  alms,  the  laudable  or  innocent  arts  of  devo- 
tion :  and  his  rewards  and  punishments  of  a  future  life  were  painted 
by  the  images  most  congenial  to  an  ignorant  and  carnal  generation. 
Mahomet  was  perhaps  incapable  of  dictating  a  moral  and  political 
system  for  the  use  of  his  countrymen  :  but  he  breathed  among  the 
faithful  a  spirit,  of  charity  and  friendship,  recommended  the  practice 
of  the  social  virtues,  and  checked,  by  his  laws]and  precepts,  the  thirst 
for  revenge  and  the  oppression  of  widows  and  orphans.  The  hostile 


LIFE  OF  MAHOMET  go 

tribes  were  united  in  faith  and  obedience,  and  the  valor  which  had 
been  idly  spent  in  domestic  quarrels  was  vigorously  directed  against 
a,  foreign  enemy.  Had  the  impulse  been  less  powerful,  Arabia,  free 
at  home  and  formidable  abroad,  might  have  flourished  under  a  suc- 
cession of  her  native  monarchs.  Her  sovereignty  was  lost  by  the  ex- 
tent and  rapidity  of  conquest.  The  colonies  of  the  nation  were  scat- 
tered over  the  East  and  West,  and  their  blood  was  mingled  with  the 
^lood  of  their  converts  and  captives.  After  the  reign  of  three  caliphs 
the  throne  was  transported  from  Medina  to  the  valley  of  Damascus 
and  the  banks  of  the  Tigris  ;  the  holy  cities  were  violated  by  impious 
war  ;  Arabia  was  ruled  by  the  rod  of  a  subject,  perhaps  a  stranger  ; 
and  the  Bedoweens  of  the  desert,  awakening  from  their  dream  of 
dominion,  resumed  their  old  and  solitary  independence 


AB.-T 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 


THE  originality  of  the  Pucelle,  the  secret  of  her  success,  was  not  kcr 
courage  or  her  visions,  but  her  good  sense.  Amidst  all  her  enthu- 
siasm the  girl  of  the  people  clearly  saw  the  question,  and  knew  how 
to  resolve  it.  The  knot  which  politician  and  doubter  could  not  un- 
loose she  cut.  She  pronounced,  in  God's  name,  Charles  VII.  to  be 
the  heir  ;  she  reassured  him  as  to  his  legitimacy,  of  which  he  had 
doubts  himself,  and  she  sanctified  this  legitimacy  by  taking  him 
straight  to  Reims,  and  by  her  quickness  gaining  over  the  English  the 
decisive  advantage  of  the  coronation. 

It  was  by  no  means  rare  to  see  women  take  up  arms.  They  often 
fought  in  sieges  :  witness  the  eighty  women  wounded  at  Amiens  : 
witness  Jeanne  Hachette.  In  the  Pucelle's  day,  and  in  the  self -same 
years  as  she,  the  Bohemian  women  fought  like  men  in  the  wars  of  the 
Hussites. 

No  more,  I  repeat,  did  the  originality  of  the  Pucelle  consist  in  her 
visions.  Who  but  had  visions  in  the  middle  age  ?  Even  in  this  pr.  >- 
saic  fifteenth  century  excess  of  suffering  had  singularly  exalted 
men's  imaginations.  We  find  at  Paris  one  brother  Richard  so  excit- 
ing the  populace  by  his  sermons  that  at  last  the  English  banished 
him  the  city.  Assemblies  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty  thousand  souls 
were  collected  by  the  preaching  of  the  Breton  Carmelite  friar,  Co- 
necta,  at  Courtrai  and  at  Arras.  In  the  space  of  a  few  years,  before 
and  after  the  Pucelle,  every  province  had  its  saint — either  a  Pierrette, 
a  Breton  peasant  girl  who  holds  converse  with  Jesus  Christ ;  or  a 
Marie  of  Avignon,  a  Catherine  of  Rochelle  ;  or  a  poor  shepherd,  such 
as  Saintrailles  brings  up  from  his  own  country,  who  has  the  stigmata 
on  his  feet  and  hands  and  who  sweats  blood  on  holy  days  like  the 
present  holy  woman  of  the  Tyrol. 

Lorraine,  apparently,  was  one  of  the  last  provinces  to  expect  such 
a  phenomenon  from.  The  Lorrainers  are  brave  and  apt  to  blows,  but 
most  delight  in  stratagem  and  craft.  If  the  great  Guise  saved  France 
before  disturbing  her,  it  was  not  by  visions.  Two  Lorrainers  make 
themselves  conspicuous  at  the  siege  of  Orleans,  and  both  display  the 
natural  humor  of  their  witty  countryman,  Callot  ;  one  of  these  is  the 
cannonier,  master  Jean,  who  used  to  counterfeit  death  so  well  ;  the 
other  is  a  knight  who,  being  taken  by  the  English  and  loaded  with 


2  JOAN  OF  ARC 

chains,  when  they  withdrew,  returned  riding  on  the  back  of  an  Eng 
lish  monk. 

The  character  of  the  Lorraine  of  the  Vosges,  it  is  true,  is  of  graver 
kind.  This  lofty  district,  from  whose  mountain  sides  rivers  run  sea. 
ward  through  France  in  every  direction,  was  covered  with  forests  of 
such  vast  size  as  to  be  esteemed  by  the  Carlovingians  the  most  worthy 
of  their  imperial  hunting  parties.  In  glades  of  these  forests  rose  the 
venerable  abbeys  of  Luxeuil  and  Remiremont ;  the  latter,  as  is  well 
known,  under  the  rule  of  an  abbess  who  was  ever  a  princess  of  the 
Holy  Empire,  who  had  her  great  officers,  in  fine,  a  whole  feudal 
court,  and  used  to  be  preceded  by  her  seneschal,  bearing  the  naked 
sword.  The  dukes  of  Lorraine  had  been  vassals,  and  for  a  long 
period,  of  this  female  sovereignty. 

It  was  precisely  between  the  Lorraine  of  the  Vosges  and  that  of  the 
plains,  between  Lorraine  and  Champagne,  at  Dom-Remy,  that  the 
brave  and  beautiful  girl  destined  to  bear  so  well  the  sword  of  France 
first  saw  the  light. 

Along  the  Meuse,  and  within  a  circuit  of  ten  leagues,  there  are 
four  Dom-Remys  ;  three  in  the  diocese  of  Toul,  one  in  that  of  Lang- 
res.  It  is  probable  that  these  four  villages  were  in  ancient  times  de- 
pendencies of  the  abbey  of  Saint- Remy  at  Reims.  In  the  Carlovin- 
gian  period,  our  great  abbeys  are  known  to  have  held  much  more  dis- 
tant possessions  ;  as  far,  indeed,  as  in  Provence,  in  Germany,  and 
even  in  England. 

This  line  of  the  Meuse  is  the  march  of  Lorraine  and  of  Champagne, 
so  long  an  object  of  contention  betwixt  monarch  and  duke.  Jeanne's 
father,  Jacques  Dare,  was  a  worthy  Champenois.  Jeanne,  no  doubt, 
inherited  her  disposition  from  this  parent ;  she  had  none  of  the  Lor- 
raine ruggedness,  but  much  rather  the  Champenois  mildness  ;  that 
simplicity,  blended  with  sense  and  shrewdness,  which  is  observable 
hi  Joinville. 

A  few  centuries  earlier  Jeanne  would  have  been  born  the  serf  of 
the  abbey  of  Saint- Remy  ;  a  century  earlier,  the  serf  of  the  sire  de 
Joinville,  who  was  lord  of  Vaucouleurs,  on  which  city  the  village  of 
Dom-Remy  depended.  But  in  1335  the  king  obliged  the  Joinvilles 
to  cede  Vaucouleurs  to  him.  It  formed  at  that  time  the  grand  chan- 
nel of  communication  between  Champagne  and  Lorraine,  and  was  the 
high  road  to  Germany,  as  well  as  that  of  the  bank  of  the  Meuse — the 
cross  or  intersecting  point  of  the  two  routes.  It  was,  too,  we  may 
say ,  the  frontier  between  the  two  great  parties  ;  near  Dom-Remy  was  one 
of  the  last  villages  that  held  to  the  Burgundians  ;  all  the  rest  was  for 
Charles  VII. 

In  all  ages  this  march  of  Lorraine  and  of  Champagne  had  suffered 
cruelly  from  war  ;  first,  a  long  war  between  the  east  and  the  west, 
between  the  king  and  the  duke,  for  the  possession  of  Neufchateau 
and  the  adjoining  places  ;  then  war  between  the  north  and  south,  be- 
tween the  Burgundians  and  the  Armagnaca.  The  remembrance  of 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  3 

these  pitiless  wars  has  never  been  effaced.  Not  long  since  was  seen 
near  Neufchateau  an  antique  tree  with  sinister  name,  whose  branches 
had  no  doubt  often  borne  human  fruit — Ghene  des  Partisans  (the 
Partisans'  Oak). 

The  poor  people  of  the  march  had  the  honor  of  being  directly  sub- 
ject to  the  king  ;  that  is,  in  reality,  they  belonged  to  no  one,  were 
neither  supported  nor  managed  by  any  one,  and  had  no  lord  or  pro- 
tector but  God.  People  so  situated  are  of  a  serious  cast.  They  know 
that  they  can  count  upon  nothing  ;  neither  on  their  goods  nor  on  their 
lives.  They  sow,  the  soldier  reaps.  Nowhere  does  the  husbandman 
feel  greater  anxiety  about  the  affairs  of  his  country,  none  have  a  di- 
rector interest  in  them ;  the  least  reverse  shakes  him  so  roughly  ! 
He  inquires,  he  strives  to  know  and  to  foresee ;  above  all,  he  is  re- 
signed :  whatever  happens,  he  is  prepared  for  it  ;  he  is  patient  and 
brave.  Women  even  become  so  ;  they  must  become  so  among  all 
these  soldiers,  if  not  for  the  sake  of  life,  for  that  of  honor,  like  Goethe's 
beautiful  and  hardy  Dorothea. 

Jeanne  was  the  third  daughter  of  a  laborer,*  Jacques  Dare,  and  of 
Isabella  Romee.\  Her  two  godmothers  were  called,  the  one,  Jeanne, 
the  other,  Sibylle. 

Their  eldest  son  had  been  named  Jacques,  and  another,  Pierre. 
The  pious  parents  gave  one  of  their  daughters  the  loftier  name  Saint- 
Jean. 

While  the  other  children  were  taken  by  their  father  to  'work  in  the 
fields  or  set  to  watch  cattle,  the  mother  kept  Jeanne  at  home  sewing 
or  spinning.  She  was  taught  neither  reading  nor  writing  ;  but  she 
learned  all  her  mother  knew  of  sacred  things.  She  imbibed  her  re- 
ligion, not  as  a  lesson  or  a  ceremony,  but  in  the  popular  and  simple 
form  of  an  evening  fireside  story,  as  a  truth  of  a  mother's  telling 
.  .  .  What  we  imbibe  thus  with  our  blood  and  milk  is  a  living  thing, 
is  life  itself.  .  .  . 

As  regards  Jeanne's  piety,  we  have  the  affecting  testimony  of  the 
friend  of  her  infancy,  of  her  bosom  friend,  Ilatnnette,  who  was 
younger  than  she  by  three  or  four  years.  "  Over  and  over  again,"  she 
said,  "  I  have  been  at  her  father's  and  have  slept  with  her,  in  all 
love  (de  bonne  amitie).  .  .  .  She  was  a  very  good  girl,  simple  and 
gentle.  She  was  fond  of  going  to  church  and  to  holy  places.  She 
spun  and  attended  to  the  house  like  other  girls.  .  .  .  She  con- 
fessed frequently.  She  blushed  when  told  that  she  was  too  devout, 
and  went  too  often  to  church."  A  laborer,  also  summoned  to  give 

*  There  may  be  seen  at  this  day,  above  the  door  of  the  hut  where  Jeanne  Dare 
lived,  three  scutcheons  carved  on  stone — that  of  Louis  XI.,  who  beautified  the  hut ; 
that  which  was  undoubtedly  given  to  one  of  her  brothers,  along  with  the  surname 
of  Du  Lis  ;  and  a  third,  charged  with  a  star  and  three  ploughshares,  to  imagine  the 
mission  of  the  Pucelle  and  the  humble  condition  of  her  parents.  Vallet,  Memoire 
adresse  a  1'Institut  Historique,  sur  le  nom  dc  famille  de  la  Pucelle. 

t  The  name  of  Romee  was  often  assumed  in  the  middle  age  by  those  who  had  mads 
toe  pilgrimage  to  Home, 


4  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

eridence,  adds,  that  she  nursed  the  sick  and  was  charitable  to  the 
poor.  "  I  know  it  well,"  were  his  words  ;  "  I  was  then  a  child,  and 
it  was  she  who  nursed  me." 

Her  charity,  her  piety,  were  known  to  all.  All  saw  that  she  was 
the  best  girl  in  the  village.  What  they  did  not  see  and  know  was, 
that  in  her  celestial  ever  absorbed  worldly  feelings,  and  suppressed 
their  development.  She  bad  the  divine  gift  to  remain,  soul  and  body, 
a  child.  She  grew  up  strong  and  beautiful  :  but  never  knew  the 
physical  sufferings  entailed  on  woman.  They  were  spared  her,  that 
she  might  be  the  more  devoted  to  religious  thought  and  inspiration. 
Born  under  the  very  walls  of  the  church,  lulled  in  her  cradle  by  the 
chimes  of  the  bells,  and  nourished  by  legends,  she  was  herself  a  le- 
gend, a  quickly  passing  and  pure  legend,  from  birth  to  death. 

She  was  a  living  legend,  .  .  .  but  her  vital  spirits,  exalted  and 
concentrated,  did  not  become  the  less  creative.  The  young  girl  creat- 
ed, so  to  speak,  unconsciously,  and  realized  her  own  ideas,  endowing 
them  with  being  and  imparting  to  them  out  of  the  strength  of  her 
original  vitality  such  splendid  and  all-powerful  existence,  that  they 
threw  into  the  shade  the  wretched  realities  of  this  world. 

If  poetry  mean  creation,  this  undoubtedly  is  the  highest  poetry. 
Let  us  trace  the  steps  by  which  she  soared  thus  high  from  so  lowly  a 
starting-point. 

Lowly  in  truth,  but  already  poetic.  Her  village  was  close  to  the 
vast  forests  of  the  Vosges.  .  From  the  door  of  her  father's  house  she 
could  see  the  old  oak  wood,  the  wood  haunted  by  fairies  ;  whose  fa- 
vorite spot  was  a  fountain  near  a  large  beech,  called  the  fairies'  or 
the  ladies'  tree.  On  this  the  children  used  to  hang  garlands,  and 
would  sing  around  it.  These  antique  ladies  and  mistresses  of  the 
woods  were,  it  was  said,  no  longer  permitted  to  assemble  round  the 
fountain,  barred  by  their  sins.  However,  the  Church  was  always 
mistrustful  of  the  old  local  divinities  ;  and  to  ensure  their  complete 
expulsion  the  cure  annually  said  a  mass  at  the  fountain. 

Amidst  these  legends  and  popular  dreams,  Jeanne  was  born.  But, 
along  with  these,  the  land  presented  a  poetry  of  a  far  different  char- 
acter, savage,  fierce,  and,  alas  !  but  too  real — the  poetry  of  war. 
War  I  all  passions  and  emotions  are  included  in  this  single  word.  It 
is  not  that  every  day  brings  with  it  assault  and  plunder,  but  it  brings 
fln<  fear  of  them — the  tocsin,  the  awaking  with  a  start,  and,  in  the 
distant  horizon,  the  lurid  light  of  conflagration,  ...  a  fearful 
but  ]>oetic  state  of  things.  The  most  prosaic  of  men,  the  lowland 
Scots,  amidst  the  hazards  of  the  border,  have  become  poets  •  in  this 
sinister  desert,  which  even  yet  looks  as  if  it  were  a  region  accursed, 
ballada,  wild  but  long-lived  flowers,  have  germed  anii  nourished. 

Jeanne  had  her  share  in  these  romantic  adventures.  She  would  see 
poor  fugitives  seek  refuge  in  her  village,  would  assist  in  sheltering 
them,  give  them  up  her  bed,  and  sleep  herself  in  the  loft.  Once,  too, 
her  parents  had  been  obliged  to  turn  fugitives  ;  and  then  when  tke 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  5 

ffood  of  brigands  had  swept  by,  the  family  returned  and  foujxd  the 
Tillage  sacked,  the  house  devastated,  the  church  burnt. 

Thus  she  knew  what  war  was.  Thoroughly  did  she  understand 
this  anti-Christian  state,  and  unfeigned  was  her  horror  of  this  reign 
of  the  devil,  in  which  every  man  died  in  mortal  sin.  She  asked  her- 
self whether  God  would  always  allow  this,  whether  he  would  not 
prescribe  a  term  to  such  miseries,  whether  he  would  not  send  a  liber- 
ator as  he  had  so  often  done  for  Israel — a  Gideon,  a  Judith  ?  .  .  . 
She  knew  that  woman  had  more  than  once  saved  God's  own  people, 
and  that  from  the  beginning  it  had  been  foretold  that  woman  should 
bruise  the  serpent.  No  doubt  she  had  seen  over  the  portal  of  the 
churches  St.  Margaret,  together  with  St.  Michael,  trampling  under 
foot  the  dragon.  ...  If,  as  all  the  world  said,  the  ruin  of  the  king- 
dom was  a  woman's  work,  an  unnatural  mother's,  its  redemption 
might  well  be  a  virgin's  :  and  this,  moreover,  had  been  foretold  in  a 
prophecy  of  Merlin's  ;  a  prophecy  which,  embellished  and  modified 
by  the  habits  of  each  province,  had  become  altogether  Lorraine  in 
Jeanne  Dare's  country.  According  to  the  prophecy  current  here,  it 
was  a  Pucelle  of  the  marches  of  Lorraine  who  was  to  save  the  realm  ; 
and  the  prophecy  had  probably  assumed  this  form  through  the  recent 
marriage  of  Rene  of  Anjou  with  the  heiress  of  the  duchy  of  Lor- 
raine, a  marriage  which,  in  truth,  turned  out  very  happily  for  the 
kingdom  of  France. 

One  summer's  day,  a  fast-day,  Jeanne  being  at  noontide  in  her 
father's  garden,  close  to  the  church,  saw  a  dazzling  light  on  that  side, 
and  heard  a  voice  say,  "Jeanne,  be  a  good  and  obedient  child,  go 
often  to  church."  The  poor  girl  was  exceedingly  alarmed. 

Another  time  she  again  heard  the  voice  and  saw  the  radiance  ;  and, 
in  the  midst  of  the  effulgence,  noble  figures,  one  of  which  had  wings, 
and  seemed  a  wise  prud'homme.  "Jeanne,"  said  this  figure  to  her, 
"  go  to  the  succor  of  the  King  of  France,  and  thou  shalt  restore  his 
kingdom  to  him."  She  replied,  all  trembling,  "  Messire,  I  am  only 
a  poor  girl ;  I  know  not  how  to  ride  or  lead  men-at-arms."  The  voice 
replied,  "Go  to  M.  de  Baudri court,  captain  of  Vaucouleurs,  and  he 
will  conduct  thee  to  the  king.  St.  Catherine  and  St.  Marguerite  will 
be  thy  aids."  She  remained  stupified  and  in  tears,  as  if  her  whol« 
destiny  had  been  revealed  to  her. 

The  prud'homme  was  no  less  than  St.  Micliael,  the  severe  archangel 
of  judgments  and  of  battles.  He  reappeared  to  her,  inspired  ner 
with  courage,  and  told  her  "the  pity  for  the  kingdom  of  France." 
Then  appeared  sainted  women,  all  in  white,  with  countless  lights 
around,  rich  crowns  on  their  heads,  and  their  voices  soft  and  moving 
unto  tears  :  but  Jeanne  shed  them  much  more  copiously  when  saints 
and  angels  left  her.  "I  longed,"  she  said,  "  for  the  angela  to  take 
me  away  too." 

If  in  the  midst  of  happiness  like  this  she  wept,  her  tears  were  not 
causeless.  Bright  and  glorious  as  these  visions  were,  a  change  tad 


8  JOAN   OF  ARC. 

from  that  moment  come  over  her  life.  She  who  had  hitherto  heard 
but  one  voice,  that  of  her  mother,  of  which  her  own  was  the  echo, 
now  heard  the  powerful  voice  of  angels — and  what  sought  the  heaven- 
ly voice  V  That  she  should  quit  that  mother,  quit  her  dear  home. 
She,  whom  but  a  word  put  out  of  countenance,  was  required  to  mix 
•with  men,  to  address  soldiers.  She  was  obliged  to  quit  for  the  world 
and  for  war  her  little  garden  under  the  shadow  of  the  church,  where 
,shi.-  heard  no  ruder  sounds  than  those  of  its  bells,  and  where  the  birds 
ate  out  of  her  hand :  for  such  was  the  attractive  sweetness  of  the 
young  saint,  that  animals  and  the  fowls  of  the  air  came  to  her,  as 
formerly  to  the  fathers  of  the  desert,  in  all  the  trust  of  God's  peace. 

.leanne  has  told  us  nothing  of  this  first  struggle  that  she  had  to  un- 
dergo :  but  it  is  clear  that  it  did  take  place,  and  that  it  was  of  long 
duration,  since  five  years  elapsed  between  her  first  vision  and  her  final 
abandonment  of  her  home. 

The  two  authorities,  the  paternal  and  the  celestial,  enjoined  her  two 
opposite  commands.  The  one  ordered  her  to  remain  obscure,  modest, 
and  laboring  ;  the  other  to  set  out  and  save  the  kingdom.  The  angel 
bade  her  arm  herself.  Her  father,  rough  and  honest  peasant  as  he 
was>  swore  that,  rather  than  his  daughter  should  go  away  with  men- 
at-arms,  he  would  drown  her  with  his  own  hands.  One  or  other,  dis- 
obey she  must.  Beyond  a  doubt  this  was  the  greatest  battle  she  wns 
called  upon  to  fight;  those  against  the  English  were  play  in  comparison. 

In  her  family,  she  encountered  not  only  resistance  but  temptation  ; 
for  they  attempted  to  marry  her,  in  the  hope  of  winning  her  back  to 
more  rational  notions,  as  they  considered.  A  young  villager  pretend- 
ed that  in  her  childhood  she  had  promised  to  marry  him  ;  and  on  her 
denying  this,  he  cited  her  before  the  ecclesiastical  Judge  of  Toul. 
It  was  imagined  that,  rather  than  undertake  the  effort  of  speaking  in 
her  own  defence,  she  would  submit  to  marriage.  To  the  great  aston- 
ishment of  all  who  knew  her,  she  went  to  Toul,  appeared  in  court, 
and  spoke — she  who  had  been  noted  for  her  modest  silence. 

In  order  to  escape  from  the  authority  of  her  family,  it  behooved 
her  to  find  in  the  bosom  of  that  family  some  one  who  would  believe 
in  her  :  this  was  the  most  difficult  part  of  all.  In  default  of  her 
father,  she  made  her  uncle  a  tonvertite  to  the  truth  of  her  mission. 
He  took  her  home  with  him,  as  if  to  attend  her  aunt,  who  was  lying- 
in.  She  persuaded  him  to  appeal  on  her  behalf  to  the  sire  de  Baud- 
ricourt,  captain  of  Vaucouleurs.  The  soldier  gave  a  cool  reception  to 
tint  peasant,  and  told  him  that  the  best  thing  to  be  done  was  "  to  give 
her  a  good  whipping,"  and  take  her  back  to  her  father.  She  was  not 
discouraged  ;  she  would  go  to  him,  and  forced  her  uncle  to  accompany 
her.  This  was  the  decisive  moment  ;  she  quitted  forever  her  villaga 
and  family,  and  embraced  her  friends,  above  all,  her  good  little  friend, 
Mengette,  whom  she  recommended  to  God's  keeping;  as  to  her  eider 
friend  and  companion,  Haumette,  her  whom  she  loved  most  of  all, 
•he  preferred  quitting  without  leave-taking. 


THE   MAID   OF   ORLEANS.  7 

At  length  stt  -eached  tins  city  of  Vaucouleurs,  attired  in  her  coarse 
red  peasant's  dJ  as,  and  took  up  her  lodging  with  her  uncle  at  the 
tiouse  of  a  whe- Iwright,  whose  wife  conceived  a  friendship  for  her. 
Hhe,  got  herseli  taken  to  Baudricourt,  and  said  to  him  in  a  firm  tone, 
"  That  she  can^  to  him  from  her  Lord,  to  the  end  that  he  might,  send 
the  dauphin  word  to  keep  firm  and  to  fix  no  day  of  battle  with  the 
enemy,  for  .his  Lord  would  send  him  succor  in  Mid- Lent.  .  .  . 
The  realm  was  not  the  dauphin's,  but  her  Lord's  ;  nevertheless  her 
Lord  willed  the  dauphin  to  be  king,  and  to  hold  the  realm  in  trust." 
She  added,  that  despite  the  dauphin's  enemies,  he  would  be  king,  and 
that  she  would  take  him  to  be  Crowned. 

The  captain  was  much  astonished  ;  he  suspected  that  the  devil 
must  have  a  hand  in  the  matter.  Thereupon,  he  consulted  the  cw$t 
who  apparently  partook  his  doubts.  She  had  not  spoken  of  her  vi- 
sions to  any  priest  or  churchman.  So  the  cure  accompanied  the  cap- 
tain to  the  wheelwright's  house,  showed  his  stole,  and  adjured  Jeanne 
to  depart  if  sent  by  the  evil  spirit. 

But  the  people  had  no  doubts  ;  they  were  struck  with  admiration. 
From  all  sides  crowds  flocked  to  see  her.  A  gentleman,  to  try  her, 
said  to  her,  "  Well,  sweetheart ;  after  all,  the  king  will  be  driven  out 
of  the  kingdom  and  we  must  turn  English."  She  complained  to  him 
of  Baudricourt's  refusal  to  take  her  to  the  dauphin  ;  "  And  yet,"  she 
said,  "  before  Mid-Lent,  I  must  be  with  the  king,  even  were  I  to  wear 
out  my  legs  to  the  knees;  for  no  one  in  the  world,  nor  kings,  nor 
dukes,  nor  daughter  of  the  King  of  Scotland,  can  recover  the  kingdom 
of  France,  and  ho  has  no  other  who  can  succor  him  s;tv<-  myself,"  al- 
beit I  would  prefer  staying  and  spinning  with  my  poor  mother,  but 
this  is  no  work  of  my  own  ;  I  must  go  and  do  it,  for  it  is  my  Lord's 
will." — "  And  who  is  your  Lord?" — "God!"  .  .  .  The  gentle- 
man was  touched.  He  pledged  her  "his  faith,  his  hand  placed  in 
hers,  that  with  God's  guiding  he  would  conduct  her  to  the  king." 
A  young  man  of  gentle  birth  felt  himself  touched  likewise  ;  and  de- 
clared that  he  would  follow  this  holy  maid. 

It  appears  that  Baudricourt  sent  to  ask  the  king's  pleasure  ;  and 
that  in  the  interim  he  took  Jeanne  to  se3  the  duke  of  Lorraine,  who 
was  ill,  and  desired  to  consult  her.  All  that  the  duke  got  from  her 
was  advice  to  appease  God  by  reconciling  himself  with  his  wife. 
Nevertheless,  he  gave  her  encouragement. 

On  returning  to  Vaucouleurs  she  found  ttiere  a  messenger  from  the 
king,  who  authorized  her  to  repair  to  court.  The  reverse  of  the  battls 
of  herrings  had  determined  his  counsellors  to  try  any  and  every 
means.  Jeanne  had  proclaimed  the  battle  and  its  result  on  the  very 
day  it  was  fought ;  and  the  people  of  Vaucouleurs,  no  longer  doubting 
her  mission,  subscribed  to  equip  her  and  buy  her  a  horse.  Baudri- 
court only  gave  her  a  sword. 

At  this" moment  an  obstacle  arose.  Her  parents,  informed  of  her 
approaching  departure,  nearly  lost  their  senses,  and  made  tko  strong • 


I  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

eet  efforts  to  retain  her,  commanding,  threatening.  She  withstood 
this  last  trial  ;  and  got  a  letter  written  to  them,  beseeching  them  to 
forgive  her. 

The  journey  she  was  about  to  undertake  was  a  rough  and  a  most 
dangerous  one.  The  whole  country  was  overrun  by  the  men-at-arms 
of  both  parties.  There  was  neither  road  nor  bridge,  and  the  rivers 
were  swollen  ;  it  was  the  month  of  February,  1429.  f 
'  To  travel  at  such  a  time  with  five  or  six  men-at-arms  was  enough  to 
alarm  a  young  girl.  An  English  woman  or  a  German  would  never 
have  risked  such  a  step  ;  the  indelicacy  of  the  proceeding  would  have 
horrified  her.  Jeanne  was  nothing  moved  by  it ;  she  was  too  pure  to 
entertain  any  fears  of  the  kind.  She  wore  a  man's  dress,  a  dress  she 
wore  to  the  last  ;  this  close  and  closely  fastened  dress  was  her  best 
safeguard.  Yet  was  she  young  and  beautiful.  But  there  was  around 
her,  even  to  those  who  were  most  with  her,  a  barrier  raised  by  reli- 
gion and  fear.  The  youngest  of  the  gentlemen  who  formed  her  es- 
cort deposes  that  though  sleeping  near  her,  the  shadow  of  an  impure 
thought  never  crossed  his  mind. 

She  traversed  vwith  heroic  serenity  these  districts,  either  desert  or 
infested  with  soldiers.  Her  companions  regretted  having  set  out  with 
her,  some  of  them  thinking  that  she  might  be  perhaps  a  witch  ;  and 
they  felt  a  strong  desire  to  abandon  her.  For  herself,  she  was  so 
tranquil  that  she  would  stop  at  every  town  to  hear  mass.  ' '  Fear 
nothing,"  she  said.  "  God  guides  me  my  way  ;  'tis  for  this  I  was 
b.prn."  And  again,  "My  brothers  in  paradise  tell  me  what  I  am  to 
do." 

Charles  VII.  *s  court  was  far  from  being  unanimous  in  favor  of  the 
Puerile.  This  inspired  maid,  coining  from  Lorraine,  and  encoum^cd 
by  the  duke  of  Lorraine,  could  not  fail  to  strengthen  the  queen's  and 
her  mother's  party,  the  party  of  Lorraine  and  of  Anjou,  with  the 
king.  An  ambuseade  was  laid  for  the  Pucelle  some  distance  from 
Chinon,  and  it  was  a  miracle  she  escaped. 

So  strong  was  the  opposition  to  her,  that  when  she  arrived,  the 
question  of  her  being  admitted  to  the  king's  presence  was  debated  for 
two  days  in  the  council.  Her  enemies  hoped  to  adjourn  the  matter 
Indefinitely,  by  proposing  that  an  inquiry  should  be  instituted  con- 
cerning her  in  her  native  place.  Fortunately,  she  had  friends  as  well ; 
the  two  queens,  we  may  be  assured,  and,  especially,  the  duke  of 
Alc.iiron,  who,  having  recently  left  English  keeping,  was  impatient  to 
carry  the  war  into  the  north  in  order  to  recover  his  duchy.  The  men 
of  Orleans,  to  whom  Dunois  had  been  promising  this  heavenly  aid 
ever  since  the  12th  of  February,  sent  to  the  king  and  claimed  the 
Pucelle. 

At  last  the  king  received  her,  and  surrounded  by  all  the  splendor 
of  his  court,  in  the  hope,  apparently,  of  disconcerting  her.  It  was 
evening ;  the  light  of  fifty  torches  illumed  the  hall,  and  a  brilliant 
array  of  nobles  and  above  three  hundred  knights  were  assembled 


THE  MAID  OP  ORLEANS.  „  0 

round  the  monarch.  Every  one  was  curious  to  see  the  sorceress,  or, 
as  it  might  be,  the  inspired  maid. 

The  sorceress  was  eighteen  years  of  age  ;  she  was  a  beautiful  and 
most  desirable  girl,  of  good  height,  and  with  a  sweet  and  heart-touch- 
ing voice. 

She  entered  the  splendid  circle  with  all  humility,"  like  a  poor  little 
shepherdess,"  distinguished  at  the  first  glance  the  king,  who  had 
purposely  kept  himself  amidst  the  crowd  of  courtiers,  and,  although 
at  first  he  maintained  that  he  was  not  the  king,  she  fell  down  and 
embraced  his  knees.  But  as  he  had  not  been  crowned,  she  only 
styled  him  dauphin: — "Gentle  dauphin,"  she  addressed  him,  "my 
name  is  Jehanne  la  Pucelle.  The  King  of  Heaven  sends  you  word 
by  me  that  you  shall  be  consecrated  and  crowned  in  the  city  of  Rheims, 
and  shall  be  lieutenant  of  the  King  of  Heaven,  who  is  King  of  France." 
The  king  then  took  her  aside,  and,  after  a  moment's  consideration, 
both  changed  countenance.  She  told  him,  as  she  subsequently  ac- 
knowledged to  her  confessors  :  "I  am  commissioned  by  my  Lord  to 
tell  you  that  you  are  the  true  heir  to  the  French  throne,  and  the 
king's  son."  * 

A  circumstance  which  awoke  still  greater  astonishment  and  a  sort 
of  fear  is,  that  the  first  prediction  which  fell  from  her  lips  was  ac- 
complished the  instant  it  was  made.  A  soldier  who  was\struck  by 
her  beauty,  and  who  expressed  his  desires  aloud  with  the/  coarseness 
of  the  camp,  and  swearing  by  his  God:  "Alas!"  she  exclaimed, 
"thou  deniest  him,  and  art  so  near  thy  death  !"  A  moment  after, 
he  fell  into  the  river  and  was  drowned. 

Her  enemies  started  the  objection,  that  if  she  knew  the  future  it 
must  be  through  the  devil.  Four  or  five  bishops  were  got  together 
to  examine  her ;  but  through  fear,  no  doubt,  of  compromising  them- 
selves with  either  of  the  parties  which  divided  the  couf  t,  they  referred 
the  examination  to  the  University  of  Poitiers,  in  which  great  city  was 
both  university,  parliament,  and  a  number  of  able  men. 

The  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  Chancellor  of  France,  President  of  the 
Royal  Council,  issued  his  mandate  to  the  doctors  and  to  the  professors 
of  theology — the  one  priests,  the  others  monks — and  charged  them  to 
examine  the  Pucelle. 

The  doctors  introduced  and  placed  in  a  hall,  the  young  maid  seated 
herself  at  the  end  of  the  bench,  and  replied  to  their  questionings. 
She  related  with  a  simplicity  that  rose  to  grandeur  the  apparitions  of 
angels  with  wjiich  she  had  been  visited,  and  their  words.  A  single 
objection  was  raised  by  a  Dominican,  but  it  was  a  seriolis  one — 

*  According  to  a  somewhat  later,  but  still  very  probable  account,  she  reminded 
him  of  a  circumstance  known  to  himself  alone  ;  namely,  that  one  morning  in  his 
oratory  he  had  prayed  to  God  to  restore  his  kingdom  to  him  tf  he  were  the  lawful 
heir,  but  that  if  he  were  not,  that  He  would  grant  him  the  mercy  not  to  be  killea  or 
thrown  into  prison,  but  to  be  able  to  take  refuge  in  Spain  or  in  Scotland.— SWA,  aOf 
emples  de  Hardiesse,  MS.  Francais,  de  la  Bibl.  Koyaie,  No,  180. 


10  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

"Jehanne,  thou  sayest  that  God  wishes  to  deliver  the  people  of 
France  ;  if  such  be  his  will,  he  has  no  need  of  men-at-arms."  She 
was  not  disconcerted  : — "  Ah  !  my  God,"  was  her  reply,  "the  men-at- 
arms  will  fight,  and  God  will  give  the  victory." 

Another  was  more  difficult  to  be  satisfied — a  Limousin,  brother 
Scirnin,  professor  of  theology  at  the  University  of  Poitiers,  a  "very 
sour  man,"  says  the  chronicle.  He  asked  her,  in  his  Limousin  French, 
what  tongue  that  pretended  celestial  voice  spoke  V  Jehanne  answered, 
a  little  too  hastily,  "  A  better  than  yours." — "Dost  thou  believe  in 
GodY"  said  the  doctor,  in  a  rage  :  "  Now,  God  wills  us  not  to  have 
faith  in  thy  words,  except  thou  showest  a  sign."  She  replied,  "I 
have  not  come  to  Poitiers  to  show  signs  or  work  miracles  ;  my  sign 
will  be  the  raising  of  the  siege  of  Orleans.  Give  me  men-at-arms. 
few  or  many,  and  I  will  go. " 

Meanwhile,  it  happened  at  Poitiers  as  at  Vaucouleurs,  her  sanctity 
seized  the  hearts  of  the  people.  In  a  moment  all  were  for  her. 
Women,  ladies,  citizens'  wives,  all  flocked  to  see  her  at  the  house 
where  she  was  staying,  with  the  wife  of  an  advocate  to  the  parlia- 
ment, and  all  returned  full  of  emotion.  Men  went  there  too ;  and 
counsellors,  advocates,  old  hardened  judges,  who  had  suffered  them- 
selves to  be  taken  thither  incredulously,  when  they  had  heard  her, 
wept  even  as  the  women  did,  and  said,  "  The  maid  is  of  God." 

The  examiners  themselves  went  to  see  her,  with  the  king's  equerry  ; 
and  on  their  recommencing  their  never-ending  examination,  quoting 
learnedly  to  her,  aud  proving  to  her  from  the  writings  of  all  the  doc- 
tors that  she  ought  not  to  be  believed,  "  Hearken,"  she  said  to  them, 
"  there  is  more  in  God's  book  than  in  yours.  ...  I  know  neither 
A  nor  B  ;  but  I  come  commissioned  by  God  to  raise  the  siege  of  Or- 
leans, and  to  have  the  dauphin  crowned  at  Rheims.  .  .  .  First, 
however,  I  must  write  to  the  English,  and  summon  them  to  depart ; 
God  will  have  it  so.  Have  you  paper  and  ink  ?  Write  as  I  dictate. 

.  .  .  To  you  I  Suffort,  Classidas,  and  La  Poule,  I  summon  you, 
on  the  part  of  the  King  of  Heaven,  to  depart  to  England."  .  .  . 
They  wrote  as  she  dictated  ;  she  had  won  over  her  very  judges. 

They  pronounced  as  their  opinion,  that  it  was  lawful  to  have  re- 
course to  the  young  maiden.  The  Archbishop  of  Embrun,  who  had 
been  consulted,  pronounced  similarly  ;  supporting  his  opinion  by 
Showing  liou-  God  had  frequently  revealed  to  virgins,  for  instance, 
to  the  sibyls,  what  he  concealed  from  men  ;  how  the  demon  could  not 
make  a  covenant  with  a  virgin  ;  and  recommending  it  to  be  ascertain- 
ed whether- Jehanne  were  a  virgin.  Thus,  being  pushed  to  extremity, 
and  cither  not  being  able  or  being  unwilling  to  explain  the  delicate 
distinction  betwixt  good  and  evil  revelations,  knowledge  humbly  re- 
ferred  a  ghostly  matter  to  a  corporeal  test,  and  made  this  grave  ques 
tion  of  the  spirit  depend  on  woman's  mystery. 

As  the  doctors  could  not  decide,  the  "ladies  di^  ;  and  the  honor  of 
th*  Pucelle  was  vindicated  by  a  jury,  with  the  good  Queen  of  Sicilj, 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  11 

the  king's  mother-in-law,  at  their  head.  This  farce  over,  and  som« 
Franciscans  who  had  been  deputed  to  inquire  into  Jehanne's  character 
in  her  own  country  bringing  the  most  favorable  report,  there  was  ne 
time  to  lose.  Orleans  was  crying  out  for  succor,  and  Dunois  seat  en- 
treaty upon  entreaty.  The  Pucelle  was  equipped  and  a  kind  of  es- 
tablishment arranged  for  her.  For  squire  she  had  a  brave  knight,  of 
mature  years,  Jean  Daulon,  one  of  Dunois's  household,  and  one  of  its 
best  conducted  and  most  discreet  members.  She  had  also  a  noble  page, 
two  heralds-at-arms,  a  maitre  d'hotel,  and  two  valets  ;  her  brother, 
Pierre  Dare,  too,  was  one  of  her  attendants.  Jean  Pasquerel,  a 
brother  eremite  of  the  order  of  St.  Augustin,  was  given  her  for  con- 
fessor. Generally  speaking,  the  monks,  particularly  the  mendicants, 
were  staunch  supporters  of  this  marvel  of  inspiration. 

And  it  was  in  truth,  for  those  who  beheld  the  sight,  a  marvel  to  see 
for  the  first  time  Jehanne  Dare  in  her  white  armor  and  on  her  beauti- 
ful black  horse,  at  her  side  a  small  axe,  and  the  sword  of  St.  Cather- 
ine, which  sword  had  been  discovered  on  her  intimation  behind  the  altar 
of  St.  Catherine-de-Fierbois.  In  her  hand  she  bore  a  white  standard 
embroidered  with  fleur-de-lis,  and  on  which  God  was  represented  with 
the  world  in  his  hands,  having  on  his  right  and  left  two  angels,  each 
holding  a  fleur-de-lis.  "  I  will  not,"  she  said,  "  use  my  sword  to  slay 
any  one ; "  and  she  added,  that  although  she  loved  her  sword,  she 
loved  "forty  times  more"  her  standard.  Let  us  contrast  the  two 
parties  at  the  moment  of  her  departure  for  Orleans. 

The  English  had  been  much  reduced  by  their  long  winter  sieg«. 
After  Salisbury's  death,  many  men-at-arms  whom  he  had  engaged 
thought  themselves  relieved  from  their  engagements  and  departed. 
The  Burgundians,  too,  had  been  recalled  by  their  duke.  When  the 
most  important  of  the  English  bastilles  was  forced,  into  which  the 
defenders  of  some  other  bastilles  had  thrown  themselves,  only  five 
hundred  men  were  found  in  it.  In  all,  the  English  force  may  have 
amounted  to  two  or  three  thousand  men  ;  and  of  this  small  number 
part  were  French,  and  no  doubt  not  to  be  much  depended  upon  by  the 
English. 

,  Collected  together,  they  would  have  constituted  a  respectable  force  ; 
but  they  were  distributed  among:  a  dozen  bastilles  or  boulevards,  be- 
tween which  there  was,  for  the  most  part,  no  communication  ;  u  dis- 
position of  their  forces,  which  proves  that  Talbot  and  the  other  Eng 
lieh  leaders  had  hitherto  been  rather  brave  and  lucky  than  intelligent 
and  skilful.  It  was  evident  that  each  of  these  small  isolated  forts 
would  be  weak  against  the  large  city  which  they  pretended  to  hold  in 
check  ;  that  its  numerous  population,  rendered  warlike  by  a  sii-gf, 
would  at  last  besiege  the  besiegers. 

On  reading  the  formidable  list  of  the  captains  who  threw  them- 
selves into  Orleans,  La  Hire,  Saintrailles,  Gaucourt,  Culan,  Coaraze, 
Armagnac  ;  and  remembering  that  independently  of  the  Bretons  un- 
der MarsluJ  de  Retz,  and  the  Gascons  under  Marshal  dc  St. 


155  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

the  captain  of  Chateaudun,  Florent'd'Illiers,  had  brought  all  the  no- 
bility of  the  neighborhood  with  him  to  this  short  expedition,  the 
deliverance  of  Orleans  seems  less  miraculous. 

It  must,  however,  be  acknowledged  that  for  this  great  force  to  act 
with  efficiency,  the  one  essential  and  indispensable  requisite,  unity  of 
action,  was  wanting.  Had  skill  and  intelligence  sufficed  to  impart  it, 
the  want  would  have  been  supplied  by  Dunois  ;  but  there  was  some* 
thing  more  required — authority,  and  more  than  royal  authority  too, 
for  the  king's  captains  were  little  in  the  habit  of  obeying  the  king  ; 
to  subject  these  savage,  untamable  spirits,  God's  authority  was  called 
for.  Now  the  God  of  this  age  was  the  Virgin  much  more  than 
Christ ;  and  it  behooved  that  the  Virgin  should  descend  upon  earth, 
be  a  popular  Virgin,  young,  beauteous,  gentle,  bold. 

War  had  changed  men  into  wild  beasts  ;  these  beasts  had  to  be  re- 
stored to  human  shape,  and  be  converted  into  docile  Christian  men — a 
great  and  a  hard  change.  Some  of  these  Armagnac  captains  were, 
perhaps,  the  most  ferocious  mortals  that  ever  existed  ;  as  may  be  in- 
ferred from  the  name  of  but  one  of  them,  a  name  that  strikes  terror, 
Gilles  de  Retz,  the  original  of  Blue  Beard. 

One  hold,  however,  was  left  upon  their  souls  ;  they  had  cast  off  hu- 
manity and  nature,  without  having  been  able  wholly  to  disengage 
themselves  from  religion.  These  brigands,  it  is  true,  hit  upon  strange 
means  of  reconciling  religion  and  robbery.  One  of  them,  the  Gascon 
La  Hire,  gave  vent  to  the  original  remark,  "  Were  God  to  turn  man- 
at-arms,  he  would  be  a  plunderer  ;  "  and  when  he  went  on  a  foray  he 
offered  up  his  little  Gascon  prayer  without  entering  too  minutely  into 
his  wants,  conceiving  that  God  would  take  a  hint — "  Sire  God,  I  pra, 
thee  to  do  for  La  Hire  what  La  Hire  would  do  for  thee,  wert  thou  a 
captain  and  wert  La  Hire  God."  * 

It  was  at  once  a  risible  and  a  touching  sight  to  see  the  sudden  conver- 
sion of  the  old  Armagnac  brigands.  They  did  not  reform  by  halves. 
La  Hire  durst  no  longer  swear  ;  and  the  Pucelle  took  compassion  on 
Mic  violence  he  did  himself,  and  allowed  him  t<5  swear  "by  his 
baton."  The  devils  found  themselves  all  of  a  sudden  turned  into 
little  saints. 

The  Pucelle  had  begun  by  requiring  them  to  give  up  their  mis- 
tresses, and  attend  to  confession.  Next,  on  their  march  along  the 
Loire,  she  had  an  altar  raised  in  the  open  air,  at  which  she  partook  of 
the  communion,  and  they  as  well.  The  beauty  of  the  season,  the 
eharm  of  a  spring  in  Touraine  must  have  added  singularly  to  the  re- 
ligious supremacy  of  the  young  maid.  They  themselves  had  grown 
young  again,  had  utterly  forgotten  what  they  were  and  felt,  as  in  the 
spring-time  of  life,  full  of  good- will  and  of  hope,  all  young  like  her, 
all  children.  .  .  .  With  her  they  commenced,  and  unreservedly, 

p  '•  siro  Dien,  je  te  prie  de  faire  pour  La  Hire  ce  que  La  Hire  ferait  pour  toi,  si  tu 
gafecapUaine  et  si  La  Hire  etait  Dieu."  Memoires  concernant  la  Pucelle,  Collection 
Pctitot,  viii.  187. 


THE  MAID  OP  ORLEANS.  U 

a  new  life.  Where  was  she  leading  them  ?  Little  did  it  matter  to 
them.  They  would  have  followed  her  not  to  Orleans  only,  but  just  as 
readily  to  Jerusalem.  And  the  English  were  welcome  to  go  thither 
too  :  in  a  letter  she  addressed  to  them  she  graciously  proposed  that 
they  all,  French  and  English,  should  unite,  and  proceed  conjointly  to 
deliver  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 

The  first,  night  of  encamping  she  lay  down  all  armed,  having  no 
females  with  her  ;  and,  not  being  yet  accustomed  to  the  hardships  of 
such  a  mode  of  life,  felt  indisposed  the  next  day.  As  to  danger,  she 
knew  not  what  it  meant.  She  wanted  to  cross  the  river  and  advance 
on  the  northern  or  English  side,  right  among  their  bastilles,  asserting 
that  the  enemy  would-not  budge  ;  but  the  captains  would  not  listen 
to  her,  and  they  followed  the  other  bank,  crossing  two  leagues  below 
Orleans.  Dunois  came  to  meet  her:  "  I  bring  you,"  she  said,  "the 
best  succor  mortal  ever  received,  that  of  the  King  of  Heaven.  It  ii 
no  succor  of  mine,  but  from  God  himself,  who,  at  the  prayer  "of  St. 
Louis  and  St.  Charlemagne,  has  taken  pity  on  the  town  of  Orleans 
and  will  not  allow  the  enemy  to  have  at  one  and  the  same  time  the 
duke's  body  and  this  city." 

She  entered  the  city_at  eight  o'clock  of  the  evening  of  April  29th, 
and  so  great  and  so  eager  was  the  crowd,  striving  to  touch  her  horse 
at  least,  that  her  progress  through  the  streets  was  exceedingly  slow  ; 
they  gazed  at  her  "  as  if  they  were  beholding  God."  *  She  rode  along, 
speaking  kindly  to  the  people,  and,  after  offering  up  prayers  in  the 
church,  repaired  to  the  house  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans's  treasurer  ;  an 
honorable  man,  whose  wife  and  daughter  gladly  welcomed  her  ;  she 
slept  with  Charlotte,  one  of  the  daughters. 

She  Lad  entered  the  city  with  the  supplies  ;  but  the  main  body  of 
the  relieving  force  fell  down  as  far  as  Blois,  where  it  crossed  the 
river.  Nevertheless,  she  was  eager  for  an  immediate  attack  on  the 
English  bastilles,  and  would  summon  the  northern  bastilles  to  sur- 
render, a  summons  which  she  repeated,  and  then  proceeded  to  sum- 
mon the  southern  bastilles.  Here  Glasdale  overwhelmed  her  with 
abuse,  calling  her  cowherd  and  prostitute  (vaeliere  et  ribaude).  In 
reality  they  believed  her  to  be  a  sorceress,  and  felt  great  terror  of  her. 
They  detained  her  herald-at-arms  and  were  minded  to  burn  him,  in 
the  hope  that  it  would  break  the  charm  ;  but  first  they  considered  it 
advisable  to  consult  the  doctors  of  the  University  of  Paris.  Besides, 
Dunois  threatened  to  retaliate  on  their  herald,  whom  he  had  in  his 
power.  As  to  the  Pucelle,  she  had  no  fears  for  her  herald,  but  sent 
another,  saying,  "Go,  tell  Talbot  if  he  will  appear  in  arms,  so  will 
I.  ...  If  he  can  take  me,  let  him  burn  me. " 

*  She  seemed,  at  the  least,  an  angel,  a  creature  above  all  physical  wants.    At  time* 
she  would  continue  a  whole  day  on  horseback  without  alighting,  eating,  or  drinking, 
and  would  only  take  in  the  evening  some  sippets  of  bread  in  wine  and  water. 
-,he  evidence  of  the  various  witnesses,  and  the  Chronique  do  la  Pucelle.  6d.  Bncnon 
/1827),  p.  309. 


14  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

The  army  delaying,  Dunois  ventured  to  sally  forth  in  search  of  it  -, 
and  the  Pucelle,  left  behind,  found  hferself  absolute  mistress  of  the 
city,  where  all  authority  but  hers  seemed  to  be  at  an  end.  She  cara- 
colled  round  the  walls,  and  the  people  followed  her  fearlessly.  The 
next  day  she  rode  out  to  reconnoitre  the  English  bastilles,  and  young 
women  and  children  went  too,  to  look  at  these  famous  bastilles,  where 
all  remained  still  and  betrayed  no  sign  of  movement.  She  led  back 
the  crowd  with  her  to  attend  vespers  at  the  church  of  Saint-Croix  ; 
and  as  she  wept  at  prayers',  they  all  wept  likewise.  The  citizens 
were  beside  themselves  ;  they  were  raised  above  all  fears,  were  drunk 
with  religion  and  with  war — seized  by  one  of  those  formidable  ac- 
cesses of  fanaticism  in  which  men  can  do  alt  and  believe  all,  and 
in  which  they  are  scarcely  less  terrible  to  friends  than  to  enemies. 

Charles  VII. 's  chancellor,  the  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  had  detained 
the  small  army  at  Blois.  The  old  politician  was  far  from  imagining 
such  resistless  enthusiasm,  or,  perhaps,  he  dreaded  it.  So  he  re- 
paired to  Orleans  with  great  unwillingness.  The  Pucelle,  followed 
by  the  citizens  and  priests  singing  hymns,  went  to  meet  him,  and  the 
whole  procession  passed  and  repassed  the  English  bastilles.  The 
army  entered  protected  by  priests  and  a  girl. 

This  girl,  who,  with  all  her  enthusiasm  and  inspiration,  had  great 
penetration,  was  quickly  aware  of  the  cold  malevolence  of  the  new- 
comers and  perceived  that  they  wanted  to  do  without  her  at  the  risk 
of  ruining  all.  Dunois  having  owned  to  her  that  he  feared  the  ene- 
my's being  reinforced  by  the  arrival  of  fresh  troops  under  Sir  John 
Falstoff,  "  Bastard,  bastard,"  she  said  to  him,  "  in  God's  name  I  com- 
mand thee  as  soon  as  you  know  of  his  coming  to  apprize  me  of  it,  for 
if  he  passes  without  my  knowledge,  I  promise  you  that  I  will  take  off 
your  head." 

She  was  right  in  supposing  that  they  wished  to  do  without  her.  Aa 
she  was  snatching  a  moment's  rest  with  her  young  bedfellow,  Char- 
lotte, she  suddenly  starts  up  and  exclaims,  "  Great  God,  the  blood  of 
our  countrymen  is  running  on  the  ground.  .  .  .  'Tis  ill  done  ! 
Why  did  they  not  awake  me  ?  Quick,  my  arms,  my  horse  !  "  She 
was  armed  in  a  moment,  and  finding  her  young  page  playing  below, 
"Cruel  boy,"  she  said  to  him,  "not  to  tell  me  that  the  blood  of 
France  was  spilling."  She  set  off  at  a  gallop,  and  coming  upon  the 
wounded  who  were  being  brought  in,  "  Never,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  have  I  seen  a  Frenchman's  blood  without  my  hair  rising  up  !" 

On  her  arrival  the  flying  rallied.  Dunois,  who  had  not  been  ap- 
prized any  more  than  she,  came  up  at  the  same  time.  The  bastille 
(one  of  the  northern  bastilles)  was  once  more  attacked.  Talbot  en- 
deavored to  cover  it,  but  fresh  troops  sallying  out  of  Orleans,  the  Pu- 
celle put  herself  at  their  head,  Talbot  drew  off  his  men,  and  the  fort 
was  carried. 

Many  of  the  English  who  had  put  on  the  priestly  habit  by  way  of 
protection  were  brought  in  by  the  Pucelle,  and  placed  in  her  OWA 


THE   MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  15 

house  to  ensure  their  safety  ;  she  knew  the  ferocity  of  her  followers 
It  was  her  first  victory,  the  first  time  she  had  ever  seen  a  field  of  car- 
nage. She  wept  on  seeing  so  many  human  beings  who  had  perished 
unconfessed.  She  desired  the  benefit  of  confession  for  herself  and  re- 
tainers, and  as  the  next  day  was  Ascension  Day,  declared  her  inten- 
tion of  communicating  and  of  passing  the  day  in  prayer. 

They  took  advantage  of  tliis  to  hold  a  council  without  her,  at  which 
It  was  determined  to  cross  the  Loire  and  attack  St.  Jean- le- Blanc,  the 
bastille  which  most  .obstructed  the  introduction  of  supplies,  making 
at  the  same  time  a  false  attack  on  the  side  of  La  Beauce.  The  Pu- 
celle's  enviers  told  her  of  the  false  attack  only  ;  but  Dunois  apprized 
her  of  the  truth. 

The  English  then  did  what  they  ought  to  have  done  before  ;  they 
concentrated  their  strength.  Burning  down  the  bastille,  which  was 
the  object  of  the  intended  attack,  they  fell  back  on  the  two  other  bas- 
tilles on  the  south — the  Augustins'  and  the  Tournelles  :  but  the  Au- 
gustins'  was  at  once  attacked  and  carried.  This  success  again  was 
partly  due  to  the  Pucelle  ;  for  the  French  being  seized  with  a  "panic 
terror,  and  retreating  precipitately  towards  the  floating  bridge  which 
had  been  thrown  over  the  river,  the  Pucelle  and  La  Hire  disengaged 
themselves  from  the  crowd,-  and,  crossing  in  boats,  took  the  English 
in  flank. 

There  remained  the  Tournelles,  before  which  bastille  the  conquer- 
ers  passed  the  night  ;  but  they  constrained  the  Pucelle,  who  had  not 
broken  her  fast  the  whole  day  (it  was  Friday),  to  recross  the  Loire. 
Meanwhile  the  council  assembled  :  and  in  the  evening  it  was  an- 
nounced to  the  Pucelle  that  they  had  unanimously  determined,  as  the 
city  .was  now  well  victualled,  to  wait  for  reinforcements  before  attack- 
ing the  Tournelles.  It  is  difficult  to  suppose  such  to  have  been  the 
serious  intention  of  the  chiefs  ;  the  English  momentarily  expecting 
the  arrival  of  Sir  John  Falstoff  with  fresh  troops,  all  delay  was  dan- 
gerous. Probably  the  object  was  to  deceive  tfce  Pucelle,  and  to  de- 
prive her  of  the  honor  of  the  success  to  which  she  had' largely  pre- 
pared the  way.  But  she  was  not  to  be  caught  in  the  snare. 

"  You  have  been  at  your  council,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  at  mine  ;" 
then,  turning  to  her  chaplain,  "  Come  to-morrow  at  break  of  day  and 
quit  me  not ;  I  shall  have  much  to  do — blood  will  go  out  of  my  body  : 
I  shall  be  wounded  below  my  bosom." 

In  the  morning  her  host  endeavored  to  detain  her.  "  Stay,  Jeanne," 
he  said,  "let  us  partake  together  of  this  fish  which  is  just  fresh 
caught."  "  Keep  it,"  she  answered  gaily,  "  keep  it  till  night,  when  I 
shall  come  back  over  the  kridge,  after  having  taken  the  Tournelles, 
and  I  will  bring  you  a  godden  to  eat  of  it  with  us."  * 

*  "The  witness  Colette  deposed  that  Godon  [Godden  ?]  was  a  nickname  for  th« 
English,  taken  from  their  common  exclamation  of  '  God  damn  it,'  so  that  this  vnl- 

farity  was  a  national  characteristic  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VI."— Note,  p.  78,  vol.  iiL, 
'orner'i  Hist,  of  England. 


18  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Then  she  hurried  forward  with  a  number  of  men-at-arms  and  of 
citizens  to  the  porte  de  Bourgoy ne  ;  which  she  found  kept  closed  by 
the  sire  de  Gaucourt,  grand  master  of  the  king's  household.  "  You 
are  a  wicked  man,"  said  Jeanne  to  him  ;  "  but  whether  you  will  or 
not,  the  men-at-arms  shall  pass."  Gaucourt  felt  that  with  this  ex- 
cited multitude  his  life  hung  by  a  thread. ;  and  besides  his  own  fol- 
lowers would  not  obey  him.  The  crowd  opened  a  gate  and  forced 
another  which  was  close  to  it. 

The  sun  was  rising  upon  the  Loire  at  the  very  moment  this  multi- 
tude were  throwing  themselves  into  boats.  However,  when  they 
reached  the  Tournelles,  they  found  their  want  of  artillery,  and  sent 
for  it  into  the  town.  At  last  they  attacked  the  redoubt  which  covered 
the  bastille.  The  English  made  a  brave  defence.  Perceiving  that 
the  assailants  began  to  slacken  in  their  efforts,  the  Pucelle  threw  her- 
self into  the  fosse,  seized  a  ladder,  and  was  rearing  it  against  the  wall 
when  she  was  struck  by  an  arrow  betwixt  her  neck  and  shoulder. 
The  English  rushed  out  to  make  her  prisoner,  but  she  was  borne  off. 
Removed  from  the  scene  of  conflict,  laid  on  the  grass  and  disarmed, 
when  she  saw  how  deep  the  wound  was — the  arrow's  point  came  out 
behind — she  was  terrified  and  burst  into,  tears.  Suddenly  she  rises  ; 
her  holy  ones  had  appeared  to  her  ;  she  repels  the  men-at-arms  who 
were  for  charming  the  wound  by  words,  protesting  that  she  would 
not  be  cured  contrary  to  the  Divine  will.  She  only  allowed  a  dress- 
ing of  oil  to  be  applied  to  the  wound,  and  then  confessed  herself. 

Menwhile  no  progress  was  made  and  it  was  near  nightfall.  Dunois 
himself  ordered  the  retreat  to  be  sounded.  "  Rest  awhile,"  she  said, 
"  eat  and  drink  ;"  and  she  betook  herself  to  prayers  in  a  vineyard. 
A  Basque  soldier  had  taken  from  the  hands  of  the  Pucelle's  squire- her 
banner,  that  banner  so  dreaded  by  the  enemy  .  "  As  soon  as  the  stan- 
dard shall  touch  the  wall,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  can  enter." — "It 
touches  it." — "  Then  enter,  all  is  yours."  And  in  fact  the  assail- 
ants, transported  beydhd  themselves,  mounted  "  as  if  at  a  bound." 
The  English  were  at  this  moment  attacked  on  both  sides  at  once. 

For  the  citizens  of  Orleans,  who  had  eagerly  watched  the  struggle 
from  the  other  side  of  the  Loire,  could  no  longer  contain  themselves, 
hit  dpciicd  their  gates  and  rushed  upon  the  bridge.  One  of  the 
arches  being  broken,  they  threw  over  it  a  sorry  plank  ;  and  a  knight  of 
St.  .lolui,  completely  armed,  was  the  first  to  venture  across.  At  last 
ihe  bridge  was  repaired  after  a  fashion,  and  the  crowd  flowed  over. 
The  English,  seeing  this  sea  of  people  rushing  on,  thought  that  the 
whole  world  was  got  together.  Their  imaginations  grew  excited; 
some  saw  St.  Aignan,  the  patron  of  the  city  ;  others  the  Archangel 
Michael,  fighting  on  the  French  side.  As  Glasdale  was  about  to  re- 
treat from  the  redoubt  into  the  bastille,  across  a  small  bridge  which 
connected  the  two,  the  bridge  was  shivered  by  a  cannon-ball,  and  lr.i 
was  precipitated  into  the  water  below  and  drowned  before  the  eyes  of 
the  Pucelle,  whom  he  had  so  coarsely  abused.  "Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed, 


17 

"  how  I  pity  thy  soul."  There  were  five  hundred  men  in  the  bastille  •. 
they  were  all  put  to  the  sword. 

Not  an  Englishman  remained  to  the  south  of  the  Loire.  On  the 
next  day,  Sunday,  those  who  were  on  the  north  side  abandoned 
their  bastilles,  their  artillery,  their  prisoners,  their  sick.  Talbot  and 
Suffolk  directed  the  retreat,  which  was  made  in  good  order  and  with 
a  bold  front.  The  Pucelle  forbade  pursuit,  as  they  retired  of  their 
own  accord.  But  before  they  had  lost  sight  of  the  city,  she  ordered 
an  altar  to  be  raised  on  the  plain,  had  mass  sung,  and  the  Orleanois 
returned  thanks  to  God  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy  (Sunday, 
May  8). 

The  effect  produced  by  the  deliverance  of  Orleans  was  beyond  cal- 
culation. All  recognized  it  to  be  the  work  of  a  supernatural  power  ; 
which,  though  some  ascribed  to  the  devil's  agency,  most  referred  to 
God,  and  it  began  to  be  the  general  impression  that  Charles  VII.  had 
right  on  his  side. 

Six  days  after  the  raising  of  the  siege,  Gerson  published  a  discourse 
to  prove  that  this  marvellous  event  might  be  reasonably  considered 
God's  own  doing.  The  good  Christine  de  Pisan  also  wrote  to  congratu- 
late her  sex  ;  and  many  treatises  were  published,  more  favorable  than 
hostile  to  the  Pucelle,  and  even  by  subjects  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy, 
the  ally  of  the  English. 

CORONATION  OP  CHARLES  VII. 

Charles  VII. 's  policy  was  to  seize  the  opportunity,  march  boldly 
from  Orleans  to  Rheims,  and  lay  hand  on  the  crown — seemingly  a 
rash  but  in  reality  a  safe  step — before  the  English  had  recovered 
from  their  panic.  Since  they  had  committed  the  capital  blunder  of 
not  having  yet  crowned  their  young  Henry  VI. ,  it  behooved  to  be  be- 
forehand with  them.  He  who  was  first  anointed  king  would  remain 
king.  It  would  also  be  a  great  thing  for  Charles  VII.  to  make  his 
royal  progress  through  English  France,  to  take  possession,  to  show 
that  in  every  part  of  France  the  king  was  at  home. 

Such  was  the  counsel  of  the  Pucelle  alone,  and  this  heroic  folly  was 
consummate  wisdom.  The  politic  and  shrewd  among  the  royal  coun- 
sellors, those  whose  judgment  was  held  in  most  esteem,  smiled  at  the 
idea,  and  recommended  proceeding  slowly  and  surely  :  in  other  words, 
giving  the  English  time  to  recover  their  spirits.  They  all,  too,  had 
an  interest  of  their  own  in  the  advice  they  gave.  The  Duke  of  Alen- 
9on  recommended  marching  into  Normandy — with  a  view  to  the  re- 
covery of  Alencon.  Others,  and  they  were  listened  to,  counselled 
staying  upon  the  Loire  and  reducing  the  smaller  towns.  This  \vns 
the  most  timid  counsel  of  all  ;  but  it  was  to  the  interest  of  the  houses 
of  Orleans  and  of  Anjou,  and  of  the  Poitevin,  La  Tremouille,  Charles 
VII. 's  favorite. 

Suffolk  had  thrown  himself  into  Jargeau  :  it  was  attacked,  and  car- 


18  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

ried  by  assault.  Beaugency  was  next  taken,  before  Talbot  could  re- 
ceive the  reinforcements  sent  him  by  the  regent,  under  the  command 
of  Sir  John  Falstoff.  The  constable,  Richemont,  who  had  long  re- 
mained secluded  in  his  own  domains,  came  with  his  Bretons,  contrary 
to  the  wishes  of  either  the  king  or  the  Pucelle,  to  the  aid  of  the  vic- 
torious army. 

A  battle  was  imminent  and  Richemont  was  come  to  carry  off  its 
honors.  Talbot  and  Falstoff  had  effected  a  junction  ;  but,  strange  to 
tell,  though  the  circumstance  paints  to  the  life  the  state  of  the  coun- 
try and  the  fortuitous  nature  of  the  war,  no  one  knew  where  to  find 
the  English  army  lost  in  the  desert  of  La  Beauce,  the  which  district 
was  then  overrun  with  thickets  and  brambles.  A  stag  led  to  the  dis- 
covery :  chased  by  the  French  vanguard,  the  scared  animal  rushed 
into  the  English  ranks. 

The  English  happened  to  be  on  their  march,  and  had  not  as  usual 
entrenched  themselves  behind  their  stakes.  Talbot  alone  wished  to 
give  battle,  maddened  as  he  was  at  having  shown  his  back  to  the 
French  at  Orleans.  Sir  John  Falstoff,  on  the  contrary,  who  had 
gained  the  battle  of  herrings,  did  not  require  to  fight  to  recover  his 
reputation,  but  with  much  prudence  advised,  as  the  troops  were  dis- 
couraged, remaining  on  the  defensive.  The  French  men-at-arms  did 
not  wait  for  the  English  leaders  to  make  up  their  minds,  but,  coming 
up  at  a  gallop,  encountered  but  slight  resistance.  Talbot  would  fight, 
seeking,  perhaps,  to  fall ;  but  he  only  succeeded  in  getting  made 
prisoner.  The  pursuit  was  murderous  ;  and  the  bodies  of  two  thou 
sand  of  the  English  strewed  the  plain.  At  the  sight  of  such  numbers 
of  dead  La  Pucelle  shed  tears  ;  but  she  wept  much  more  bitterly  when 
she  saw  the,  brutality  of  the  soldiery,  and  how  they  treated  prison- 
ers who  had  no  ransom  to  give  Perceiv  ng  one  of  them  felled 
dying  to  the  ground,  she  was  no  longer  mistress  of  herself,  but  threw 
herself  from  her  horse,  raised  the  poor  man's  head,  sent  for  a  priest, 
comforted  him,  and  smoothed  his  way  to  death. 

After  this  battle  of  Patay  (June  28  or  29),  the  hour  was  come,  or 
never,  to  hazard  the  expedition  to  Rheims.  The  politic  still  advised 
remaining  on  the  Loire  ;  and  the  securing  possession  of  Cosne  and  La 
Charite.  This  time  they  spoke  in  vain  ;  timid  voices  could  no  longer 
gain  a  hearing.  Every  day  there  flocked  to  the  camp  men  from  all 
the  provinces,  attracted  by  the  reports  of  the  Pucelle's  miracles,  be- 
lieving in  her  only,  and,  like  her,  longing  to  lead  the  king  to  Rheims. 
There  was  an  irresistible  impulse  abroad  to  push  forward  and  drive 
out  the  English— the  spirit  both  of  pilgrimage  and  of  crusade.  The 
indolent  young  monarch  himself  was  at  last  hurried  away  by  this 
popular  tide,  which  swelled  and  rolled  in  northwards.  King,  cour- 
tiers, politicians,  enthusiasts,  fools,  and  wise  were  off  together,  either 
voluntarily  or  compulsorily.  At  starting  they  were  twelve  thousand  ; 
but  the  mass  gathered  bulk  as  it  rolled  along,  fresh  comers  following 
fresh  comers.  They  who  had  no  armor  joined  the  holy  expedition 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  19 

•with  no  other  defence  than  a  leathern  jack,  as  archers  or  as  cautilum 
(dagsmen),  although,  may  be,  of  gentle  blood. 

The  army  marched'  from  Gien  on  the  28th  of  June,  and  passed  be- 
fore Auxerre  without  attempting  to  enter  ;  this  city  being  in  the 
hands  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  whom  it  was  advisable  to  observe 
terms  with.  Troyes  was  garrisoned  partly  by  Burgundians,  partly 
by  English  ;  and  they  ventured  on  a  sally  at  the  first  approach  of  the 
royal  army.  There  seemed  little  hope  of  forcing  so  large  and  well 
garrisoned  a  city,  and  especially  without  artillery.  And  how  delay, 
in  order  to  invest  it  regularly  ?  On  the  other  hand,  how  advance  and 
leave  so  strong  a  place  in  their  rear  ?  Already,  too,  the  army  was 
suffering  from  want  of  provisions.  Would  it  not  be  better  to  return  ? 
The  politic  were  full  of  triumph  at  the  verification  of  their  forebod- 
ings. 

There  was  but  one  old  Armagnac  counsellor,  the  president  Macon, 
who  held  the  contrary  opinion,  and  who  understood  that  in  an  enter- 
prise of  the  kind  the  wise  part  was  the  enthusiastic  one,  that  in  a 
popular  crusade  reasoning  was  beside  the  mark.  "  When  the  king 
undertook  this  expedition,"  he  argued,  "  it  was  not  because  he  had 
an  overwhelming  force,  or  because  he  had  full  coffers,  or  because  it 
was  his  opinion  that  the  attempt  was  practicable,  but  because  Jeanne 
told  him  to  march  forward  and  be  crowned  at  Rheims,  and  that  he 
would  encounter  but  little  opposition,  such  being  God's  good  pleasure. 

Here  the  Pucelle,  coming  and  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  room  in 
which  the  council  was  held,  assured  them  that  they  should  enter 
Troyes  in  three  days.  "We  would  willingly  wait  six,"  said  the 
chancellor,  "were  we  certain  that  you  spoke  sooth." — "Six!  you 
shall  enter  to-morrow." 

She  snatches  up  her  standard  ;  all  the  troops  follow  her  to  the  fosse, 
and  they  throw  into  it  fagots,  doors,  tables,  rafters,  whatever  they 
can  lay  their  hands  upon.  So  quickly  was  the  whole  done,  that  the 
citizens  thought  there  would  soon  be  no  fosses.  The  English  began 
to  lose  their  head  as  at  Orleans,  and  fancied  they  saw  a  cloud  of 
white  butterflies  hovering  around  the  magic  standard.  The  citizens 
for  their  part  were  filled  with  alarm,  remembering  that  it  was  in 
their  city  the  treaty  had  been  concluded  which  disinherited  Charles 
VII.  They  feared  being  made  an  example  of,  took  refuge  in  the  two 
churches,  and  cried  out  to  surrender.  The  garrison  asked  no  bett.i-r, 
opened  a  conference,  and  capitulated  on  condition  of  being  allowed  to 
inarch  out  with  what  they  had. 

What  they  had  was  principally  prisoners,  Frenchmen.  No  stipu 
1  .tbn  on  behalf  of  these  unhappy  men  had  been  made  by  Charles's 
CT=n.;?llors,  who  had  drawn  up  the  terms  of  surrender.  The  Pucelle 
!•! )  '.3  fiought  of  them;  and  when  the  English  were  about  to  march 
f  >-t  i  with  their  manacled  prisoners,  she  stationed  herself  at  the  gates, 
c  -"himing,  "  O  my  God  !  they  shall  not  bear  them  away  !  "  She  de- 
t_;u.ol  tliem  and  the  king  paid  their  ransom. 


20  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Master  of  Troyes  on  the  9th  of  July,  on  the  15th  he  made  his  entry 
Into  liheims  ;  and  on  the  17th  (Sunday)  he  was  crowned.  That  very 
morning  the  Pucelle,  fulfilling  the  gospel  command  to  seek  reconcili- 
ation before  offering  sacrifice,  dictated  a  beautiful  letter  to  the  Duke 
of  Burgundy  ;  without  recalling  anything  painful,  without  irritating, 
without  humiliating  any  one,  she  said  to  him  with  infinite  tact  and 
nobleness — "  Forgive  one  another  heartily,  as  good  Christians  ought 

to  do." 

Charles  VII.  was  anointed  by  the  archbishop  with  oil  out  of  the 
holy  ampulla,  brought  from  Saint-Remy's.  Conformably  with  the 
antique  ritual,  he  was  installed  on  his  throne  by  the  spiritual  peers, 
and  .served  by  lay  peers  both  during  the  ceremony  of  the  coronation 
and  the  banquet  which  followed.  Then  he  went  to  St.  Marculph's 
to  touch  for  the  king's  evil.  All  ceremonies  thus  duly  observed, 
without  the  omission  of  a  single  particular,  Charles  was  at  length,  ac- 
cord ing  to  the  belief  of  the  time,  the  true  and  the  only  king.  The 
English  might  now  crown  Henry  ;  but  in  the  estimation  of  the  people 
this  now  coronation  would  only  be  a  parody  of  the  other. 

At  the  moment  the  crown  was  placed  on  Charles's  head,  the  Pucelle 
threw  herself  on  her  knees  and.  embraced  his  legs  with  a  flood  of 
tears.  All  present  melted  into  tears  as  well. 

She  is  reported  to  have  addressed  him  as  follows  :  "  0  gentle  king, 
now  is  fulfilled  the  will  of  God,  who  was  pleased  that  I  should  raise 
the  .siege  of  Orleans,  and  should  bring  you  to  your  city  of  Rheims  to 
lie  crowned  and  anointed,  showing  you  to  be  true  king  and  rightful 
]K)ssessor  of  the  realm  of  France." 

The  Pucelle  was  in  the  right  :  she  had  done  and  finished  what  she 
hud  to  do  .  and  so  amidst  the  joy  of  this  triumphant  solemnity,  she 
entertained  the  idea,  the  presentiment,  perhaps,  of  her  approaching 
end.  When  on  entering  Rheims  with  the  king  the  citizens  came  out 
to  meet  them  singing  hymns,  "  Oh,  the  worthy,  devout  people  !  "  she 
exclaimed  .  .  .  "  If  I  must  jlie,  happy  should  I  feel  to  be  buried 
here."— "  Jehanne,"  said  the  archbishop  to  her,  "where  then  do  you 
think  you  will  die?"—"  I  have  no  idea  ;  where  it  shall  please  God. 
.  .  I  wish  it  would  please  Him  that  I  should  go  and  tend  sheep 
with  my  sister  and  my  brothers.  .  .  .  They  would  be  so  happy 
to  see  me  !  .  .  .  At  least  I  have  done  what  our  Lord  commanded 
me  to  do."  And  raising  her  eyes  to  heaven,  she  returned  thanks. 
All  who  saw  her  at  that  moment,  says  the  old  chronicle,  "believed 
more  firmly  than  ever  that  she  was  sent  of  God." 

CARDINAL  WINCHESTER. 

Such  was  the  virtue  of  the  coronation,  and  its  all-powerful  effect  in 
northern  France,  that  from  this  moment  the  expedition  seemed  but 
to  be  a  peaceable  taking  of  possession,  a  triumph,  a  following  up  of 
the  Rheims  festivities.  The  roads  became  smooth  before  the  king  ; 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  21 

the  cities  opened  their  gates  and  lowered  their  drawbridges.  The 
march  was  as  of  a  royal  pilgrimage  from  the  Qathedral  of  Rheims  to 
St.  Medard's,  Soissons,  and  Notre- Dame,  Laon.  Stopping  for  a  few  days 
in  each  city,  and  then  riding  on  at  his  pleasure,  he  made  his  entry 
into  Chateau -Thiem,  Provins,  whence,  rested  and  refreshed,  he  re- 
sumed his  triumphal  progress  towards  Picardy. 

\Yore  there  any  English  left  in  France  ? — It  might  be  doubted. 
Since  the  battle  of  Patay,  not  a  word  had  been  heard  about  Bedford  ; 
not  that  he  lacked  activity  or  courage,  but  that  he  had  exhausted  his 
last  resources.  One  fact  alone  will  serve  to  show  the  extent  of  his 
distress — he  could  no  longer  pay  his  parliament :  the  courts  were 
therefore  closed,  and  even  the  entry  of  the  young  King  Henry  could 
not  be  circumstantially  recorded,  according  to  custom,  in  the  registers, 
"for  want  of  parchment." 

So  situated,  Bedford  could  not  choose  his  means  ;  and  he  was  obliged 
to  have  recourse  to  the  man  whom  of  all  the  world  he  least  loved, 
his  uncle,  the  rich  and  all- powerful  Cardinal  Winchester,  who,  not 
less  avaricious  than  ambitious,  began  haggling  about  terms,  and  spec- 
ulated upon  delay.  The  agreement  with  him  was  not  concluded  un- 
til the  1st  of  July,  two  days  after  the  defeat  of  Patay.  Charles  VII. 
then  entered  Troyes,  Rheims — Paris  was  in  alarm,' and  Winchester 
was  still  in  England.  To  make  Paris  safe,  Bedford  summoned  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  who  came  indeed,  but  almost  alone  ;  and  the  only 
advantage  which  the  regent  derived  from  his  presence  was  getting 
him  to  figure  in  an  assembly  of  notables,  to  speak  therein,  and  again 
to  recapitulate  the  lamentable  story  of  his  father's  death.  This  done, 
lie  took  his  departure  :  leaving  with  Bedford,  as  all  the  aid  he  could 
spare,  some  Picard  men-at-arms,  and  even  exacting  in  return  posses- 
sion of  the  city  of  Meaux. 

There  was  no  hope  but  in  Winchester.  This  priest  reigned  in  Eng- 
land." His  nephew,  the  Protector,  Gloucester,  the  leader  of  tho 
pirty  of  the  nobles,  had  ruined  himself  by  his  imprudence  and  fol- 
lies. From  year  to  year  his  influence  at  the  council  table  had  dimin- 
ished, and  Winchester's  had  increased.  He  reduced  the  protector  to 
a  cipher,  and  even  managed  yearly  to  pare  down  the  income  assigned 
to  the  protectorate  ;  this,  in  a  land  where  each  man  is  strictly  valued 
according  to  his  rental,  was  murdering  him.  Winchester,  on  the 
contrary,  was  the  wealthiest  of  the  English  princes,  and  one  of  the 
great  pluralists  of  the  world.  Power  follows  as  wealth  grows.  The 
cardinal  and  the  rich  bishops  of  Canterbury,  of  York,  of  London,  of 
Ely,  and  Bath,  constituted  the  council,  and  if  they  allowed  laymen  to 
sit  there,  it  was  only  on  condition  that  they  should  not  open  their  lips  ; 
to  important  sittings,  they  were  not  even  summoned.  The  English 
government,  as  might  have  teen  foreseen  from  the  moment  the  house 
of  Lancaster  ascended  the  throne,  had  become  entirely  episcopal  :  a 
fact  evident  on  the  face  of  the  acts  passed  at  this  period.  In  1  I'-".) 
the  chancellor  opens  the  parliament  with  a  tremendous  denunciation 


83  JOAN  OP  ARC. 

of  heresy  ;  and  the  council  prepares  articles  against  the  nobles,  whom 
he  accuses  of  brigandage,  and  of  surrounding  themselves  with  armies 
of  retainers,  &c. 

In  order  to  raise  the  cardinal's  power  to  the  highest  pitch,  it  requir- 
ed Bedford  to  be  sunk  as  low  in  France  as  Gloucester  was  in  England, 
that  lie  should  be  reduced  to  summon  Winchester  to  his  aid,  and  that 
the  latter,  at  the  head  of  an  army,  should  come  over  and  crown  the 
young  Henry  VI.  Winchester  had  the  army  ready.  Having  been 
charged  by  the  pope  with  a  crusade  against  the  Hussites  of  Bohemia, 
he  had  raised,  under  this  pretext,  several  thousand  men.  The  pope 
had  assigned  him  for  this  object  the  money  arising  from  the  sale  of 
indulgences  ;  the  council  of  England  gave  him  more  money  still  to  de- 
tain his  levies  in  France.  To  the  great  astonishment  of  the  crusaders 
they  found  themselves  sold  by  the  cardinal,  who  was  paid  twice  over 
for  them,  paid  for  an  army  which  served  him  to  make  himself  king. 

With  this  army  Winchester  was  to  make  sure  of  Paris,  and  to  bring 
and  crown  young  Henry  there.  But  this  coronation  could  only  secure 
the  cardinal's  power  in  proportion  as  he  should  succeed  in  decrying 
that  of  Charles  VII.,  in  dishonoring  his  victories  and  ruining  him  in 
the  minds  of  the  people.  Now  he  had  recourse,  as  we  shall  sec,  in 
one  and  the  same  means  (a  very  efficacious  means  in  that  day)  against 
Charles  VII.  in  France,  and  against  Gloucester  in  England — a  charge 
of  sorcery. 

It  was  not  till  the  25th  of  July,  nine  days  after  Charles  VII.  had 
been  well  and  duly  crowned,  that  the  cardinal  entered  with  his  army 
into  Paris.  Bedford  lost  not  a  moment,  but  put  himself  in  motion 
with  these  troops  to  watch  Charles  VII.  Twice  they  were  in  presence, 
and  some  skirmishing  occurred.  Bedford  feared  for  Normandy  and 
covered  it  ;  meanwhile  the  king  marched  upon  Paris  (August). 

This  was  contrary  to  the  advice  of  the  Pucelle  ;  her  voices  warned 
her  to  go  no  further  than  St.  Denys.  The  city  of  royal  burials",  like 
the  city  of  coronations,  was  a  holy  city  ;  beyond,  she  had  a  presenti- 
ment, lay  something  over  which  she  would  have  no  power.  Charles 
VII.  must  have  thought  so  likewise.  Was  there  not  danger  in  bring- 
ing this  inspiration  of  warlike  sanctity,  this  poesy  of  crusade  which 
had  so  deeply  moved  the  rural  districts,  face  to  face  with  this  reasoning^ 
prosaic  city,  with  its  sarcastic  population,  with  pedants  and  Cabo- 
chiens  ? 

It  was  an  imprudent  step.  A  city  of  the  kind  is  not  to  be  carried 
by  a  coup  de  main  ;  it  is  only  to  be  carried  by  starving  it  out. 
But  this  was  out  of  the  question,  for  the  English  held  the  Seine  both 
above  and  below.  They  were  in  force,  and  were  besides  supported 
by  a  considerable  number  of  citizens  who  had  compromised  them^l 
selves  for  them.  A  report,  too,  was  spread  that  the  Armagnacs  were 
coming  to  destroy  the  city  and  raze  it  to  the  ground. 

Nevertheless,  the  French  carried  one  of  the  outposts.  The  Pucellp 
crowed  the  first  fosse,  and  even  cleared  the  mound  which  separated  i» 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  2S 

from  the  second.  Arrived  at  the  brink  of  the  latter  she  found  it  full 
of  water  ;  when,  regardless  of  a  shower  of  arrows  poured  upon  her 
from  the  city  walls,  she  called  for  fascines,  and  began  sounding  the 
depth  of  the  water  with  her  lance.  Here  she  stood,  almost  alone,  a 
mark  to  all  ;  and  at  last  an  arrow  pierced  her  thigh.  Still  she  strove 
to  overcome  the  pain,  and  to  remain  to  cheer  on  the  troops  to  the  as- 
Fiult.  But  loss  of  blood  compelled  her  to  seek  the  shelter  of  the  first 
f-jsso  ;  and  it  was  ten  or  eleven  o'clock  at  night  before  she  could  be 
porsaaded  to  withdraw  to  the  camp.  She  seemed  to  be  conscious  that 
l  li:.j  stern  check  before  the  walls  of  Paris  must  ruin  her  beyond  all 


Fifteen  hundred  men  were  wounded  in  this  attack,  which  she  was 

vrougf  ally  accused  of  having  advised.     She  withdrew,  cursed  by  her 

o*,v:i  side,  by  the  French,  as  well  as  by  the  English.     She  had  not 

i  d  to  give  the  assault  on  the  anniversary  of  the  Nativity  of  Our 

Lar',7  (September  8th),  and  the  pious  city  of  Paris  was  exceedingly 

inlized  thereat. 

Still  more  scandalized  was  the  court  of  Charles  VII.  Libertines, 
the  politic,  the  blind  devotees  of  the  letter  —  sworn  enemies  of  the 
spirit  —  all  declared  stoutly  against  the  spirit  the  instant  it  seemed 
to  fail.  The  Archbishop  of  Rheinis,  Chancellor  of  France,  who  had 
ever  looked  but  coldly  on  the  Pucelle,  insisted,  in  opposition  to  her  ad- 
vice, on  commencing  a  negotiation.  He  himself  came  to  Saint-  Denys 
to  propose  terms  of  truce,  with  perhaps  a  secret  hope  of  gaming  over 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  at  the  time  at  Paris. 

Evil  regarded  and  badly  supported,  the  Pucelle  laid  siege  during 
the  winter  to  Saint-Pierre-le-Moustiers  and  La  Charite.  At  the  siege 
of  the  first,  though  almost  deserted  by  her  men,  she  persevered  in  de- 
livering the  assault,  and  carried  the  town.  The  siege  of  the  second 
dragged  on,  languished,  and  a  panic  terror  dispersed  the  besiegers. 

CAPTUKE   OF  THE  PUCELLE. 

Meanwhile  the  English  had  persuaded  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  to  aid 
them  in  good  earnest.  The  weaker  he  saw  them  to  be  the  stronger 
v  as  his  hope  of  retaining  the  places  which  he  might  take  in  Pirardy. 
The  English,  who  hud  just  lost  'Louviers,  placed  themselves  at  his  dis- 
posal ;  and  the  duke,  the  richest  prince  in  Christendom,  no  longer 
hesitated  to  embark  men  and  money  in  a  war  of  which  he  hoped  to 
reap  all  the  profit.  He  bribed  the  Governor  of  Soissons  to  surrender 
that  city  ;  and  then  laid  siege  to  Compiegne,  the  governor  of  which 
was  likewise  obnoxious  to  suspicion.  The  citizens,  however,  had 
compromised  themselves  too  much  in  the  cause  of  Charles  VII.  to  al- 
low of  their  town's  being  betrayed.  The  Pucelle  threw  herself  into 
it.  On  the  very  same  day  she  headed  a  sortie,  and  had  nearly  sur- 
prised the  besiegers  ;  but  they  quickly  recovered,  and  vigorously 
drove  back  their  assailants  as  far  as  the  city  bridge.  The  Pucelie, 


24  JOAN  OP  ARC. 

who  had  remained  in  the  rear  to  cover  the  retreat,  was  too  late  to  en- 
ter  the  gates,  either  hindered  by  the  crowd  that  thronged  the  bridge 
or  by  the  sudden  shutting  of  the  barriers.  She  was  conspicuous  by 
her  dress,  and  was  soon  surrounded,  seized,  and  dragged  from  her 
horse.  Her  captor,  a  Picard  archer — according  to  others,  the  bastard 
of  Vendome — sold  her  to  John  of  Luxembourg.  All  English  and 
Burgundians  saw  with  astonishment  that  this  object  of  terror,  this 
monster,  this  devil,  was  after  all  only  a  girl  of  eighteen.  i 

That  it  would  end  so,  she  knew  beforehand  ;  her  cruel  fate  was  in-J 
evitable,  and — we  must  say  the  word — necessary.  It  was  necessary 
that  she  should  suffer.  If  she  had  not  gone  through  her  last  trial  and 
purification,  doubtful  shadows  would  have  interposed  amidst  the  rays 
of  glory  which  rest  on  that  holy  figure  :  she  would  not  have  lived  in 
men's  minds  the  MAID  OP  ORLEANS. 

When  speaking  of  raising  the  siege  of  Orleans,  and  of  the  corona- 
tion at  Rheims,  she  had  said,  "  'Tis  for  this  that  I  was  born."  These 
two  things  accomplished,  her  sanctity  was  in  peril. 

War,  sanctity — two  contradictory  words  I  Seemingly,  sanctity  is  the 
direct  opposite  of  war :  it  is  rather  love  and  peace.  What  young, 
courageous  heart  can  mingle  in  battle  withont  participating  in  the  san- 
guinary intoxication  of  the  struggle  and  of  the  victory?  .  .  .  On 
setting  out,  she  had  said  that  she  would  not  use  her  sword  to  kill  any 
one.  At  a  later  moment  she  expiates  with  pleasure  on  the  sword 
which  she  wore  at  Compiegne,  "  excellent,"  as  she  said,  "  either  for 
thrusting  or  cutting."  Is  not  this  proof  of  a  change?  The  saint  has 
become  a  captain.  The  Duke  of  Alencon  deposed  that  she  displayed 
a  singular  aptitude  for  the  modern  arm,  the  murderous  arm — artillery. 
The  leader  of  indisciplinable  soldiers,  and  incessantly  hurt  and  ag- 
grieved by  their  disorders,  she  became  rude  and  choleric,  at  least  when 
bent  on  restraining  their  excesses.  In  particular  she  was  relentless 
towards  the  dissolute  women  who  accompanied  the  camp.  One  day 
she  struck  one  of  these  wretched  beings  with  St.  Catherine's  sword, 
with  the  flat  of  the  sword  only  ;  but  the  virginal  weapon,  unable  to 
endure  the  contact,  broke,  and  it  could  never  be  reunited. 

A  short  time  before  her  capture  she  had  herself  made  prisoner  a 
Burgundian  partisan,  Franquet  d' Arras,  a  brigand  held  in  execration 
throughout  the  whole  north  of  France.  The  king's  bailli  claimed 
him  iu  order  to  hang  him.  At  first  she  refused,  thinking  to  exchange 
him  ;  but  at  last  consented  to  give  him  up  to  justice.  He  had  deserv- 
ed hanging  a  hundred  times  over.  Nevertheless,  the  having  given 
up  a  prisoner,  the  having  consented  to  the  death  of  a  human  being, 
must  have  lowered,  even  in  the  eyes  of  her  own  party,  her  character 
for  sanctity. 

Unhappy  condition  of  such  a  soul,  fallen  upon  the  realities  of  this 
world  !  Each  day  she  must  have  lost  something  of  herself.  One 
does  not  suddenly  become  rich,  noble,  honored,  the  equal  of  lords  and 
princes,  with  impunity.  Rich  dress,  letters  of  nobility,  royal  favor 


THB  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  35 

— all  this  could  not  fall  at  tne  last  to  have  altered  her  neroic  simpli- 
city. She  had  obtained  for  her  native  village  exemption  from  taxes, 
and  the  king  had  bestowed  on  one  of  her  brothers  the  provostship  of 
Vaucouleurs. 

But  the  greatest  peril  for  the  saint  was  from  her  own  sanctity— 
from  the  respect  and  adoration  of  the  people.  At  Lagny,  she  was  be- 
sought to  restore  a  child  to  life.  The  count  d'Armagnac  wrote,  beg- 
ging her  to  decide  which  of  the  two  popes  was  to  be  followed.  Ac- 
cording to  the  reply  she  is  said  to  have  given  (falsified  perhaps),  she 
promised  to  deliver  her  decision  at  the  close  of  the  war,  confiding  in 
her  internal  voices  to  enable  her  to  pass  judgment  on  the  very  head 
of  authority. 

And  yet  there  was  no  pride  in  her.  She  never  gave  herself  out  for 
a  saint :  often  she  confessed  that  she  knew  not  the  future.  The  eve- 
ning before  a  battle  she  was  asked  whether  the  king  would  conquer, 
and  replied  that  she  knew  not.  At  Bourges,  when  the  women  pni yrd 
her  to  touch  crosses  and  chaplets,  she  began  laughing,  and  said  to 
dame  Marguerite,  at  whose  house  she  was  staying,  "  Touch  fliem 
yourself,  they  will  be  just  as  good." 

The  singular  originality  of  this  girl  was,  as  we  have  said,  good 
sense  in  the  midst  of  exaltation  ;  and  this,  as  we  shall  see,  was  what 
rendered  her  judges  implacable.  The  pedants,  the  reasoners  who 
hated  her  as  an  inspired  being,  were  so  much  the  more  cruel  to  her 
from  the  impossibility  of  despising  her  as  a  mad  woman,  and  from 
the  frequency  with  which  her  loftier  reason  silenced  their  arguments. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  foresee  her  fate.  She  mistrusted  it  herself. 
From  the  outset  she  had  said — "  Employ  me,  I  shall  last  but  the  year 
or  little  longer."  Often  addressing  her  chaplain,  brother  Pasquerel, 
she  repeated,  "  If  I  must  die  soon,  tell  the  king  our  lord,  from  me,  to 
found  chapels  for  the  offering  up  of  prayers  for  the  salvation  of  such 
as  have  died  in  defence  of  the  kingdom. " 

Her  parents  asking  her  when  they  saw  her  again  at  Rheims,  wheth- 
er she  had  no  fear  of  anything,  her  answer  was,  "Nothing,  except 
treason. " 

Often  on  the  approach  of  evening,  if  there  happened  to  be  any 
church  near  the  place  where  the  army  encamped,  and  particularly  if 
it  belonged  to  the  Mendicant  orders,  she  gladly  repaired  to  it,  and 
would  join  the  children  who  were  being  prepared  to  receive  the  sac- 
rament. According  to  an  ancient  chronicle,  the  very  day  on  which 
she  was  fated  to  be  made  prisoner,  she  communicated  in  the  church  of 
St.  Jacques,  Compiegne,  where,  leaning  sadly  against  a  pillar,  she 
said  to  the  good  people  and  children  who  crowded  the  church  :  ' '  My 
good  friends  and  my  dear  children,  I  tell  you  of  a  surety  there  is  a 
man  who  has  sold  me  ;  I  am  betrayed,  and  shall  soon  be  given  up  to 
death.  Pray  to  God  for  me,  I  beseech  you  ;  for  I  shall  no  longer  be 
able  to  serve  my  king  or  the  noble  realm  of  France." 

The  probability  is  that  the  Pucelle  was  bargained  for  and  bought, 


26  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

even  as  Soissons  had  just  been  bought.  At  so  critical  a  moment,  and 
when  their  young  king  was  landing  on  French  ground,  the  English 
would  be  ready  to  give  any  sum  for  her.  But  the  Burgundians  longed 
to  have  her  in  their  grasp,  and  they  succeeded  ;  it  was  to  the  interest 
not  of  the  duke  only  and  of  the  Burgundian  party  in  general,  but  it 
was  besides  the  direct  interest  of  John  of  Ligny,  who  eagerly  bought 
the  prisoner. 

For  the  Purcelle  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  noble  lord  of  the  house 
of  Luxembourg,  of  a  vassal  of  the  chivalrous  Duke  of  Burgundy,  of 
the  good  duke,  as  he  was  called,  was  a  hard  trial  for  the  chivalry  of 
the  day.  A  prisoner  of  war,  a  girl,  so  young  a  girl,  and  above  all  a 
maid,  what  had  she  to  fear  amidst  loyal  knights?  Chivalry  was  in 
every  one's  mouth  as  the  protection  of  afflicted  dames  and  da? : 
Marshal  Boucicaut  had  just  founded  an  order  which  had  no  othei-  o  )- 
ject.  Besides  the  worship  of  the  Virgin,  constantly  extending  i  \  Ti3 
middle  age,  having  become  the  dominant  religion,  it  seemed  as  u  vir- 
ginity must  be  an  inviolable  safeguard. 

To  explain  what  is  to  follow,  we  must  point  out  the  singular  vrir.t 
of  harmony  which  then  existed  between  ideas  and  morals,  an. I,  h  >.\- 
ever  shocking  the  contrast,  bring  face  to  face  with  the  too  su  -liiiu 
ideal,  with  the  Imitation,  with  the  Pucelle,  the  low  realities  or  .lu 
time  ;  we  taust  (beseeching  pardon  of  the  chaste  girl  who  form  ;  tui 
subject  of  this  narrative)  fathom  the  depths  of  this  world  of  covotoa  ;- 
ness  and  of  concupiscence.  Without  seeing  it  as  it  existed,  it  would 
be  impossible  to  understand  how  knights  could  give  up  her  who  seem- 
ed the  living  embodiment  of  chivalry,  how  while  the  Virgin  reigned 
the  Virgin  should  show  herself,  and  be  so  cruelly  mistaken. 

-The  religion  of  this  epoch  was  less  the  adoration  of  the  Virgin  than 
of  woman  ;  its  chivalry  was  that  portrayed  in  the  Petit  Jehan  da 
Saintre — but  with  the  advantage  of  chastity,  in  favor  of  the  romance 
over  the  truth. 

Princes  set  the  example.  Charles  VII.  received  Agnes  Sorel  as  a 
present  from  his  wife's  mother,  the  old  Queen  of  Sicily  ;  and  mother, 
wife,  and  mistress,  he  takes  them  all  with  him  as  he  marches  along 
the  Loire,  the  happiest  understanding  subsisting  between  the  three. 

The  English,  more  serious,  seek  love  in  marriage  only.  Gloucester 
marries  Jacqueline  ;  among  Jacqueline's  ladies  his  regards  fall  on  one 
equally  lovely  and  witty,  and  he  marries  her  too. 

But  in  this  respect,  as  in  all  others,  France  and  England  are  far  out^ 
stripped  by  Flanders,  by  the  Count  of  Flanders,  by  the  great  Duke 
of  Burgundy.  The  legend  expressive  of  the  Low  Countries  is  that 
of  the  famous  countess  who  brought  into  the  world  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  children.  The  princes  of  the  land,  without  going  quite 
so  far,  seem  at  the  least  to  endeavor  to  approach  her.  A  count  of 
Cleves  has  sixty-three  bastards.  John  of  Burgundy,  Bishop  of  Cam- 
brai,  officiates  pontifically  with  his  thirty-six  bastards  and  ions  of 
bastards  ministering  with  him  at  the  altar. 


THE  MAID   OF  ORLEANS.  E7 

Philippe-le-Bon  had  only  sixteen  bastards,  but  he  had  no  fewer 
than  twenty-seven  wives,  three  lawful  ones  and  twenty-four  mistresses. 
In  these  sad  years  of  1429  and  1430,  and  during  the  enactment  of 
this  tragedy  of  the  Pucelle's,  he  was  wholly  absorbed  in  the  joy- 
ous affair  of  his  third  marriage.  This  time  his  wife  was  an  Infanta 
of  Portugal,  English  by  her  mother's  side,  her  mother  having  been 
Philippa  of  Lancaster  ;  so  that  the  English  missed  their  point  in  giv- 
ing him  the  command  of  Paris,  as  detain  him  they  could  not ;  he  was  in 
a  hurry  to  quit  this  land  of  famine  and  to  return  to  Flanders  to  wel- 
come his  young  bride.  Ordinances,  ceremonies,  festivals,  concluded, 
or  interrupted  and  resumed,  consumed  whole  months.  At  Bruges  in 
particular,  unheard-of  galas  took  place,  rejoicings  fabulous  to  tell  of, 
insensate  prodigalities  which  ruined  the  nobility — and  the  burgesses 
eclipsed  them.  The  seventeen  nations  which  had  their  v>  arehouses  at 
Burges  displayed  the  riches  of  the  universe.  The  streets  were  hung 
with  the  rich  and  soft  carpets  of  Flanders.  For  eight  days  and  eight 
nights  the  choicest  wines  ran  in  torrents  ;  a  stone  lion  poured  forth 
Rhenish,  a  stag  Beaune  wine  ;  and  at  meal-times  a  unicorn  spouted 
out  rose-water  and  malvoise. 

But  the  splendor  of  the  Flemish  feast  lay  in  the  Flemish  women, 
in  the  triumphant  beauties  of  Bruges,  such  as  Rubens  has  painted 
them  in  his  Magdalen,  in  his  Descent  from  the  Cross.  The  Portu- 
guese could  not  have  delighted  in  seeing  her  new  subjects  :  already 
had  the  Spaniard,  Joan  of  Navarre,  been  filled  with  spite  at  the  sight, 
exclaiming,  against  her  will,  "  I  see  only  queens  here." 

On  his  wedding  day  (January  10th,  1430),  Philippe-le-Bon  institut- 
ed the  order  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  "won  by  Jason,"  taking  for  de- 
vice the  conjugal  and  reassuring  words,  "  Autre  n'auray."  (No  other 
will  I  have). 

Did  the  young  bride  believe  in  this  ?  It  is  dubious.  This  Jason's, 
or  Gideon's  fleece  (as  the  Church  soon  baptized  it),  was  after  all  the 
golden  fleece,  reminding  one  of  the  gilded  waves,  of  the  streaming 
yellow  tresses  which  Van  Dyck,  Philippe-le- Bon's  great  painter,  flings 
amorously  round  the  shoulders  of  his  saints.  All  saw  in  the  new  or- 
der the  triumph  of  the  fair,  young,  flourishing  beauty  of  the  north 
over  the  sombre  beauties  of  the  south.  It  seemed  as  the  Flemish 
prince,  to  console  the  Flemish  dames,  addressed  this  device  of  double 
meaning,  "Autre  n'auray,"  to  them. 

Under  these  forms  of  chivalry,  awkwardly  imitated  from  ro- 
mances, the  history  of  Flanders  at  this  period  is  nevertheless  one 
fiery,  joyous,  brutal,  bacchanalian  revel.  Under  color  of  tournavs, 
feats  of  arms,  and  feasts  of  the  Round  Table,  there  is  one  wild 
whirl  of  light  and  common  gallantries,  low  intrigues,  and  intermi- 
nable junketings.  The  true  device  of  the  epoch  is  that  -presumptu- 
ously taken  by  the  sire  de  Ternant  at  the  lists  of  Arras  :  "  Que  j'ai« 
de  mes  desirs  assouvissance,  et  jamais  d'autre  bien."  (Let  my  desires 
be  satisfied,  I  wish  no  other  good.) 


28  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

The  surprising  part  of  all  this  is  that,  amidst  these  mad  festivals 
and  this  ruinous  magnificence,  the  affairs  of  the  Count  of  Flanders 
seemed  to  go  on  all  the  better.  The  more  he  gave,  lost,  and  squan- 
dered, the  more  flowed  in  to  him.  He  fattened  and  was  enriched  by 
the  general  ruin.  In  Holland  alone  he  met  with  any  obstacle  ;  but 
without  much  trouble  he  acquired  the  positions  commanding  the 
Somme  and  the  Meuse — Namur  and  Peronne.  Besides  the  latter 
town  the  English  placed  in  his  hands  Bar-sur-Seine,  Auxerre,  Meaux, 
the  approaches  to  Paris,  and  lastly.  Paris  itself. 

Advantage  after  advantage,  Fortune  piled  her  favors  upon  him 
without  leaving  him  time  to  draw  breath  between  her  gifts.  She 
threw  into  the  power  of  one  of  his  vassals  the  Pucelle,  that  precious 
gage  for  which  the  English  would  have  given  any  sum.  And  at  this 
very  moment  his  situation  became  complicated  by  another  of  For- 
tune's favors,  for  the  duchy  of  Brabant  devolved  to  him  ;  but  he 
could  not  take  possession  of  it  without  securing  the  friendship  of  the 
English. 

The  death  of  the  Duke  of  Brabant,  who  had  talked  of  marrymg 
again  and  of  raising  up  heirs  to  himself,  happened  just  in  the  nick  of 
time  for  the  Duke  of  Burgundy.  He  had  acquired  almost  all  the 
provinces  which  bound  Brabant — Flanders,  Haiuault,  Holland,  Na- 
mur, and  Luxemburg — and  only  lacked  the  central  province,  that  is, 
rich  Louvain,  with  the  key  to  the  whole,  Brussels.  Here  was  a 
strong  temptation  ;  so  passing  over  the  rights  of  his  aunt,  from 
whom,  however,  he  derived  his  own,  he  also  sacrificed  the  rights  of 
his  wards  and  his  honor  and  probity  as  a  guardian,  and  seized  Bra 
bant.  Therefore,  to  finish  matters  with  Holland  and  Luxemburg, 
and  to  repulse  the  Liegeois,  who  had  just  laid  siege  to  Niimur.  he 
was  necessitated  to  remain  on  good  terms  with  the  English  :  in  other 
words,  to  deliver  up  the  Pucelle. 

Philippe-le-JS0/i  (good)  was  a  good  man,  according  to  the  vulgar 
idea  of  goodness,  tender  of  heart,  especially  to  women,  a  good  son,  a 
good  father,  and  with  tears  at  will.  He  wept  over  the  slain  at  Azin- 
court ;  but  his  league  with  the  English  cost  more  lives  than  Azincourt. 
He  shed  torrents  of  tears  at  his  father's  death;  and  then,  to  avenge 
him,  torrents  of  blood.  Sensibility  and  sensuality  often  go  together  ; 
but  sensuality  and  concupiscence  are  not  the  less  cruel  when  aroused. 
Let  the  desired  object  draw  back,  let  concupiscence  see  her  fly  and 
conceal  herself  from  its  pursuit,  then  it  turns  to  blind  rage.  .  .  . 
Woe  to  whatever  opposes  it  !  ...  The  school  of  Rubens,  in  its 
pagan  bacchanalia,  rejoices  in  bringing  together  tigers  and  satyrs, 
"  lust  hard  by  hate." 

He  who  held  the  Pucelle  in  his  hands,  John  of  Ligny,  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy's  vassal,  found  himself  precisely  in  the  same  situation  as 
his  suzerain  ;  like  him,  it  was  his  hour  of  cupidity,  of  extreme  temp- 
tation. He  belonged  to  the  glorious  house  of  Luxemburg,  and  to  be 
of  kin  to  the  Emperor  Henry  VII.,  and  to  King  John  of  Bohemia,  was 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  20 

fin  honor  well  worth  preserving  unsullied  ;  but  John  of  Ligny  was 
poor,  the  youngest  son  of  a  youngest  son.  He  had  contrived  to  get 
his  aunt,  the  rich  Countess  of  Ligny  and  of  Saint-Pol,  to  name  him 
her  sole  heir,  and  this  legacy,  whicu  lay  exceedingly  open  to  question, 
was  about  to  be  disputed  by  his  eldest  brother.  In  dread  of  this, 
John  became  the  docile  and  trembling  servant  of  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, of  the  English,  and  of  every  one.  The  English  pressed  him 
to  deliver  up  his  prisoner  to  them  ;  and  indeed  they  could  easily  have 
"seized  her  in  the  tower  of  Beaulieu,  in  Picardy,  where  he  had  placed 
her.  But  if  he  gave  her  up  to  them,  he  would  ruin  himself  with  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  his  suzerain,  and  the  judge  in  the  question  of 
his  inheritance,  who,  consequently,  could  ruin  him  by  a  single  word. 
So  he  sent  her,  provisorily,  to  his  castle  of  Beaurevoir,  which  lay 
within  the  territory  of  the  empire. 

The  English,  wild  with  hate  and  humiliation,  urged  and  threatened. 
So  great  was  their  rage  against  the  Pucelle  that  they  burned  a  woman 
alive  for  speaking  well  of  her.  If  the  Pucelle  herself  were  not  tried, 
condemned,  and  burned  as  a  sorceress — if  her  victories  were  not  set 
down  as  due  to  the  devil,  they  would  remain  in  the  eyes  of  the  people 
miracles,  God's  own  works.  The  inference  would  be  that  God  was 
against  the  English,  that  they  had  been  rightfully  and  loyally  de- 
feated, and  that  their  cause  was  the  devil's.  According  to  the  no- 
tions of  the  time,  there  was  no  medium.  A  conclusion  like  this,  in- 
tolerable to  English  pride,  was  infinitely  more  so  to  a  government  of 
bishops  like  that  of  England,  and  to  the  cardinal,  its  head. 

Matters  were  in  a  desperate  state  when  Winchester  took  them  in 
hand.  Gloucester  being  reduced  to  a  cipher  in  England,  and  Bed- 
ford in  France,  he  found  himself  uncontrolled.  He  had  fancied  that 
on  bringing  the  young  king  to  Calais  (April  23),  all  would  flock  to 
him  :  not  an  Englishman  budged.  He  tried  to  pique  their  honor  by 
fulminating  an  ordinance  "against  those  who  fear  the  enchantments 
of  the  Pucelle  :"  it  had  not  the  slightest  effect.  The  king  remained 
at  Calais,  like  a  stranded  vessel.  Winchester  became  eminently 
ridiculous.  After  the  crusade  for  the  recovery  of  the  Holy  Land  had 
dwindled  down  in  his  hands  to  a.  crusade  against  Bohemia,  he  had 
cut  down  the  latter  to  a  crusade  against  Paris.  This  bellicose  prelate, 
who  had  flattered  himself  that  he  should  officiate  as  a  conqueror  in 
Xotre-Dame,  and  crown  his  charge  there,  found  all  the  roads  blocked 
up.  Holding  Compiegne,  the  enemy  barred  the  route  through  Pi- 
cardy, and  holding  Louviers,  that  through  Normandy.  Meanwhile 
the  war  dragged  slowly  on,  his  money  wasted  away,  and  the  crusade 
dissolved  in  smoke.  Apparently  the  Devil  had  to  do  with  the  mat- 
ter ;  for  the  cardinal  could  only  get  out  of  the  scrape  by  bringing  the 
deceiver  to  his  trial— by  burning  him  in  the  person  of  the  Pucelle. 

He  felt  that  he  must  have  her,  must  force  her  out  of  the  hands  of 
the  Burgundiaus.  She  had  been  made  prisoner  May  23d  ;  by  the 
36th  a  message  is  despatched  from  Rouen,  in  the  name  of  the  vicar  of 


,KJ  JOAN  OP  ABC. 

the  Inquisition,  summoning  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  and  John  of  Lignj 
to  deliver  up  this  woman  suspected  of  sorcery.  The  Inquisition  had 
not  much  power  in  France  ;  its  vicar  was  a  poor  and  very  timorous 
monk,  a  Dominican,  and,  undoubtedly,  like  all  the  other  Mendicants, 
favorable  to  the  Pucelle.  But  he  was  here,  at  Rouen,  overawed  by 
the  all-powerful  cardinal,  who  held  the  sword  to  his  breast,  and  who 
had  just  appointed  captain  of  Kouen  a  man  of  action,  and  a  man  de- 
voted to  himself,  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  Henry's  tutor.  Warwick 
held  two  posts,  assuredly  widely  different  from  one  another,  but  both 
of  great  trust  :  the  tutelage  of  the  king,  and  the  care  of  the  king's 
enemy  ;  the  education  of  the  one,  the  superintendence  of  the  trial  of 
the  other. 

The  monk's  letter  was  a  document  of  little  weight,  and  the  Univer- 
sity was  made  to  write  at  the  same  time.  It  was  hardly  possible  that 
the  heads  of  the  University  should  lend  any  hearty  aid  to  expeditiag 
a  process  instituted  by  the  Papal  Inquisition,  at  the  very  moment 
they  were  going  to  declare  war  on  the  people  at  Bale  on  behalf  of  the 
episcopacy.  Winchester  himself,  at  the  head  of  the  English  episcopacy, 
must  have  preferred  a  trial  by  bishops,  or,  if  he  could,  to  bring 
bishops  and  inquisitors  to  act  in  concert  together.  Now  he  had  in 
his  train  and  among  his  adherents  a  bishop  just  fitted  for  the  busi- 
ness, a  beggared  bishop,  who  lived  at  his  table,  and  who  assuredly 
would  sentence  or  would  swear  just  as  was  wanted. 

Pierre  Cauchon,  Bishop  of  Beauvais,  was  not  a  man  without  merit. 
Born  at  Rheims,  near  Gerson's  place  of  birth,  he  was  a  very  influen- 
tial doctor  of  the  University,  and  a  friend  of  Clemengis,  who  asserts 
that  he  was  both  "  good  and  beneficent."  This  goodness  did  not 
hinder  him  from  being  one  of  the  most  violent  of  the  violent  Cabo- 
chien  party  ;  and  as  such  he  was  driven  from  Paris  in  1413.  He  re- 
entered  the  capital  with  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  became  Bishop  of 
Beauvais,  and,  under  the  English  rule,  was  elected  by  the  University 
conservator  of  its  privileges.  But  the  invasion  of  northern  France 
by  Charles  VII.,  in  1429,  was  fatal  to  Cauchon,  who  sought  to  keep 
Beauvais  in  the  English  interests,  and  was  thrust  out  by  the  citizens. 
He  did  not  enjoy  himself  at  Paris  with  the  dull  Bedford,  who  had  no 
means  of  rewarding  zeal  ;  and  repaired  to  the  fount  of  wealth  and 
power  in  England,  to  Cardinal  Winchester.  He  became  English,  he 
spoke  English.  Winchester  perceived  the  use  to  which  such  a  man 
might  be  put,  and  attached  him  to  himself  by  doing  for  him  even 
more  than  he  could  have  hoped  for.  The  Archbishop  of  Rouen  hav- 
ing been  translated  elsewhere,  he  recommended  him  to  the  Pope  to 
fill  that  great  see.  But  neither  the  Pope  nor  the  chapter  would  have 
anything  to  do  with  Cauchon  ;  and  Rouen,  at  war  at  the  time  with 
the  University  of  Paris,  could  not  well  receive  as  its  archbishop  a 
member  of  that  University.  Here  was  a  complete  stop  ;  and  Cau- 
chon stood  with  gaping  mouth  in  sight  of  the  magnificent  prey,  ever 
in  hopes  that  all  obstacles  would  disappear  before  the  invincible  car- 
dinal, full  of  devotion  to  him,  and  having  no  other  God. 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  31 

It  was  exceedingly  opportune  that  the  Pucello  should  hare  been 
taken  close  to  the  limits  of  Cauchon's  diocese  ;  not,  it  is  true,  within 
the  diocese  itself  ;  but  there  was  a  hope  of  making  it  believed  to  be 
so.  So  Cauchon  wrote,  as  judge  ordinary,  to  the  King  of  England, 
to  claim  the  right  of  trying  her  ;  and,  on  the  12th  of  June,  the  Uni- 
versity received  the  king's  letters  to  the  effect  that  the  bishop  and  the 
inquisitor  were  to  proceed  to  try  her  with  concurrent  powers.  Though 
the  proceedings  of  the  Inquisition  were  not  the  same  as  those  of  the 
ordinary  tribunals  of  the  Church,  no  objection  was  raised.  The  two 
jurisdictions  choosing  thus  to  connive  at  each  other,  one  difficulty 
alone  remained  ;  the  accused  was  still  in  the  hands  of  the  Burgun- 
dians. 

The  University  put  herself  forward,  and  wrote  anew  to  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy  and  John  of  Ligny.  Cauchon,  in  his  zeal,  undertook  to  be 
the  agent  of  the  English,  their  courier,  to  carry  the  letter  himself, 
and  deliver  it  to  the  two  dukes  ;  at  the  same  time,  as  bishop,  he  hand- 
ed them  a  summons,  calling  upon  them  to  deliver  up  to  him  a  pris- 
oner over  whom  he  claimed  jurisdiction.  In  the  course  of  this 
strange  document  of  his,  he  quits  the  character  of  judge  for  that  of 
negotiator,  and  makes  offers  of  money,  stating  that  although  this 
woman  cannot  be  considered  a  prisoner  of  war,  the  King  of  England 
is  ready  to  settle  a  pension  of  two  or  three  hundred  livres  on  the 
bastard  of  Vendome,  and  to  give  the  sum  of  six  thousand  livres  to 
those  who  have  her  in  their  keeping  :  then,  towards  the  close  of  this 
missive  of  his,  he  raises  his  offer  to  ten  thousand,  but  pointing  out 
emphatically  the  magnitude  of  the  offer — "as  much,"  he  says,  "as 
the  French  are  accustomed  to  give  for  a  king  or  a  prince." 

The  English  did  not  rely  so  implicitly  on  the  steps  taken  by  the 
University,  and  on  Cauchon's  negotiations,  as  to  neglect  the  more  en- 
ergetic means.  On  the  same  day  that  the  latter  presented  his  sum- 
mons, or  the  day  after,  the  council  in  England  placed  an  embargo  on 
all  traffic  with  the  markets  of  the  Low  Countries,  and,  above  all,  with 
Antwerp  (July  19),  prohibiting  the  English  merchants  from  purchas- 
ing linens  there,  and  the  other  goods  for  which  they  were  in  the 
habit  of  exchanging  their  wool.  This  was  inflicting  on  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  Count  of  Flanders,  a  blow  in  the  most  sensible  part, 
through  the  medium  of  the  great  Flemish  manufactures,  linens  and 
cloth  :  the  English  discontinued  purchasing  the  one,  and  supplying 
the  material  for  the  other. 

While  the  English  were  thus  strenuously  urging  on  the  destruction 
<of  the  Pucelle,  did  Charles  VII.  take  any  steps  to  save  her  ?  None, 
'it  appears  ;  yet  he  had  prisoners  in  his  hands,  and  could  have  pro- 
tected her  by  threatening  reprisals.  A  short  time  before,  he  had  set 
negotiations  on  foot  through  the  medium  of  his  chancellor,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Rheims  ;  but  neither  he  nor  the  other  politicians  of  th« 
council  had  ever  regarded  the  Pucelle  with  much  favor.  The  Anjou- 
Lorraine  party,  with  the  old  Qaeen  of  Sieily,  who  had  taken  her  by 
A.B.— 8 


32  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

the  band  from  the  first,  could  not,  at  this  precise  juncture,  interfere 
on  her  behalf  with  the  Duke  of  Burgundy.  The  Duke  of  Lorraine 
was  on  his  death-bed,  the  succession  to  the  duchy  disputed  before  the 
breath  was  out  of  his  body,  and  Philippe-le-Bon  was  giving  his  sup- 
port to  a  rival  of  Rene  of  Anjou's — son-in-law  and  heir  to  the  Duke  of 
Lorraine. 

Thus,  on  every  side,  interest  and  covetousness  declared  against  the 
Pucelle,  or  produced  indifference  to  her.  The  good  Charles  VII.  did 
nothing  for  her,  the  good  Duke  Philippe  delivered  her  up.  The 
house  of  Anjou  coveted  Lorraine,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  coveted  Bra- 
bant ;  and,  most  of  all,  he  desiderated  the  keeping  open  the  trade  be- 
tween Flanders  and  England.  The  little  had  their  interests  to  at- 
tend to  as  well.  John  of  Ligny  looked  to  inherit  Saint-Pol,  and  Cau- 
chon  was  grasping  at  the  archbishopric  of  Rouen. 

In  vain  did  John  of  Ligny's  wife  throw  herself  at  his  feet,  in  vain 
did  she  supplicate  him  not  to  dishonor  himself.  He  was  no  longer  a 
free  man,  already  had  he  touched  English  gold  ;  though  he  gave  her 
up,  not,  it  is  true,  directly  to  the  English,  but  to  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy. This  house  of  Ligny  and  of  Saint-Pol,  with  its  recollections 
of  greatness  and  its  unbridled  aspirations,  was  fated  to  pursue  fortune 
to  the  end — to  the  Greve.  The  surrenderor  of  the  Pucelle  seems  to  have 
felt  all  his  misery  ;  he  had  painted  on  his  arms  a  camel  succumbing 
under  its  burden,  with  the  sad  device,  unknown  to  men  of  heart, 
"  Nul  n'est  tenu  a  1'im possible  "  (No  one  is  held  to  impossibilities). 

What  was  the  prisoner  doing  the  while  V  Her  body  was  at  Beaure- 
Yoir,  her  soul  at  Compiegne  ;  she  was  fighting,  soul  and  spirit,  for 
the  king  who  had  deserted  her.  Without  her,  she  felt  that  the  faith- 
ful city  of  Compiegne  would  fall,  and  with  it  the  royal  cause  through- 
out the  North.  She  had  previously  tried  to  effect  her  escape  from  the 
towers  of  Beaulieu  ;  and  at  Beaurevoir  she  was  still  more  strongly 
tempted  to  fly  :  she  knew  that  the  English  demanded  that  she  should 
be  given  up  to  them,  and  dreaded  falling  into  their  hands.  She  con- 
sulted her  saints,  and  could  obtain  no  other  answer  than  that  it  be 
hoovrd  to  be  patient,  "  that  her  delivery  would  not  be  until  she  had 
seen  the  King  of  the  English."  "But,"  she  said  within  herself, 
"  can  it  lie  that  God  will  suffer  these  poor  people  of  Compiegne  to 
die,  who  have  been  and  who  are  so  loyal  to  their  lord?"  Presented 
under  this  form  of  lively  compassion,  the  temptation  prevailed.  For 
the  first  time  she  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  her  saints  :  she  threw  herself 
from  the  tower,  and  fell  at  its  foot  half  dead.  Borne  in  again  and 
nursed  by  the  ladies  of  Ligny,  she  longed  for  death,  and  persisted  in 
remaining  two  days  without  eating. 

Delivered  up  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  she  was  taken  to  Arras, 
and  then  to  the  donjon-keep  of  Crotoy,  which  has  long  been  covered 
by  the  sands  of  the  Somme.  From  this  place  of  confinement  she 
looked  out  upon  the  sea,  and  could  sometimes  descry  the  English 
downs — that  hostile  land  into  which  she  had  hoped  to  carry  war  for  the 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  33 

deliverance  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans.  Mass  was  daily  performed  here 
by  a  priest  who  was  also  a  prisoner,  and  Jeanne  prayed  ardently  ;  she 
asked,  and  it  was  given  unto  her.  Though  confined  in  prison,  she 
displayed  her  power  all  the  same  ;  as  long  as  she  lived,  her  prayers 
broke  through  the  walls  and  scattered  the  enemy. 

On  the  very  day  that  she  had  predicted,  forewarned  by  the  arch- 
.angel,  the  siege  of  Compiegne  was  raised — that  is,  on  the  1st  of  No- 
vember. Tin-  Duke  of  Burgundy  had  advanced  as  far  as  Noyon,  as 
if  to  meet  and  experience  the  insulting  reverse  personally.  He  sus- 
tained another  defeat  shortly  afterwards  at  Germigny  (November  120). 
Saintrailles  then  offered  him  battle  at  Peronne,  which  he  declined. 

These  humiliations  undoubtedly  confirmed  the  duke  in  his  alliance 
with  the  English,  and  determined  him  to  deliver  up  the  Pucelle  to 
them.  But  the  mere  threat  of  interrupting  all  commercial  relations 
would  have  been  enough.  Chivalrous  as  he  believed  himself  to  be, 
and  the  restorer  of  chivalry,  the  Count  of  Flanders  was  at  bottom  the 
servant  of  the  manufacturers  and  the  merchants.  The  manufactur- 
ing cities  and  the  flax-spinning  districts  would  not  have  allowed  com- 
merce to  be  long  interrupted,  or  their  works  brought  to  a  stand-still, 
but  would  have  burst  forth  into  insurrection. 

At  the  very  moment  the  English  had  got  possession  of  the  Pucelle, 
and  were  free  to  proceed  to  her  trial,  their  affairs  were  going  on  very 
badly.  Far  from  retaking  Louviers,  they  had  lost  Chateau-Qalliard. 
La  Hire  took  it  by  escalade,  and  finding  Barbazan  a  prisoner  there, 
set  that  formidable  captain  at  liberty.  The  towns  voluntarily  went 
over  to  Charles  VII.,  the  inhabitants  expelling  the  English  :  those  of 
Melun,  close  as  the  town  is  to  Paris,  thrust  the  garrison  out  of  the 
gates. 

To  put  on  the  drag,  if  it  were  possible,  while  the  affairs  of  Eng- 
land were  thus  going  rapidly  down  hill,  some  great  and  powerful  en- 
gine was  necessary,  and  Winchester  had  one  at  hand — the  trial  and  the 
coronation.  These  two  things  were  to  be  brought  into  play  together, 
or  rather,  they  were  one  and  the  same  thing.  To  dishonor  Charles 
VII.,  to  prove  that  he  had  been  led  to  be  crowned  by  a  witch,  was  be- 
stowing so  much  additional  sanctity  on  the  coronation  of  Henry  VI.  ; 
if  the  one  were  avowedly  the  anointed  of  the  Devil,  the  other  must 
be  recognized  as  the  anointed  of  God. 

Henry  made  his  entry  into  Paris  on  the  2d  of  December.  On  the 
21st  of  the  preceding  month,  the  University  had  been  made  to  write 
to  Cauchon,  complaining  of  his  delays,  and  beseeching  the  king  to 
order  the  trial  to  be  begun.  Cauchon  was  in  no  haste,  perhaps, 
thinking  it  hard  to  begin  the  work  before  the  wage  was  assured  ;  and 
it  was  not  till  a  month  afterwards  that  he  procured  from  the  chapter 
of  Rouen  authority  to  proceed  in  that  diocese.  On  the  instant  (.Jan- 
uary 3,  1431),  Winchester  issued  an  ordinance,  in  which  the  king 
was  made  to  say,  "  that  on  the  requisition  of  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais, 
and  exhorted  thereto  by  his  dear  daughter,  the  University  of  Paris, 


54  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

he  commanded  her  keepers  to  conduct  the  accused  to  the  bishop." 
The  word  was  chosen  to  show  that  the  prisoner  was  not  given  up  to 
the  ecclesiastical  judge,  but  only  lent,  "  to  be  taken  back  again  if  not 
convicted."  The  English  ran  no  risk,  she  could  not  escape  death  ;  if 
fire  failed,  the  sword  remained. 

Cauchon  opened  the  proceedings  at  Rouen  on  the  9th  of  January, 
1431.  He  seated  the  vicar  of  the  Inquisition  near  himself,  and  began 
by  holding  a  sort  of  consultation  with  eight  doctors,  licentiates  or 
masters  of  arts  of  Rouen,  and  by  laying  before  them  the  inquiries 
which  he  had  instituted  touching  the  Pucelle,  but  which,  having 
been  conducted  by  her  enemies,  appeared  insufficient  to  these  legists 
of  Rouen.  In  fact,  they  were  so  utterly  insufficient,  that  the  prose- 
cution, which  on  these  worthless  data  was  about  to  have  been  com- 
menced against  her  on  the  charge  of  magic,  was  instituted  on  the 
charge  of  heresy. 

With  the  view  of  conciliating  these  recalcitrating  Normans,  and 
lessening  their  superstitious  reverence  for  the  forms  of  procedure, 
Cauchon  nominated  one  of  their  number,  Jean  de  la  Fontaine,  exam  - 
ining  counsellor  (conseiller  examinateur).  But  he  reserved  the  most 
active  part,  that  of  promoter  of  the  prosecution  (promoteur  du proces), 
for  a  certain  Estivet,  one  of  his  Beauvais  canons  by  whom  he  was 
accompanied.  He  managed  to  consume  a  month  in  these  prepara- 
tions ;  but  the  young  king  having  been  at  length  taken  back  to  Lon- 
don (February  9),  Winchester,  tranquil  on  this  head,  applied  himself 
earnestly  to  the  business  of  the  trial,  and  would  trust  no  one  to  super- 
intend it.  He  .thought,  and  justly,  that  the  master's  eye  is  the  best, 
and  took  up  his  residence  at  Rouen  in  order  to  watch  Cauchon  at 
work. 

His  first  step  was  to  make  sure  of  the  monk  who  represented  the 
Inquisition.  Cauchon,  having  assembled  his  assessors,  Norman 
priests  and  doctors  of  Paris,  in  the  house  of  a  canon,  sent  for  the 
Dominican,  and  called  upon  him  to  act  as  his  coadjutor  in  the  pro- 
ceedings. The  shaveling  timidly  replied,  that  '-if  his  powers  were 
judged  sufficient,  he  would  act  as  his  duty  required."  The  bishop 
did  not  fail  to  declare  that  his  powers  were  amply  sufficient  ;  on 
which  the  monk  further  objected,  "  that  he  was  anxious  not  to  act  as 
yet,  both  from  scruples  of  conscience  and  for  legality  of  the  trial," 
and  begged  the  bishop  to  substitute  some  one  in  his  place,  until  he 
should  ascertain  that  his  powers  were  really  sufficient. 

His  objections  were  useless  ;  he  was  not  allowed  so  to  escape,  and 
had  to  sit  in  judgment,  whether  he  would  or  not.  There  was  another 
motive  besides  fear,  which  undoubtedly  assisted  in  keeping  him  to 
his  post :  Winchester  assigned  him  twenty  gold  sous  for  his  pains.' 
Perhaps  the  Mendicant  monk  had  never  seen  such  a  quantity  of  gold 
in  his  life. 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  35 

TRIAL  OF  THE  PUCELLE. 

On  February  21,  the  Pucelle  was  brought  before  her  judges.  The 
bishop  of  Beauvais  admonished  her  "  with  mildness  and  charity," 
praying  her  to  answer  truly  to  whatever  she  should  be  asked,  with- 
out evasion  or  subterfuge,  both  to  shorten  her  trial  and  ease  her  con- 
science. Answer:  "I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  to  question  me 
about  ;  you  might  ask  me  things  which  I  would  not  tell  you."  She 
consented  to  swear  to  speak  the  truth  upon  all  matters,  except  those 
which  related  to  her  visions  ;  "  but  with  respect  to  these,"  she  .said, 
"you  shall  cut  off  my  head  first."  Nevertheless,  she  was  induced  to 
swear  that  she  would  answer  all  questions  "  on  points  affecting  faith." 

She  was  again  urged  on  the  following  day,  the  22d,  and  again  on 
the  24th,  but  held  firm.  "  It  is  a  common  remark  even  in  children's 
mouths,"  was  her  observation,  "  ih&t  people  are  often  hung  for  t<'l!in(/ 
the  truth."  At  last,  worn  out,  and  for  quietness'  sake,  she  consented 
to  swear  "to  tell  what  she  knew  upon  her  trial,  but  not  all  she 
knew." 

Interrogated  as  to  her  age,  name,  and  surname,  she  said  that  she 
was  about  nineteen  years  old.  "In  the  place  where  I  was  born,* 
they  called  me  Jehanette,  and  in  France,  Jehanne.  .  .  ."  But 
with  regard  to  her  surname  (the  Pucelle,  the  maid),  it  seems  that 
through  some  caprice  of  feminine  modesty  she  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  utter  it,  and  that  she  eluded  the  direct  answer  by  a  chaste 
falsehood — "  As  to  surname,  I  know  nothing  of  it." 

She  complained  of  the  fetters  on  her  limbs  ;  and  the  bishop  told 
her  that  as  she  had  made  several  attempts  to  escape,  they  had  been 
obliged  to  put  them  on.  "  It  is  true,"  she  said,  "  I  have  done  so,  and 
it  is  allowable  for  any  prisoner.  If  I  escaped,  I  could  not  be  re- 
proached with  having  broken  my  word,  for  I  had  given  no  promise." 

She  was  ordered  to  repeat  the  Pater  and  the  Ave,  perhaps  in  the 
superstitious  idea  that  if  she  were  vowed  to  the  devil  she  durst  not. 
"I  will  willingly  repeat  them  if  my  lord  of  Beauvais  will  hear  me 
confess."  Adroit  and  touching  demand!  by  thus  reposing  her  confi- 
dence in  her  judge,  her  enemy,  she  would  have  made  him  both  her 
spiritual  father  and  the  witness  of  her  innocence. 

Cauchon  declined  the  request ;  but  I  can  well  believe  that  he  was 
moved  by  it.  He  broke  up  the  sitting  for  that  day,  and  on  the  day 
following  did  not  continue  the  interrogatory  himself,  but  deputed  the 
office  to  one  of  his  assessors. 

At  the  fourth  sitting  she  displayed  unwonted  animation.  She  did 
not  conceal  her  having  heard  her  voices.  "  They  awakened  me,"  she 
said,  "  I  clasped  my  hands  in  prayer,  and  besought  them  to  give  me 
counsel;  they  said  to  me,  'Ask  of  our  Lord.'" — "And  what  more 
did  they  say?  " — "  To  answer  you  boldly." 

*  Domremy  in  Champagne,  on  the  frontiers  of  Burgundy,  would  be  distinguished! 
in  Joau's  time  from  France  proper.—  TRANSLATOR. 


86  JOAN   OF  ARC. 

"  .  .  .  I  cannot  tell  all;  lam  much  more  fearful  of  saying 
anything  which  may  displease  them,  than  I  am  of  answering  you. 
.  .  .  For  to-day  1  beg  you  to  question  me  no  further." 

The  bishop  perceiving  her  emotion  persisted  :  "  But,  Jehanne,  God 
is  offended  then  if  one  tells  true  things  ? — "  My  voices  have  told  me 
certain  things,  not  for  you,  but  for  the  king."  Then  she  added  with 
fervor,  "  Ah  !  if  he  knew  them,  he  would  eat  his  dinner  with  greater 
relish.  .  .  .  Would  that  he  did  know  them,  and  would  drink  no 
wine  from  this  to  Easter. " 

She  gave  utterance  to  some  sublime  things,  while  prattling  in  this 
simple  strain  :  "I  come  from  God,  I  have  naught  to  do  here  ;  dismiss 
me  to  God,  from  whom  I  come.  .  .  ." 

"  You  say  that  you  are  my  judge  ;  think  well  what  you  are  al>out, 
for  of  a  truth  I  am  sent  of  God,  and  you  are  puttiisg  yourself  in  great 
danger." 

There  can  be  no  doubt  such  language  irritated  the  judges,  and  they 
put  to  her  an  insidious  and  base  question,  a  question  which  it  is  a 
crime  to  put  to  any  man  alive  :  "  Jehanne,  do  you  believe  yourself  to 
be  in  a  state  of  grace  ?  " 

They  thought  they  had  bound  her  with  an  indissoluble  knot.  To 
say  no  was  to  confess  herself  unworthy  of  having  been  God's  chosen 
instrument ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  how  say  yes  ?  Which  of  us, 
frail  beings  as  we  are,  is  sure  here  below  of  being  truly  in  God's 
grace  ?  Not  one,  except  the  proud,  presumptuous  man,  who  of  all 
is  precisely  the  furthest  from  it. 

She  cut  "the  knot  with  heroic  and  Christian  simplicity  : 

"If  I  am  not,  may  God  be  pleased  to  receive  me  into  it  :  if  I  am, 
may  God  be  pleased  to  keep  me  in  it. " 

The  Pharisees  were  struck  speechless. 

But  with  all  her  heroism,  she  was  nevertheless  a  woman.  .  .  . 
After  giving  utterance  to  this  sublime  sentiment,  she  sank  from  the 
high- wrought  mood,  and  relapsed  into  the  softness  of  her  sex,  doubt- 
ing of  her  state,  as  is  natural  to  a  Christian  soul,  interrogating  her- 
self and  trying  to  gain  confidence  :  ' '  Ah  !  if  I  knew  that  I  were  not 
in  God's  grace,  I  should  be  the  most  wretched  being  in  the  world. 
.  .  .  But  if  I  were  in  a  state  of  sin,  no  doubt  the  voice  would 
not  come.  .  .  .  Would  that  every  one  could  hear  it  like  my- 
self." 

These  words  gave  a  hold  to  her  judges.  After  a  long  pause  they 
returned  to  the  charge  with  redoubled  hate,  and  pressed  upon  her 
question  after  question  designed  to  ruin  her.  "Had  not  the  voices 
told  her  to  hate  the  Burgundians  ?  "  .  .  .  "  Did  she  not  go  when 
a  child  to  the  Fairies'  tree  ?  "  etc.  .  .  .  They  now  longed  to  burn 
her  as  a  witch. 

At  the  fifth  sitting  she  was  attacked  on  delicate  and  dangerous 
ground,  namely,  with  regard  to  the  appearances  she  had  seen.  The 
bishop  became  all  of  a  sudden  compassionate  and  honied,  addressed 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  37 

her  with:  "  Jelianne,  how  have  you  been  since  Saturday  ?"— "  You 
see,"  said  the  poor  prisoner,  loaded  with  chains,  "as  well  as  I  might  " 
"  Jehanne,  do  you  fast  every  day  this  Lent '?"— "  Is  the  questiou'a 
necessary  one'?"— "Yes,  truly."— "  Well  then,  yes,  I  have  always 
fasted." 

She  was  then  pressed  on  the  subject  of  her  visions,  and  with  re- 
gard to  a  sign  shown  the  dauphin,  and  concerning  St.  Catherine  and 
St.  Michael.  Among  other  insidious  and  indelicate  questions  she< 
was  asked  whether,  when  St.  Michael  appeared  to  her,  lie  was  naked' 
.  .  .  To  this  shameful  question  she  replied,  without  under- 
standing its  drift,  and  with  heavenly  purity,  "  Do  you  think  then 
that  our  Lord  has  not  wherewith  to  clothe  him  ?  " 

On  March  3,  other  out-of-the-way  questions  were  put  to  her  in 
order  to  entrap  her  into  confessing  some  diabolical  agency,  some  evil 
correspondence  with  the  devil.  "Has  this  Saint  Michael  of  yours, 
have  these  holy  women,  a  body  and  limbs  1  Are  you  sure  the  figures 
you  see  are  those  of  angels?"—"  Yes,  I  believe  so,  as  firmly  as  I  be- 
lieve in  God."  This  answer  was  carefully  noted  down. 

They  then  turn  to  the  subject  of  her  wearing  male  attire  and  of  her 
standard.  '  Did  not  the  soldiery  make  standards  in  imitation  of 
yours?  Did  they  not  replace  them  with  others?" — "Yes,  when  ihe 
lance  (staff)  happened  to  break." — "  Did  you  not  say  that  those  stainl- 
ards  would  bring  them  luck  ?  " — "  No  ;  I  only  said,  '  Fall  boldly  upon 
the  English,'  and  I  fell  upon  them  myself." 

"But  why  was  this  standard  borne  at  the  coronation,  in  the  church 
of  Rheiins,  rather  than  those  of  the  other  captains?  .  .  ."  "It 
had  seen  all  the  danger,  and  it  was  only  fair  that  it  should  share  the 
honor." 

"What  was  the  impression  of  the  people  who  kissed  your  feet, 
hands,  and  garments ?" — "The  poor  came  to  me  of  their  own  free- 
will, because  I  never  did  them  any  harm,  and  assisted  and  protected 
them  as  far  as  was  in  my  power." 

It  was  impossible  for  heart  of  man  not  to  be  touched  with  such  an- 
swers. Cauchon  thought  it  prudent  to  proceed  henceforward  with 
only  a  few  assessors  on  whom  he  could  rely,  and  quite  quietly.  \\  <• 
find  the  number  of  assessors  varying  at  each  sitting  from  the  very 
beginning  of  the  trial :  some  leave  and  their  places  are  taken  by 
others.  The  place  of  trial  is  similarly  changed.  The  accused,  who 
at  first  is  interrogated  in  the  hall  of  the  castle  of  Rouen,  is  now  ques. 
tioned  in  prison.  "  In  order  not  to  fatigue  the  rest,"  Cnuclion  took 
there  only  two  assessors  and  two  witnesses  (from  the  10th  to  the  1  Tlh 
of  March).  He  was,  perhaps,  emboldened  thus  to  proceed  with  shut 


In  these  fresh  examinations,  she  is  pressed  only  on  a  few  points 
indicated  beforehand  by  Cauchon. 


38  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

"  Did  the  voices  command  her  to  make  that  sally  out  of  Compiegn« 
in  which  she  was  taken  ?  "  To  this  she  does  not  give  a  direct  reply  : 
"  The  saints  had  told  me  that  I  should  be  taken  before  midsummer  ; 
that  it  behooved  so  to  be,  that  I  must  not  be  astonished,  but  suffer  all 
cheerfully,  and  God  would  aid  me.  .  .  .  Since  it  has  so  pleased 
God,  it  is  for  the  best  that  I  should  have  been  taken." 

"Do  you  think  you  did  well  in  setting  out  without  the  leave  of 
your  father  and  mother  ?  Ought  we  not  to  honor  our  parents 't " 
"  They  have  forgiven  me." — "  And  did  you  think  you  were  not  sin- 
ning in  doing  so 't " — ' '  It  was  by  God's  command  ;  and  if  I  had  had  a 
hundred  fathers  and  mothers,  I  should  have  set  out. " 

"Did  not  the  voices  call  you  daughter  of  God,  daughter  of  the 
Church,  the  maid  of  the  great  heart  ?" — ' '  Before  the  siege  of  Orleans 
was  raised,  and  since  then,  the  voices  have  called  me,  and  they  call 
me  every  day,  '  Jehanne  the  Pucelle,  daughter  of  God.'  " 

"  Was  it  right  to  attack  Paris  the  day  of  the  Nativity  of  Our 
Lady?" — "It  is  fitting  to  keep  the  festivals  of  Our  Lady;  aad  it 
would  be  so,  I  truly  think,  to  keep  them  every  day." 

"  Why  did  you  leap  from  the  tower  of  Beaurevoir?"  (The  drift  of 
this  question  was  to  induce  her  to  say  that  she  had  wished  to  kill 
herself.) — "  I  heard  that  the  poor  people  of  Compiegne  would  all  be 
slain,  down  to  children  seven  years  of  age,  and  I  knew,  too,  that  I 
was  sold  to  the  English  ;  I  would  rather  have  died  than  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  English." 

"Do  St.  Catherine  and  St.  Margaret  hate  the  English?" — "They 
love  what  our  Lord  loves,  and  hate  what  he  hates." — "Does  God 
hate  the  English  ?  " — "  Of  the  love  or  hate  God  may  bear  the  English, 
and  what  he  does  with  their  souls,  I  know  nothing  ;  but  I  know  that 
they  will  be  put  forth  out  of  France,  with  the  exception  of  such  as 
.shall  perish  in  it." 

"  Is  it  not  a  mortal  sin  to  hold  a  man  to  ransom,  and  then  put  him 
to  death  ?"- -"  I  have  not  done  that." — "Was  not  Franquet  d'Arras 
jiu!  to  death  ?  " — "  I  consented  to  it,  having  been  unable  to  exchange 
him  for  one  of  my  men;  he  owned  to  being  a  brigand  and  a  traitor. 
His  trial  lasted  a  fortnight,  before  the  bailli  of  Senlis." — "  Did  you 
not  give  money  to  the  man  who  took  him  ?  " — ' '  I  am  not  treasurer  of 
France,  to  give  money." 

"  !><>  you  think  that  your  king  did  well  in  killing,  or  causing  to  be 
killed,  my  lord  of  Burgundy  ?"—"  It  was  a  great  pity  for  the  realm 
of  France  ;  but  whatever  might  have  been  between  them,  God  sent 
me  to  the  aid  of  the  King  of  France." 

"Jehanne,  has  it  been  revealed  to  you  whether  you  will  escape?" 

"  That  does  not  hear  upon  your  trial.  Do  you  want  me  to  depone 
n«rainst  myself  ?"-  -"  Have  the  voices  said  nothing  to  you  about  it?  " 

"That  does  not  concern  your  trial;  I  put  myself  in  our  Lord's 
hands,  \vlio  will  do  as  it  pleaseth  him."  .  .  .  And,  after  a  pause, 
"  By  iny  troth,  I  know  neither  the  hour  nor  the  day.  God's  will  b« 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  8J, 

done."— "  Have  not  your  voices  told  you  anything  about  the  result, 
generally?"-  "Well,  then,  yes  ;  they  have  told  me  that  I  shall  be 
delivered,  and  have  bade  me  be  of  good  cheer  and  courage.  ..." 
Another  day  she  added  :  "  The  saints  tell  me  that  I  shall  be  victo- 
riously deliverer!,  and  they  say  to  me  besides,  '  Take  all  in  good  part ;, 


they  have  told  me  as  firmly  as  if   I  were  already  saved." — "This 
assurance  is  avery  weighty  one." — "  Yes,  it  isagreat  treasure  to  me.") 

-"And  so  you  believe  you  can  no  longer  commit  a  mortal  sin  ?  " — "  I 
know  nothing  of  that ;  I  rely  altogether  on  our  Lord." 

At  last  the  judges  had  made  out  the  true  ground  on  which  to 
bring  the  accusation  ;  at  last  they  had  found  a  spot  on  which  to  lay 
stronghold.  There  was  not  a  chance  of  getting  this  chaste  and  holy 
girl  to  be  taken  for  a  witch,  for  a  familiar  of  the  devil's  ;  but  in  her 
very  sanctity,  as  is  invariably  the  case  with  all  mystics,  there  was  a 
side  left  open  to  attack  ;  the  secret  voice  considered  equal,  or  pre- 
ferred to,  the  instruction  of  the  Church,  the  prescriptions  of  authority 
— inspiration,  but  free  and  independent  inspiration — revelation,  but 
a  personal  revelation — submission  to  God;  what  <3od?  the  God 
within. 

These  preliminary  examinations  were  concluded  by  a  formal  de- 
mand, whether  she  would  submit  her  actions  and  opinions  to  the 
judgment  of  the  Church  ;  to  which  she  replied,  "  I  love  the  Church, 
and  would  support  it  to  the  best  of  my  power.  As  to  the  good  works 
which  I  have  wrought,  I  must  refer  them  to  the  King  of  Heaven, 
who  sent  me." 

The  question  being  repeated,  she  gave  no  other  answer,  but  added, 
"  Our  Lord  and  the  Church,  it  is  all  one." 

She  was  then  told  that  there  was  a  distinction  ;  that  there  was  the 
Church  triumphant,  God,  the  saints,  and  those  who  had  been  admitted 
to  salvation  ;  and  the  Church  militant,  or,  in  other  words,  the  Pope, 
the  cardinals,  the  clergy,  and  all  good  Christians — the  which  Church, 
"  properly  assembled,"  cannot  err,  and  is  guided  by  the  Holy  Ghost. 
"  Will  you  not  then  submit  yourself  to  the  Church  militant?  "-  -"I 
am  come  to  the  King  of  France  from  God,  from  the  Virgin  Mary,  the 
saints,  and  the  Churcli  victorious  there  above  ;  to  that  Church  I  sub 
mit  myself,  my  works,  all  that  I  have  done  or  have  to  do." — "And 
to  the  Church  militant  f  " — "  I  will  give  no  other  answer." 

According  to  one  of  the  assessors  she  said  that,  on  certain  points, 
she  trusted  to  neither  bishop,  pope,  nor  any  one  ;  but  held  her  belief 
of  God  alone. 

The  question  on  which  the  trial  was  to  turn  was  thus  laid  down  in 
all  its  simplicity  and  grandeur,  and  the  true  debate  commenced  ;  on 
the  one  hand,  the  visible  Church  and  authority,  on  the  other,  inspi- 
ration attesting  the  invisible  Church  ;  .  .  .  invisible  to  vulgar  eyes, 


40  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

but  clearly  seen  by  the  pious  girl,  who  was  forever  contemplating  it, 
forever  hearing  it  within  herself,  forever  carrying  in  her  heart  these 
saints  and  angels.  .  .  .  There  was  her  Church,  there  God  shone 
in  His  hrightness  ;  everywhere  else,  how  shadowy  He  was  !  .  .  . 

Such  being  the  case  at  issue,  the  accused  was  doomed  to  irremedia- 
ble destruction.  She  could  not  give  way  ;  she  could  not,  save  falsely, 
disavow,  deny  what  she  saw  and  heard  so  distinctly.  On  the  other 
hand,  could  authority  remain  authority  if  it  abdicated  its  jurisdiction  ; 
if  it  did  not  punish?  The  Church  militant  is  an  armed  Church, 
armed  with  a  two-edged  sword  ;  against  whom  ?  •  Apparently,  against 
the  refractory. 

Terrible  was  this  Church  in  the  person  of  the  reasoners,  the  scholas- 
tics, the  enemies  of  inspiration  ;  terrible  and  implacable,  if  repre- 
sented by  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais.  But  were  there,  then,  no  j  udges 
superior  to  this  bishop  ?  How  could  the  episcopal  party,  the  party 
of  the  University,  fail,  in  this  peculiar  case,  to  recognize  as  supreme 
judge  its  Council  of  Bale,  which  was  on  the  eve  of  being  opened?  On 
the  other  hand,  the  papal  Inquisition,  and  the  Dominican  who  was  its 
vicar,  would  undoubtedly  be  far  from  disputing  the  superiority  of  the 
Pope's  jurisdiction  to  its  own,  which  emanated  from  it. 

A  legist  of  Rouen,  that  very  Jean  de  la  Fontaine  who  was  Cauchon's 
friend  and  the  enemy  of  the  Pucelle,  could  not  feel  his  conscience  at 
ease  in  leaving  an  accused  girl  without  counsel,  ignorant  that  there 
were  judges  of  appeal,  on  whom  she  could  call  without  any  sacrifice 
of  the  ground  on  which  she  took  up  her  defence.  Two  monks  like- 
wise thought  that  a  reservation  should  be  made  in  favor  of  the  su- 
preme right  of  the  Pope.  However  irregular  it  might  be  for  assessors 
to  visit  and  counsel  the  accused,  apart  from  their  coadjutors,  these 
three  worthy  men,  who  saw  Cauchon  violate  every  legal  form  for  the 
triumph  of  iniquity,  did  not  hesitate  to  violate  all  forms  themselves 
for  justice's  sake,  intrepidly  repaired  to  the  prison,  forced  their  way 
in,  and  advised  her  to  appeal.  The  next  day  she  appealed  to  the 
Pope  and  to  the  council.  Cauchon,  in  his  rage,  sent  for  the  guards 
:ind  inquired  who  had  visited  the  Pucelle.  The  legist  and  the  two 
monks  were  in  great  danger  of  death.  From  that  day  they  disap- 
pear from  among  the  assessors,  and  with  them  the  last  semblance  of 
justice  disappears  from  the  trial. 

<'auchon,  at  first,  had  hoped  to  have  on  his  side  the  authority  of 
ili.'  lawyers,  which  carried  great  weight  at  Rouen.  But  he  had  soon 
found  out  that  he  must  do  without  them.  When  he  showed  the 
minutes  of  the  opening  proceedings  of  the  trial  to  one  of  these  grave 
legists,  master  Johan  Lohier,  the  latter  plainly  told  him  that  the 
trial  amounted  to  nothing  ;  that  it  was  all  informal ;  that  the  assess- 
ors were  not  free  to  judge  ;  that  the  proceedings  were  carried  on  with 
closeil  doors;  that  the  accused,  a  simple  country  girl,  was  not  capa- 
ble of  answering  on  such  grave  subjects  and  to  learned  doctors  ;  and, 
finally,  the  lawyer  had  the  boldness  to  say  to  the  churchman  :  "  The 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  41 

proceedings  are,  in  point  of  fact,  instituted  to  impugn  the  honor  of 
the  prince,  whoso  side  this  girl  espouses  ;  you  shall  cite  him  to  ap- 
pear as  well,  and  assign  him  an  advocate."  This  intrepid  gravity, 
which  recalls  Papinian's  bearing  towards  Caracalla,  would  have  cost 
Lohier  dear ;  but  the  Norman  Papinian  did  not,  like  the  other, 
calmly  wait  the  death  stroke  on  his  curule  chair ;  he  set  off  at  once 
for  Rome,  where  the  Pope  eagerly  attached  such  a  man  to  himself, 
and  appointed  him  one  of  the  judges  of  the  Holy  See  ;  he  died  dean 
of  the  Rota. 

Apparently,  Cauchon  ought  to  have  been  better  supported  by  tho 
theologians.  After  the  first  examinations,  armed  with  the  answers 
which  she  had  given  against  herself,  he  shut  himself  up  with  his  in- 
timates, and  availing  himself,  especially,  of  the  pen  of  an  able  mem- 
ber of  the  University  of  Paris,  he  drew  from  these  answers  a  few 
counts,  on  which  the  opinion  of  the  leading  doctors  and  of  the  eccle- 
siastical bodies  was  to  be  taken.  This  was  the  detestable  custom,  but 
in  reality  (whatever  has  been  said  to  the  contrary)  the  common  and 
regular  way  of  proceeding  in  inquisitorial  trials.  These  propositions, 
extracted  from  the  answers  given  by  the  Pucelle,  and  drawn  up  in 
general  terms,  bore  a  false  show  of  impartiality  ;  although  in  point 
of  fact  they  were  a  caricature  of  those  answers,  and  the  doctors  con- 
sulted could  not  fail  to  pass  an  opinion  upon  them,  in  accordance  with 
the  hostile  intention  of  their  iniquitous  framers. 

But  however  the  counts  might  be  framed,  however  great  the  ter- 
ror which  hung  over  the  doctors  consulted,  they  were  far  from  being 
unanimous  in  their  judgments.  Among  these  doctors,  the  true  theo- 
logians, the  sincere  believers,  those  who  had  preserved  the  firm  faith 
of  the  middle  age,  could  not  easily  reject  this  tale  of  celestial  appear- 
ances, of  visions  ;  for  then  they  might  have  doubted  all  the  marvels 
of  the  lives  of  the  saints,  and  discussed  all  their  legends.  The  vener- 
able Bishop  of  Avranches  replied,  on  being  consulted,  that,  according 
to  the  teaching  of  St.  Thomas,  there  was  nothing  impossible  in  what 
this  girl  affirmed,  nothing  to  be  lightly  rejected. 

The  Bishop  of  Lisieux,  while  acknowledging  that  Jeanne's  revela 
tions  might  be  the  work  of  the  devil,  humanely  added  that  they 
might  also  be  simple  lies,  and  that  if  she  did  not  submit  herself  to  the 
Church,  she  must  be  adjudged  schismatic,  and  be  vehemently  sus- 
pected in  regard  to  faith. 

Many  legists  answered  like  true  Normans,  by  finding  her  guilty 
and  most  guilty,  except  she  acted  by  God's  command.  One  bachelor 
at  law  went  further  than  this  ;  while  condemning  her,  he  demanded, 
in  consideration  of  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  that  the  twelve  propoxi 
tions  slpuld  be  read  over  to  her  (he  suspected,  and  with  reason,  that 
they  had  not  been  communicated  to  her),  and  that  they  should  then 
be  laid  before  the  Pope — this  would  have  been  adjourning  the  matter 
indefinitely. 

The  assessors,  assembled  in  the  chapel  of  the  archbishopric,  had 


42  JOAN  OP  ARC. 

decided  against  her  on  the  showing  of  these  propositions.  The  chap- 
ter of  Rouen,  likewise  consulted,  was  in  ao  haste  to  come  to  a  de- 
cision and  to  give  the  victory  to  the  man  it  detested  and  trembled  at 
having  for  its  archbishop,  but  chose  to  wait  for  the  reply  from  the 
University  of  Paris,  which  had  been  applied  to  on  the  subject.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  what  this  reply  would  be  ;  the  Gallican  party,  that 
is,  the  University  and  scholastic  party,  could  not  be  favorable  to  the 
Pucelle  *  an  individual  of  this  party,  the  Bishop  of  Coutances,  went 
beyond  all  others  in  the  harshness  and  singularity  of  his  answer. 
He  wrote  to  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais  that  he  considered  the  accused 
to  be  wholly  the  devil's,  ' '  because  she  was  without  two  qualities  re- 
quired by  St.  Gregory — virtue  and  humanity,"  and  that  her  assertions 
were  so  heretical,  that  though  she  should  revoke  them,  she  must 
nevertheless  be  held  in  strict  keeping. 

It  was  a  strange  spectacle  to  see  these  theologians,  these  doctors, 
laboring  with  all  their  might  to  ruin  the  very  faith  which  was  the 
foundation  of  their  doctrine,  and  which  constituted  the  religious  prin- 
ciples of  the  middle  age  in  general — belief  in  revelations  ;  in  the  in- 
tervention of  supernatural  beings.  ...  They  might  have  their 
doubts  as  to  the  intervention  of  angels  ;  but  their  belief  in  the  devil's 
agencies  was  implicit. 

And  was  not  the  important  question  whether  internal  revelations 
ought  to  be  hushed,  and  to  disavow  themselves  to  the  Church's  bid- 
ding, was  not  this  question,  so  loudly  debated  in  the  outer  world, 
silently  discussed  in  the  inner  world,  in  the  soul  of  her  who  affirmed 
and  who  believed  in  their  existence  the  most  firmly  of  all  ?  Was  not 
this  battle  of  faith  fought  in  the  very  sanctuary  of  faith — fought  in 
this  loyal  and  simple  heart  ?  .  .  .  I  have  reason  to  believe  so. 

At  one  time  she  expressed  her  readiness  to  submit  herself  to  the 
Pope,  and  asked  to  be  sent  to  him.  At  another  she  drew  a  distinction, 
maintaining  that  as  regarded  faith  she  acknowledged  the  authority  of 
the  Pope,  the  bishops,  and  the  Church,  but  as  regarded  what  she  had 
done,  she  could  own  no  other  judge  than  God.  Sometimes,  making 
no  distinction,  and  offering  no  explanation,  she  appealed  "to  her 
Kin^,  to  the  judge  of  heaven  and  of  earth." 

Whatever  care  has  been  taken  to  throw  these  things  into  the  shade, 
and  to  conceal  this,  the  human  side,  in  a  being  who  has  been  fondly 
painted  as  all  divine,  her  fluctuations  are  visible,  and  it  is  wrong  to 
charge  her  judges  with  having  misled  her  so  as  to  make  her  prevari- 
cate on  those  questions.  "  She  was  very  subtle,"  says  one  of  th« 
witnesses,  and  truly;  "  of  a  woman's  subtlety."  I  incline  to  at- 
tribute to  these  internal  struggles  the  sickness  which  attacked  her, 
and  which  brought  her  to  the  point  of  death  ;  nor  did  she  recover,  as 
she  herself  informs  us,  until  the  period  that  the  angel  Micnael,  the 
angel  of  battles,  ceased  to  support  her,  and  gave  place  to  Gabriel,  the 
angel  of  grace  and  of  divine  love 

She  fell  sick  in  Passion  week.     Her  temptation  began,  no  doubt, 


THE  MAID  OP  ORLEANS.  43 

on  Palm  Sunday.*  A  country  girl,  born  on  the  skirts  of  a  forest,  and 
having  ever  lived  in  the  open  air  of  heaven,  she  was  compelled  to  pass 
this  fine  Palm  Sunday  in  the  depths  of  a  dungeon.  The  grand  succor 
which  the  Church  invokes  f  caine  not  for  her  ;  the  doors  did  not 


They  were  opened  on  the  Tuesday  ;  but  it  was  to  lead  the  accused 
to  the  great  hall  of  the  castle  before  her  judges.  They  read  to  her 
the  articles  which  had  been  founded  on  her  answers,  and  the  bishop 
previously  represented  to  her  "  that  these  doctors  were  all  churchmen, 
clerks,  and  well  read  in  law,  divine  and  human  •  that  they  were  all 
tender  and  pitiful,  and  desired  to  proceed  mildly,  seeking  neither  ven- 
geance nor  corporeal  punishment,  but  solely  wishing  to  enlighten  her, 
and  to  put  her  in  the  way  of  truth  and  of  salvation  ;  and  that,  as  she 
was  not  sufficiently  informed  on  such  high  matters,  the  bishop  and 
the  inquisitor  offered  her  the  choice  of  one  or  more  of  the  assessors  to 
act  as  her  counsel."  The  accused,  in  presence  of  this  assembly,  in 
which  she  did  not  descry  a  ungle  friendly  face,  mildly  answered, 
"  For  what  you  admonish  me  as  io  my  good,  and  concerning  our 
faith,  I  thank  you  ;  as  to  the  counsel  you  offer  me,  I  have  no  inten- 
tion to  forsake  the  counsel  of  our  Lord." 

The  first  article  touched  the  capital  point,  submission.  She  replied 
as  before  :  '  '  Well  do  I  believe  that  our  Holy  Father,  the  bishops,  and 
others  of  the  Church  are  to  guard  the  Christian  faith,  and  punish 
those  who  are  found  wanting.  As  to  my  deeds  (faits),  I  submit  my 
self  only  to  the  Church  in  heaven,  to  God  and  the  Virgin,  to  the 
sainted  men  and  women  in  Paradise.  I  have  not  been  wanting  in 
regard  to  the  Christian  faith,  and  trust  I  neve,  shall  be." 

And,  shortly  afterwards  .  "T  would  rather  die  than  recall  what  I 
have  done  by  our  Lord's  command." 

What  illustrates  the  time,  the  uninformed  mind  of  these  doctors, 
and  their  blind  attachment  to  the  letter  without  regard  to  the  spirit, 
is,  that  no  point  seemed  graver  to  them  than  the  sin  of  having  as- 
sumed male  attire.  They  represented  to  her  that  according  to  the 
canons,  those  who  thus  change  the  habit  of  their  sex  are  abominable 
in  the  sight  of  God.  At  first  she  would  not  give  a  direct  answer,  and 
begged  for  a  respite  till  the  next  day  ;  but  her  judges  insisting  on  her 
discarding  the  dress,  she  replied,  "  that  she  was  not  empowered  to  say 
when  she  could  quit  it."  —  "  But  if  you  should  be  deprived  of  the 

*  "1  know  not  why,''  says  a  great  spiritual  teacher,  "God  chooses  the  most  solemn 
lestivals  to  try  and  to  purify  his  elect.  ...  It  is  above  only,  in  the  festival  of 
hnaven,  that  we  shall  be  delivered  from  all  our  troubles."  —  Saint-Cynm.  in  the  Me- 
moires  de  Lancelot,  i.  6. 

t  The  office  for  prune,  on  this  day,  runs  :  "  Deus,  in  adjutorium  meum  intende. 
..."  (Come,  O  God,  to  my  aid.) 

;  Every  one  knows  that  the  service  for  this  festival  is  one  of  those  in  whick  the 
beautiful  dramatic  forms  of  the  middle  age  have  been  preserved.    The  proowsiou 
finds  the  door  of  the  church  shut,  the  minister  knocks  :  "Attollite  portaa.    .   .   . 
Aud  the  door  is  opened  to  the  Lord. 


44  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

privilege  of  hearing  mass  ? " — "  Well,  our  Lord  can  grant  me  to  hear 
it  without  you." — "  Will  you  put  on  a  woman's  dress  in  order  to  re- 
ceive your  Saviour  at  Easter  ?"—"  No  ;  I  cannot  quit  this  dress  ;  it 
matters  not  to  me  in  what  dress  I  receive  my  Saviour." — After  this 
she  seems  shaken,  asks  to  be  at  least  allowed  to  hear  mass,  adding, 
"  I  won't  say  but  if  you  were  to  give  me  a  gown  such  as  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  burghers  wear,  a  very  long  gown.  .  .  ." 

It  is  clear  she  shrank,  through  modesty,  from  explaining  herself. 
The  poor  girl  durst  not  explain  her  position  in  prison,  or  the  constant 
danger  she  was  in.  The  truth  is,  that  three  soldiers  slept  in  her 
room,*  three  of  the  brigand  ruffians  called  houspilleurs  ;  that  she  was 
chained  to  a  beam  by  a  large  iron  chain,  f  almost  wholly  at  their 
mercy  ;  the  man's  dress  they  wished  to  compel  her  to  discontinue 
was  all  her  safeguard.  .  .  .  What  are  we  to  think  of  the  imbe- 
cility of  the  judge,  or  of  his  horrible  connivance? 

Besides  being  kept  under,  the  eyes  of  these  wretches,  and  exposed 
to  their  insults  and  mockery, \  she  was  subjected  to  espial  from  with- 
,ut.  Winchester,  the  inquisitor,  and  Cauchon  §  had  each  a  key  to 
the  tower,  and  watched  her  hourly  through  a  hole  in  the  wall.  Each 
stone  ot  this  infernal  dungeon  had  eyes. 

Her  only  consolation  was  that  she  was  at  first  allowed  interviews 
with  a  priest,  who  told  her  that  he  was  a  prisoner,  and  attached  to 
Charles  VII.  's  cause.  Loyseleur,  so  he  was  named,  was  a  tool  of 
the  English.  He  had  won  Jeanne's  confidence,  who  used  to  confess 
herself  to  him  ;  and  at  such  times  her  confessions  were  taken  down 
by  notaries  concealed  on  purpose  to  overhear  her.  .  .  .  It  is  said 
that  Loyseleur  encouraged  her  to  hold  out,  in  order  to  insure  her  de- 
struction. On  the  question  of  her  being  put  to  the  torture  being  dis- 
cussed (a  very  useless  proceeding,  since  she  neither  denied  nor  con- 
cealed anything),  there  were  only  two  or  three  of  her  judges  who 
counselled  the  atrocious  deed,  and  the  confessor  was  one  of  these. 

The  deplorable  state  of  the  prisoner's  health  was  aggravated  by  her 

*  Five  Englishmen  ;  three  of  whom  B'ayed  at  night  in  her  room.  (Howirittar  is 
to  worry  like  a  doe — hence  the  name  Howpilleur.)  Notices  des  MSS.,  lii.  5()6. 

t  "  She  slept  with  double  chains  round  her  limbs,  and  closely  fastened  to  a  chain 
traversing  the  foot  of  her  bed,  attached  to  a  large  piece  of  wood  five  or  six  feet  long, 
and  padlocked,  so  that  she  could  not  stir  from  the  place." — Ibidem.  Another  wit- 
ness states:  "There  was  an  iron  beam,  to  keep  her  straight  (erectam).'1'  Procks 
J/S.-Evidence  of  Pierre  Cusquel. 

J  The  Count  de  Ligny  went  to  see  her  with  an  English  lord,  and  said  to  her, 
"Jeanne,  I  come  to  hold  you  to  ransom,  provided  you  promise  never  again  to  bear 
arms  against  us."  She  replied  :  "  Ah  !  my  God,  you  are  laughing  at  me  ;  I  know 
yon  have  neither  the  will  nor  the  power."  And  when  he  repeated  the  words,  she 
added,  "  I  am  convinced  the^e  English  will  put  me  to  death,  in  the  hope  of  winning 
the  kingdom  of  France.  But  though  the  Godons  (Goddens)  should  be  a  hundred 
thousand  more  than  they  are  to-day,  they  would  not  win  the  kingdom."  The  Eng- 
lish lord  was  so  enraged  that  he  drew  his  dagger  to  plunge  it  into  her,  but  was  hin- 
dered by  the  Karl  of  Warwick.  Notices  des  MSS.,  iii.  371. 

S  Not  precisely  Cauchon,  but  his  man,  Estivet.  promoter  of  the  prosecution. 
Ibid.,  iii.  413. 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  45 

being  deprived  of  the  consolations  of  religion  during  Passion  Week. 
On  the  Thursday  the  sacrament  was  withheld  from  her  :  on  that  self- 
same day  on  which  Christ  is  universal  host,  on  which  He  invites  the 
poor  and  all  those  who  suffer,  she  seemed  to  be  forgotten.* 

On  Good  Friday,  that  day  of  deep  silence,  on  which  we  all  hear  no 
other  sound  than  the  beating  of  one's  own  heart,  it  seems  as  if  the 
hearts  of  the  judges  smote  them,  and  that  some  feeling  of  humanity 
and  of  religion  had  been  awakened  in  their  aged  scholastic  souls  :  at 
least  it  is  certain,  that  whereas  thirty- five  of  them  took  their  seats  on 
the  Wednesday,  no  more  than  nine  were  present  at  the  examination 
on  Saturday  :  the  rest,  no  doubt,  alleged  the  devotions  of  the  day  as 
their  excuse. 

On  the  contrary,  her  courage  had  revived.  Likening  her  own  suf- 
ferings to  those  of  Christ,  the  thought  had  roused  her  from  her  de- 
spondency. She  answered,  when  the  question  was  again  put  to  her, 
"  that  she  would  defer  to  the  Church  militant,  provided  it  commanded 
nothing  impossible." — "  Do  you  think,  then,  that  you  are  not  subject  to 
the  Church  which  is  upon  earth,  to  our  holy  father  the  Pope,  to  the 
cardinals,  archbishops,  bishops,  and  prelates?" — "Yes,  certainly, 
our  Lord  served." — "  Do  your  voices  forbid  your  submitting  to  the 
Church  militant?" — "  They  do  not  forbid  it,  our  Lard  being  served 
first." 

This  firmness  did  not  desert  her  once  on  the  Saturday  :  but  on  the 
next  day,  the  Sunday  (Easter  Sunday  !)  what  must  her  feelings  have 
been  ?  What  must  have  passed  in  that  poor  heart,  when,  the  sounds 
of  the  universal  holiday  enlivening  the  city,  Rouen's  five  hundred  Ix-lls 
ringing  out  with  their  joyous  peals  on  the  air.f  and  the  whole  Chris- 
tian world  coming  to  life  with  the  Saviour,  she  remained  with  death  !  _ 

Summon  up  our  pride  as  much  as  we  may,  philosophers  and  rea- 
soners  as  we  boast  ourselves  to  be  in  this  present  age,  but  which  of 
us — amidst  the  agitations  of  modern  bustle  and  excitement,  or  in  the 
voluntary  captivity  of  study,  plunged  in  its  toilsome  and  solitary  re- 
searches— which  of  us  hears  without  emotion  the  sounds  of  these 
beautiful  Christian  festivals,  the  touching  voice  of  the  bells,  and,  as 
it  were,  their  mild  maternal  reproach  ?  .  .  .  Who  can  see,  with- 
out envying  them,  those  crowds  of  believers  issuing  from  the  Church, 
made  young  again  and  revived  by  the  divine  table  ?  .  .  The 
mind  remains  firm,  but  the  soul  is  sad  and  heavy.  ...  He  who 
believes  in  the  future,  and  whose  heart  is  not  the  less  linked  to  the 
past,  at  such  moments  lays  down  the  pen,  closes  the  book,  and 
cannot  refrain  from  exclaiming  "  Ah  !  why  am  I  not  with  them,  one 
of  them,  and  the  simplest,  the  least  of  these  little  children  ?  " 

What  must  have  been  one's  feelings  at  that  time,  when  the  Clnis- 

*  "  Usque  quo  oblimsceres  me  in  flnem  ?  "  (How  long  wilt  thou  forget  me  f)  Ser- 
vice for  Holy  Thursday,  Lands . 

t  Compare  the  statement,  given  above,  as  to  the  deep  impression  made  on  her  by 
the  sound  of  bells. 


4d  JOA:N  OP  ARC. 

tian  world  was  still  one,  still  undivided  ?  What  must  have  been  the 
throes  of  that  young  soul  which  had  lived  but  on  faith  ?  .  .  . 
Could  she  who,  with  all  her  inner  life  of  visions  and  revelations,  had 
not  the  less  docilely  obeyed  the  commands  of  the  Church  ;  could 
she  who  till  now  had  believed  herself  in  her  simplicity  "  a  good  girl,"  as 
she  said,  a  girl  altogether  submissive  to  the  Church — could  she  with- 
out terror  see  the  Church  against  her?  Alone,  when  all  are  united 
with  God — alone  excepted  from  the  world's  gladness  and  universal 
communion,  on  the  day  on  which  the  gates  of  heaven  are  opened  t» 
mankind — alone  to  be  excluded  !  .  .  .  I 

And  was  this  exclusion  unjust?  .  .  .  The  Christian's  soul  is 
too  humble  ever  to  pretend  that  it  has  a  right  to  receive  its  God.  .  . 
After  all,  what,  who  was  she,  to  undertake  to  gainsay  these  prelates, 
these  doctors?  How  dared  she  speak  before  so  many  able  men — men 
who  had  studied  ?  Was  there  not  presumption  and  damnable  pride 
in  an  ignorant  girl's  opposing  herself  to  the  learned — a  poor  simple 
girl  to  men  in  authority?  .  .  .  Undoubtedly  fears  of  the  kind 
agitated  her  mind. 

On  the  other  hand,  this  opposition  is  not  Jeanne's,  but  that  of  the 
saints  and  angels  who  had  dictated  her  answers  to  her,  and,  up  to 
this  time,  sustained  her.  .  .  .  Wherefore,  alas  !  do  they  come  no 
more  in  this  pressing  need  of  hers  ?  Wherefore  do  those  consoling 
countenances  of  the  saints  appear  no  more,  except  in  a  doubtful  light, 
and  growing  paler  daily  ?  .  .  .  Wherefore  is  the  so  long-prom- 
ised deliverance  delayed?  .  .  .  Doubtless  the  prisoner  has  put 
these  questions  to  herself  over  and  over  again  ;  doubtless,  silently, 
gently,  she  has  over  and  over  again  quarrelled  with  her  saints  and 
angels.  But  angels  who  do  not  keep  their  word,  can  they  be  angels 
of  li»ht  ?  .  .  .  Let  us  hope  that  this  horrible  thought  did  not  oc- 
cur to  her  mind. 

There  was  one  means  of  escaping  :  this  was.  without  expressly  dis- 
avowing, to  forbear  affirming,  and  to  say,  "It  seems  to  me."  The 
lawyers  thought  it  easy  for  her  to  pronounce  these  few  simple  words  ; 
but  in  her  mind  to  use  so  doubtful  an  expression  was  in  reality  equiv- 
alent to  a  denial  :  it  was  abjuring  her  beautiful  dream  of  heavenly 
friendships,  betraying  her  sweet  sisters  on  high.  .  .  .  Better  to 
die-  •  •  •  And,  indeed,  the  unfortunate,  rejected  by  the  visible, 
abandoned  by  the  invisible  Church,  by  the  world,  and  by  her  own 
heart,  was  sinking.  .  .  .  And  the  body  was  following  the  sink 
ing  soul.  .  .  . 

It  so  happened  that  on  that  very  day  she  had  eaten  part  of  a  fish 
which  the  charitable  Bishop  of  Beauvais  had  sent  her,  and  might,  luivo 
imagined  herself  poisoned.  The  bishop  had  an  interest  in  her  death  ; 
it  would  have  put  an  end  to  this  embarrassing  trial,  would  have  got 
the  judge  out  of  the  scrape  ;  but  this  was  not  what  the  English  reck- 
oned upon.  The  Earl  of  Warwick  in  his  alarm  said,  "  The  king  would 
not  have  her  by  any  means  die  a  natural  death.  The/bVi^  has  bought 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  47 

her  dear,  .  .  .  She  must  die  by  justice  and  be  burnt  .  .  , 
See  and  cure  her." 

All  attention,  indeed,  was  paid  her  ;  she  was  visited  and  bled,  but 
was  none  the  better  for  it,  remaining  weak  and  nearly  dying. 
Whether  through  fear  that  she  should  escape  thus  and  die  without 
retracting,  or  that  her  bodily  weakness  inspired  hopes  that  her  mind 
would  be  more  easily  dealt  with,  the  judges  made  an  attempt  while 
she  was  lying  in  this  state  (April  18).  They  visited  her  in  her  cham- 
ber, and  represented  to  her  that  she  would  be  in  great  danger  if  sh« 
did  not  reconsider  and  follow  the  advice  of  the  Church.  "  It  seems 
to  me,  indeed,"  she  said,  "seeing  my  sickness,  that  I  am  in  great 
danger  of  death.  If  so,  God's  will  be  done  ;  I  should  like  to  confess, 
receive  nay  Saviour,  and  be  laid  in  holy  ground." — "  If  you  desire  the 
sacraments  of  the  Church,  you  must  do  as  good  Catholics  do,  and  sub- 
mit yourself  to  it."  She  made  no  reply.  But  on  the  judge's  repeat- 
ing his  words,  she  said  :  "  If  the  body  die  in  prison,  I  hope  that  you 
will  lay  it  in  holy  ground  ;  if  you  do  not,  I  appeal  to  our  Lord." 

Already  in  ihe  course  of  these  examinations  she  had  expressed  one 
of  her  last  wishes.  Question.  "  You  say  that  you  wear  a  man".-; 
dress  by  God's  command,  and  yet,  in  case  you  die,  you  want  a 
woman's  shift?" — Answer.  "All  I  want  is  to  have  a  long  one." 
This  touching  answer  was  ample  proof  that,  in  this  extremity,  sh« 
was  much  less  occupied  with  care  about  life  than  with  the  fears  of 
modesty. 

The  doctors  preached  to  their  patient  for  a  long  time  ;  and  he  who 
had  taken  on  himself  the  especial  care  of  exhorting  her,  Master 
Nicolas  Midy,  a  scholastic  of  Paris,  closed  the  scene  by  saying  bitter- 
ly to  her  :  "If  you  don't  obey  the  Church,  you  will  be  abandoned  for 
a  Saracen." — "lam  a  good  Christian,"  she  replied  meekly,  "I  was 
properly  baptized,  and  will  die  like  a  good  Christian." 

The  slowness  of  these  proceedings  drove  the  English  wild  with  im- 
patience. Winchester  had  hoped  to  have  been  able  to  bring  the  trial 
to  an  end  before  the  campaign  ;  to  have  forced  a  confession  from  the 
prisoner,  and  have  dishonored  King  Charles.  This  blow  struck,  he 
would  recover  Louviers,  secure  Normandy  and  the  Seine,  and  then 
repair  to  Bslle  to  begin  another  war — a  theological  war — to  sit  there  as 
arbiter  of  Christendom,  and  make  and  unmake  popes.  At  the  very 
moment  he  had  these  high  designs  in  view,  he  was  compelled  to  cool 
his  heels,  waiting  upon  what  it  might  please  this  girl  to  say. 

The  unlucky  Cauchon  happened  at  this  precise  juncture  to  have 
offended  the  Chapter  of  Rouen,  from  which  he  was  soliciting  a  de- 
cision against  the  Pucelle  :  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  addressed 
beforehand  as  "  My  lord,  the  archbishop."  Winchester  determined 
to  disregard  the  delays  of  these  Normans,  and  to  refer  at  once  to  tho 
great  theological  tribunal,  the  University  of  Paris. 

While  waiting  for  the  answer,  new  attempts  were  made  to  over- 
come the  resistance  of  the  accused  ;  and  both  stratagem  and  terror 


48  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

were  brought  into  play.  In  the  course  of  a  second  admonition  (May 
2),  the  preacher,  Master  Chatillon,  proposed  to  her  to  submit  the 
question  of  the  truth  of  her  visions  to  persons  of  her  own  party.  She 
did  not  give  in  to  the  snare.  "  As  to  this,"  she  said,  "  I  depend  on 
my  Judge,  the  King  of  heaven  and  earth."  She  did  not  say  this 
time,  as°before,  "  On  God  and  the  Pope." — "  Well,  the  Church  will 
give  you  up,  and  you  will  be  in  danger  of  fire,  both  soul  and  body. 
You  -will  not  do  what  we  tell  you  until  you  suffer  body  and  soul." 

They  did  not  stop  at  vague  threats.  On  the  third  admonition, 
which  took  place  in  her  chamber  (May  11),  the  executioner  was  sent 
for  and  she  was  told  that  the  torture  was  ready.  .  .  .  But  the 
manoeuvre  failed.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  found  that  she  had  resumed 
all,  and  more  than  all  her  courage.  Raised  up  after  temptation,  she 
seemed  to  have  mounted  a  step  nearer  the  source  of  grace.  "  The 
angel  Gabriel,"  she  said,  "  has  appeared  to  strengthen  me  ;  it  was  he, 
my  saints  have  assured  me  so.  .  .  .  God  has  been  ever  my 
master  in  what  I  have  done  ;  the  devil  has  never  had  power  over  me. 
.  .  .  Though  you  should  tear  off  my  limbs  and  pluck  my  soul 
from  my  body,  I  would  say  nothing  else."  The  spirit  was  so  visibly 
manifested  in  her  that  her  last  adversary,  the  preacher  Chatillon,  was 
touched  and  became  her  defender,  declaring  that  a  trial  so  conducted 
seemed  to  him  null.  Cauchon,  beside  himself  with  rage,  compelled 
him  to  silence 

The  reply  of  the  University  arrived  at  last.  The  decision  to  which 
it  came  on  the  twelve  articles  was,  that  this  girl  was  wholly  the  dev- 
il's ;  was  impious  in  regard  to  her  parents  ;  thirsted  for  Christian 
blood,  &c.  This  was  the  opinion  given  by  the  faculty  of  theology. 
That  of  law  was  more  moderate,  declaring  her  to  be  deserving  of 
punishment,  but  with  two  reservations — 1st,  in  case  she  persisted  in 
her  non-submission  ;  3d,  if  she  were  in  her  right  senses. 

At  the  same  time,  the  University  wrote  to  the  Pope,  to  the  cardi- 
nals, and  to  the  King  of  England,  lauding  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais, 
and  setting  forth,  "  that  there  seemed  to  it  to  have  been  great  gravity 
observed,  and  a  holy  and  just  way  of  proceeding,  which  ought  to  be 
most  satisfactory  to  all. " 

Armed  with  this  response,  some  of  the  assessors  were  for  burning 
her  without  further  delay  ;  which  would  have  been  sufficient  satisfac- 
tion for*  the  doctors,  whose  authority  she  rejected,  but  not  for  the 
English,  who  required  a  retraction  that  should  defame  (infamdt)  King 
Charles.  They  had  recourse  to  a  new  admonition  and  a  new  preacher, 
Muster  Pierre  Morice,  which  was  attended  by  no  better  result.  It  was 
in  vain  that  he  dwelt  upon  the  authority  of  the  University  of  Paris, 
"  which  is  the  light  of  all  science." — "  Though  I  should  see  the  exe- 
cutioner and  the  fire  there,"  she  exclaimed,  "though  I  were  in  the 
fire,  I  could  only  say  what  I  have  said." 

It  was  by  this  time  the  23d  of  May,  the  day  after  Pentecost  ;  Win 
Chester  could  remain  no  longer  at  Rouen,  and  it  behooved  to  make  an 


THE  MAID   OF   ORLEANS.  49 

end  of  the  business.  Therefore,  it  was  resolved  to  get  up  a  great  and 
terrible  public  scene,  which  should  either  terrify  the  recusant  into 
submission,  or,  at  the  least,  blind  the  people.  Loyseleur,  Chatillon, 
and  Morice,  were  sent  to  visit  her  the  evening  before,  to  promise 
her  that  if  she  would  submit  and  quit  her  man's  dress,  she  should  be 
delivered  out  of  the  hands  of  the  English,  and  placed  in  those  of 
the  Church. 

This  fearful  farce  was  enacted  in  the  cemetery  of  Saint-Ouen,  be- 
hind the  beautifully  severe  monastic  church  so  called  ;  and  which  had 
by  that  day  assumed  its  present  appearance.  On  a  scaffolding  raised 
for  the  purpose  sat  Cardinal  Winchester,  the  two  judges,  and  thirty- 
three  assessors,  of  whom  many  had  their  scribes  seated  at  their  feet. 
On  another  scaffold,  in  the  midst  of  huissiers  and  tortures,  was  Jeanne, 
in  male  attire,  and  also  notaries  to  take  down  her  confessions,  and  a 
preacher  to  admonish  her  ;  and,  at  its  foot,  among  the  crowd,  was  re- 
marked a  strange  auditor,  the  executioner  upon  his  cart,  ready  to  bear 
her  off  as  soon  as  she  should  be  adjudged  his. 

The  preacher  on  this  day,  a  famous  doctor,  Guillaume  Erard,  con- 
ceived himself  bound,  on  so  fine  an  opportunity,  to  give  the  reins  to 
his  eloquence;  and  by  his  zeal  he  spoiled  all.  "O,  noble  house  of 
Prance,"  he  exclaimed,  "  which  wast  ever  wont  to  be  protectress  of 
the  faith,  how  hast  thou  been  abused  to  ally  thyself  with  a  heretic 
and  schismatic.  .  .  ."  So  far  the  accused  had  listened  patiently, 
but  when  the  preacher,  turning  towards  her,  said  to  her,  raising  his 
finger,  "  It  is  to  thee,  Jehanne,  that  I  address  myself,  and  I  tell  thee 
that  thy  king  is  a  heretic  and  schismatic,"  the  admirable  girl,  forget- 
ting all  her  danger,  burst  forth  with,  "  On  my  faith,  sir,  with  all  due 
respect,  I  undertake  to  tell  you,  and  to  swear,  on  pain  of  my  life,  that 
he  is  the  noblest  Christian  of  all  Christians,  the  sincerest  lover  of  the 
faith  and  of  the  Church,  and  not  what  you  call  him." — "  Silence  her," 
called  out  Cauchon. 

Thus  all  these  efforts,  pains,  and  expense,  had  been  thrown  away. 
The  accused  adhered  to  what  she  had  said.  All  they  could  obtain 
from  her  was  her  consent  to  submit  herself  to  the  Pope.  Cauchon  re- 
plied, "The  Pope  is  too  far  off."  He  then  began  to  read  the  sentence 
of  condemnation,  which  had  been  drawn  up  beforehand ,  and  in 
which,  among  other  things,  it  was  specified  :  "  And  furthermore,  you 
have  obstinately  persisted  in  refusing  to  submit  yourself  to  the  //«/// 
Father  and  to"  the  Council,"  &c.  Meanwhile  Loyseleur  and  Erard 
conjured  her  to  have  pity  on  herself  ;  on  which  the  bishop,  catching 
at  a  shadow  of  hope,  discontinued  his  reading.  This  drove  the  Kng- 
lishmad;  and  one  of  Winchester's  secretaries  told  Caucheon  it  was 
clear  that  he  favored  the  girl— a  charge  repeated  by  the  cardinal's 
chaplain.  "  Thou  art  a  liar,"  exclaimed  the  bishop.  "And  thou," 
was  the  retort,  "art  a  traitor  to  the  king."  These  grave  personages 
seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  going  to  cuffs  on  the  judgment-seat. 

Erard,  not   discouraged,  threatened,  prayed.     One  while  he  said, 


SO  JOAN   OF   AKC. 

"Jehanne,  we  pity  you  so!  ...  "  and  another,  "Abjure  or 
be  burnt  ! "  All  present  evinced  an  interest  in  the  matter,  down  even 
to  a  worthy  catchpole  (huissier),  who,  touched  with  compassion,  be- 
sought her  to  give  way,  assuring  her  that  she  should  be  taken  out  of 
the  hands  of  the  English  and  placed  in  those  of  the  Church.  "  Well, 
then,"  she  said,  "  I  will  sign."  On  this,  Cauclion,  turning  to  the  car- 
dinal, respectfully  inquired  what  was  to  be  done  next.  "Admit  her 
to  do  penance,"  replied  the  ecclesiastical  prince. 

Winchester's  secretary  drew  out  of  his  sleeve  a  brief  revocation, 
only  six  lines  long  (that  which  was  given  to  the  world  took  up  six 
pages),  and  put  a  pen  in  her  hand,  but  she  could  not  sign.  She 
smiled  and  drew  a  circle  :  the  secretary  took  her  hand,  and  guided  it 
to  make  a  cross. 

The  sentence  of  grace  was  a  most  severe  one  : — ' '  Jehanne,  we  con- 
demn you,  out  of  our  grace  and  moderation,  to  pass  the  rest  of  your 
days  in  prison,  on  the  bread  of  grief  and  water  of  anguish,  and  so 
to  mourn  your  sins." 

She  was  admitted  by  the  ecclesiastical  judge  to  do  penance  no 
doubt,  nowhere  save  in  the  prisons  of  the  Church.  The  ecclesiastic 
in  pace,  however  severe  it  might  be,  would  at  the  least  withdraw  her 
from  the  hands  of  the  English,  place  her  under  shelter  from  their  in- 
sults, save  her  honor.  Judge  of  her  surprise  and  despair  when  the 
bishop  coldly  said  :  "  Take  her  back  whence  you  brought  her." 

Nothing  was  done  ;  deceived  on  this  wise,  she  could  not  fail  to  re- 
tract her  retraction.  Yet,  though  she  had  abided  by  it,  the  English, 
in  their  fury,  would  not  have  allowed  her  so  to  escape.  They  had 
come  to  Saint  Ouen  in  the  hope  of  at  last  burning  the  sorceress,  had 
waited  panting  and  breathless  to  this  end  ;  and  now  they  were  to  be 
dismissed  on  this  fashion,  paid  with  a  slip  of  parchment,  a  signature, 
a  grimace.  ...  At  the  very  moment  the  bishop  discontinued 
reading  the  sentence  of  condemnation,  stones  flew  upon  the  scaffold- 
ing without  any  respect  for  the  cardinal.  .  .  .  The  doctors  wen • 
in  peril  of  their  lives  as  they  came  down  from  their  seats  into  tho 
public  place  ;  swords  were  in  all  directions  pointed  at  their  throats. 
The  more  moderate  among  the  English  confined  themselves  to  insult- 
ing language  :  "  Priests,  you  are  not  earning  the  king's  money.'" 
The  doctors,  making  off  in  all  haste,  said  tremblingly  :  "Do  not  be 
uneasy,  we  shall  soon  have  her  again." 

And  it  was  not  the  soldiery  alone,  not  the  English  mob,  always  so 
ferocious,  which  displayed  this  thirst  for  blood.  The  better  born,  the 
great,  the  lords,  were  no  less  sanguinary.  The  king's  man,  his  tutor, 
the  Earl  of  Warwick,  said  like  the  soldiers  :  "  The  king's  business 
goes  on  badly  :  the  girl  will  not  be  burnt." 

According  to  English  notions,  Warwick  was  the  mirror  of  worthi- 
ness, the  accomplished  Englishman,  the  perfect  gentleman.  Brave 
and  devout,  like  his  master,  Henry  V. ,  and  the  zealous  champion  of 
the  established  Church,  he  had  performed  the  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS  61 

Land,  as  well  as  many  other  chivalrous  expeditions,  not  failing  to 
give  tournays  on  his  route  :  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  celebrated 
of  which  took  place  at  the  gates  of  Calais,  where  he  defied  the  whole 
chivalry  of  France.  This  tournay  was  long  remembered  ;  and  the 
bravery  and  magnificence  of  this  Warwick  served  not  a  little  to  pre- 
pare the  way  for  the  famous  Warwick,  the  king-maker. 

With  all  his  chivalry,  Warwick  was  not  the  less  savagely  eager  for 
the  death  of  a  woman,  and  one  who  was,  too,  a  prisoner  of  war.  The 
best,  and  the  most  looked-up-to  of  the  English,  was  as  little  deteired 
by  honorable  scruples  as  the  rest  of  his  countrymen  from  putting 
to  death  on  the  award  of  priests,  and  by  fire,  her  who  had  humbled 
them  by  the  sword. 

This  great  English  people,  with  so  many  good  and  solid  qualities, 
is  infected  by  one  vice,  which  corrupts  these  very  qualities  them- 
selves. This  rooted,  all-poisoning  vice  is  pride  :  a  cruel  disease,  but 
which  is  nevertheless  the  principle  of  English  life,  the  explanation  of 
its  contradictions,  the  secret  of  its  acts.  With  them,  virtue  or  crime 
is  almost  ever  the  result  of  pride  ;  even  their  follies  have  no  other 
source.  This  pride  is  sensitive,  and  easily  pained  in  the  extreme  ; 
they  are  great  sufferers  from  it,  and  again  make  it  a  point  of  pride  to 
conceal  these  sufferings.  Nevertheless,  they  will  have  vent.  The  two 
expressive  words,  disappointment  and  mortification,  are  peculiar  to 
the  English  language 

This  self-adoration,  this  internal  worship  of  the  creature  for  its  own 
sake,  is  the  sin  by  which  Satan  fell ;  the  height  of  impiety.  This  is 
the  reason  that  with  so  many  of  the  virtues  of  humanity,  with  their 
seriousness  and  sobriety  of  demeanor,  and  with  their  Biblical  turn  of 
mind,  no  nation  is  further  off  from  grace.  They  are  the  only  people 
who  have  been  unable  to  claim  the  authorship  of  the  Imitation  of 
Jesus  :  a  Frenchman  might  write  it,  a  German,  an  Italian,  never  an 
Englishman.  From  Shakepeare  to  Milton,  from  Milton  to  Byron, 
their  beautiful  and  sombre  literature  is  skeptical,  Judaical,  satanic, 
in  a  word,  antichristian.  "As  regards  law,"  as  a  legist  well  says, 
"  the  English  are  Jews,  the  French  Christians."  A  theologian  might 
express  himself  in  the  same  manner  as  regards  faith.  The  American  In- 
dians, with  that  penetration  and  originality  they  so  often  exhibit,  ex- 
pressed this  distinction  in  their  fashion.  "  Christ,"  said  one  of  them, 
"  was  a  Frenchman  whom  the  English  crucified  in  London  ;  Pontius 
Pilate  was  an  officer  in  the  service  of  Great  Britain." 

The  Jews  never  exhibited  the  rage  against  Jesus  which  the  English 
did  against  Pucelle.  It  must  be  owned  that  she  had  wounded  them 
cruelly  in  the  most  sensible  part — in  the  simple  but  deep  esteem  they 
have  for  themselves.  At  Orleans,  the  invincible  men-at-arms,  the 
famous  archers,  Talbot  at  their  head,  had  shown  their  backs  ;  at  ,Inr 
geau,  sheltered  by  the  good  walls  of  a  fortified  town,  they  had  suf- 
fered themselves  to  be  taken  ;  at  Patay,  they  had  fled  as  fast  as  their 
legs  would  carry  them,  fled  before  a  girl.  .  .  .  This  was  hard  t» 


&  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

be  borne,  aod  these  taciturn  English  were  forever  pondering  over  thd 
disgrace.  .  .  .  They  had  been  afraid  of  a  girl,  and  it  was  not 
very  certain  but  that,  chained  as  she  was,  they  felt  fear  of  her  still, 
.  .  .  though,  seemingly,  not  of  her,  but  of  the  Devil,  whoso 
agent  she  was.  At  least,  they*  endeavored  both  to  believe  and  to 
have  it  believed  so. 

But  there  was  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  this,  for  she  was  said  to  be' 
a  virgin  ;  and  it  was  a  notorious  and  well-ascertained  fact,  that  the 
Devil  could  not  make  a  compact  with  a  virgin.  The  coolest  head 
among  the  English,  Bedford,  the  regent,  resolved  to  have  the  point 
cleared  up  ;  and  his  wife,  the  duchess,  intrusted  the  matter  to  some 
matrons,  Avho  declared  Jehanne  t»  be  a  maid  :*  a  favorable  declaration 
which  turned  against  her,  by  giving  rise  to  another  superstitious  no- 
tion ;  to  wit,  that  her  virginity  constituted  her  strength,  her  power, 
and  that  to  deprive  her  of  it  was  to  disarm  her,  was  to  break  the 
charm,  and  lower  her  to  the  level  of  other  women. 

The  poor  girl's  only  defence  against  such  a  danger  had  been  wear- 
ing male  attire  ;  though,  strange  to  say,  no  one  had  ever  seemed  able 
to  understand  her  motive  for  wearing  it.  All,  both  friends  and  ene- 
mies, were  scandalized  by  it.  At  the  outset,  she  had  been  obliged  to 
explain  he-r  reasons  to  the  women  of  Poitiers  ;  and  when  made  pris- 
oner, and  under  the  care  of  the  ladies  of  Luxemburg,  those  excellent 
persons  prayed  her  to  clothe  herself  as  honest  girls  were  wont  to  do. 
Above  all,  the  English  ladies,  who  have  always  made  a  parade  of 
chastity  and  modesty,  must  have  considered  her  so  disguising  herself 
monstrous,  and  insufferably  indecent.  The  Duchess  of  Bedford  sent 
her  female  attire;  but  by  whom?  by  a  man,  a  tailor.  The  fellow, 
with  impudent  familiarity,  was  about  to  pass  it  over  her  head,  and, 
when  she  pushed  him  away,  laid  his  unmannerly  hand  upon  her ; 
his  tailor's  hand  on  that  hand  which  had  borne  the  flag  of  France — 
she  boxed  his  ear.  » 

If  women  could  not  understand  this  feminine  question,  how  much 
less  could  priests  !  .  .  .  They  quoted  the  text  of  a  council  held  in 
the  fourth  century,  which  anathematized  such  changes  of  dress  ;  not 
seeing  that  the  prohibition  specially  applied  to  a  period  when  man- 
ners had  been  barely  retrieved  from  pagan  impurities.  The  doctors 
belonging  to  the  party  of  Charles  VIII.,  the  apologist-;  of  the  Puerile, 
find  exceeding  difficulty  in  justifying  her  on  this  head.  One  of  them 
(thought  to  be  G*-VSOD)  makes  the  gratuitous  supposition  that  the  mo- 
ment she  dismounted  from  her  horse,  she  was  in  the  habit  of  resum- 
ing woman's  apparel;  confessing  that  Esther  and  Judith  had  had 
ivr,, HIM'  to  more  natural  and  feminine  means  for  their  triumphs  over 
the  enemies  of  God's  people.  Entirely  preoccupied  with  the  soul, 
these  theologians  seem  to  have  held  the  body  cheap  ;  provided  the 

*  Must  it  be  said  that  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  BO  generally  esteemed  as  an  honorable 
and  well-retrulated  man,  "saw  what  took  place  on  this  occasion,  concealed "  (crat 
in  quodam  loco  secreto  ubi  videbat  Joannam  vlsitari).  Notices  des  ALSrf.,  iii.  37i. 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  53 

written  law  be  followed,  the  soul  will  be  saved  ;  the  flesh  may  take 
its  chance.  ...  A  poor  and  simple  girl  may  be  pardoned  her  ina- 
bility to  distinguish  so  clearly. 

It  is  our  hard  condition  here  below,  that  soul  and  body  are  so  closely 
bound  one  with  the  other,  that  the  soul  takes  the  flesh  along  with  it, 
undergoes  the  same  hazards,  and  is  answerable  for  it.  ...  This 
has  ever  been  a  heavy  fatality  ;  but  how  much  more  so  does  it  become 
under  a  religious  law,  which  ordains  the  endurance  of  insult,  and 
which  does  not  allow  imperilled  honor  to  escape  by  flinging  away  the 
body  and  taking  refuge  in  the  world  of  spirits  ! 

On  the  Friday  and  the  Saturday,  the  unfortunate  prisoner,  despoiled 
of  her  man's  dress,  had  much  to  fear.  Brutality,  furious  hatred,  ven- 
geance, might  severally  incite  the  cowards  to  degrade  her  before  she 
perished,  to  sully  what  they  were  about  to  burn.  .  .  .  Besides, 
they  might  be  tempted  to  varnish  their  infamy  by  a  reason  of  state, 
according  to  the  notions  of  the  day — by  depriving  her  of  her  virgin- 
ity, they  would  undoubtedly  destroy  that  secret  power  of  which  the 
English  entertained  such  great  dread,  who,  perhaps,  might  recover 
their  courage  when  they  knew  that,  after  all,  she  was  but  a  woman. 
According  to  her  confessor,  to  whom  she  divulged  the  fact,  an  Eng- 
lishman, not  a  common  soldier,  but  a  gentleman,  a  lord,  patriotically 
devoted  himself  to  this  execution,  bravely  undertook  to  violate  a  girl 
laden  with  fetters,  and,  being  unable  to  effect  his  wishes,  rained 
blows  upon  her. 

•"On  the  Sunday  morning,  Trinity  Sunday,  when  it  was  time  for 
her  to  rise  (as  she  told  him  who  speaks),  she  said  to  her  English 
guards,  '  Leave  me,  that  I  may  get  up.'  One  of  them  took  off  her 
woman's  dress,  emptied  the  bag  in  which  was  the  man's  apparel,  and 
said  to  her,  '  Get  up.' — 'Gentlemen,'  she  said,  '  you  know  that  dress 
is  forbidden  me ;  excuse  me,  I  will  not  put  it  on.'  The  point  was 
contested  till  noon  ;  when,  being  compelled  to  go  out  for  some  bodily 
want,  she  put  it  on.  When  she  came  back,  they  would  give  her  no 
other  despite  her  entreaties."* 

In  reality,  it  was  not  to  the  interest  of  the  English  that  she  should 
resume  her  man's  dress,  and  so  make  null  and  void  a  retraction  ob- 
tained with  such  difficulty.  But  at  this  moment,  their  rage  no  longer 
knew  any  bounds.  Saintrailles  had  just  made  a  bold  attempt  upon 
Rouen.  It  would  have  been  a  lucky  hit  to  have  swept  off  the  ju<Urrs 
from  the  judgment-seat,  and  have  carried  Winchester  and  Bedford  to 
'Poitiers  ;  the  latter  was,  subsequently,  all  but  taken  on  his  return, 
Ibetween  Rouen  and  Paris.  As  long  as  this  accursed  girl  lived,  who, 
beyond  a  doubt,  continued  in  prison  to  practice  her  sorceries,  there 
was  no  safety  for  the  English  :  perish,  she  must. 


54  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

The  assessors,  who  had  notice  instantly  given  them  of  her  change 
of  dress,  found  some  hundred  English  in  the  court  to  obstruct  their 
passage  ;  who,  thinking  that  if  these  doctors  entered,  they  might  spoil 
all,  threatened  them  with  their  axes  and  swords,  and  chased  them  out, 
calling  them  traitors  of  Armagriacs.  Cauchon,  introduced  with  much 
difficulty,  assumed  an  air  of  gayety  to  pay  his  court  to  Warwick,  and 
said  with  a  laugh,  "  She  is  caught." 

On  the  Monday,  he  returned  along  with  the  inquisitor  and  eight 
assessors,  to  question  the  Pucelle,  and  ask  her  why  she  had  resumed 
that  dress.  She  made  no  excuse,  but  bravely  facing  the  danger,  said 
that  the  dress  was  fitter  for  her  as  long  as  she  was  guarded  by  men, 
and  that  faith  had  not  been  kept  with  her.  Her  saints,  too,  had  told 
her,  "  that  it  was  great  pity  she  had  abjured  to  save  her  life.''  Still, 
she  did  not  refuse  to  resume  woman's  dress.  "  Put  me  in  a  seemly 
and  safe  prison,"  she  said,  "I  will  be  good,  and  do  whatever  the 
Church  shall  wish." 

On  leaving  her,  the  bishop  encountered  Warwick  and  a  crowd  of 
English  ;  and  to  show  himself  a  good  Englishman,  he  said  in  their 
tongue,  "  Farewell,  farewell."  This  joyous  adieu  was  about  synony- 
mous with  "  Good  evening,  good  evening  ;  all's  over." 

On  the  Tuesday,  the  judges  got  up  at  the  archbishop's  palace  a 
court  of  assessors  as  they  best  might ;  some  of  them  had  assisted  at 
the  first  sittings  only,  others  at  none  ;  in  fact,  composed  of  men  of  all 
sorts,  priests,  legists,  and  even  three  physicians.  The  j  udges  recapit- 
ulated to  them  what  had  taken  place,  and  asked  their  opinion.  This 
opinion,  quite  different  from  what  was  expected,  was  that  the  pris- 
oner should  be  summoned,  and  her  act  of  abjuration  be  read  over  to 
her.  Whether  this  was  in  the  power  of  the  judges  is  doubtful.  In 
the  midst  of  the  fury  and  swords  of  a  raging  soldiery,  there  was  in 
reality  no  judge,  and  no  possibility  of  judgment.  Blood  was  the  one 
thing  wanted  ;  and  that  of  the  judges  was,  perhaps,  not  far  from  flow- 
ing. They  hastily  drew  up  a  summons,  to  be  served  the  next  morn- 
ing at  eight  o'clock  ;  she  was  not  to  appear,  save  to  be  burnt. 

Cauchon  sent  her  a  confessor  in  the  morning,  brother  Martin  1'Ad- 
venu,  "  to  prepare  her  for  her  death,  and  persuade  her  to  repentance. 

.  .  .  And  when  he  apprized  her  of  the  death  she  was  to  die  that 
day,  she  began  to  cry  out  grievously,  to  give  way,  and  tear  her  hair  : 
'  Alas  !  am  I  to  be  treated  so  horribly  and  cruelly  ?  must  my  body, 
pure  as  from  birth,  and  which  was  never  contaminated,  be  this  day 
consumed  and  reduced  to  ashes  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  I  would  rather  be  beheaded 
seven  times  over  than  be  burnt  on  this  wise.  .  .  .  Oh  !  I  make 
my  appeal  to  God,  the  great  judge  of  the  wrongs  and  grievances  done 
me  ! ' " 

After  this  burst  of  grief,  she  recovered  herself  and  confessed  ;  she 
then  asked  to  communicate.  The  brother  was  embarrassed;  but 
consulting  the  bishop,  the  latter  told  him  to  administer  the  sacra- 
ment, "and  whatever  else  she  might  ask."  Thus,  at  the  very  mo- 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  55 

ment  lie  condemned  her  as  a  relapsed  heretic,  and  cut  her  off  from 
the  Church,  he  gave  her  all  that  the  Church  gives  to  her  faithful. 
Perhaps  a  last  sentiment  of  humanity  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the 
wicked  judge:  he  considered  it  enough  to  burn  the  poor  creature, 
without  driving  her  to  despair  and  damning  her.  Perhaps,  also,  the 
wicked  priest,  through  freethinking  levity,  allowed  her  to  receive 
the  sacraments  as  a  thing  of  no  consequence,  which,  after  all,  might 
'serve  to  calm  and  silence  the  sufferer.  .  .  .  Besides,  it  was  at- 
tempted to  do  '.I  privately,  and  the  eucharist  was  brought  without 
stole  and  light.  But  the  monk  complained,  and  the  Church  of  Rouen, 
duly  warned,  was  delighted  to  show  what  it  thought  of  the  judgment 
pronounced  by  Cauchon  ;  it  sent  along  with  the  body  of  Christ  numer- 
ous torches  and  a  large  escort  of  priests,  who  sang  litanies,  and  as 
they  passed  through  the  streets,  told  the  kneeling, people,  "  Pray  for 
her." 

After  partaking  of  the  communion,  which  she  received  with  abun- 
dance of  tears,  she  perceived  the  bishop,  and  addressed  him  with  the 
words,  "  Bishop,  I  die  through  you.  .  .  ."  And,  again,  "Had 
you  put  me  in  the  prisons  of  the  Church  and  given  me  ghostly  keep- 
ers, this  would  not  have  happened.  .  .  .  And  for  this  I  summon 
you  to  answer  before  God." 

Then  seeing  among  the  bystanders  Pierre  Morice,  one  of  the  preach- 
ers by  whom  she  had  been  addressed,  she  said  to  him,  "  Ah,  Master 
Pierre,  where  shall  I  be  this  evening?" — "Have  you  not  good  hope 
in  the  Lord?  " — "  Oh  !  yes  ;  God  to  aid,  I  shall  be  in  Paradise." 

It  was  nine  o'clock  ;  she  was  dressed  in  female  attire,  and  placed 
on  a  cart.  On  one  side  of  her  was  brother  Martin  1'Advenu  ;  the  con- 
stable, Massieu,  was  on  the  other.  The  Augustine  monk,  brother 
Isambart,  who  had  already  displayed  such  charity  and  courage,  would 
not  quit  her.  It  is  stated  that  the  wretched  Loyseleur  also  ascended 
the  cart  to  ask  her  pardon  :  but  for  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  the  Eng- 
lish would  have  killed  him.* 

Up  to  this  moment  the  Pucelle  had  never  despaired,  with  the  ex- 
ception, perhaps,  of  her  temptation  in  the  Passion  week.  While  say- 
ing, as  she  at  time,  would  say,  "  These  English  will  kill  me,"  she  in 
reality  did  not  think  so.  She  did  not  imagine  that  she  could  ever  be 
deserted.  She  had  faith  in  her  king,  in  the  good  people  of  France. 
She  had  said  expressly,  "  There  will  be  some  disturbance  either  in 
prison  or  at  the  trial,  by  which  I  shall  be  delivered,  .  .  .  greatly, 
victoriously  delivered."  .  .  .  But  though  king  and  people  de- 
serted her,  she  had  another  source  of  aid,  and  a  far  more  powerful 
and  certain  one,  from  her  friends  above,  her  kind  and  dear  saints. 

.  .  .  When  she  was  assaulting  Saint-Pierre,  and  deserved  by 
her  followers,  her  saints  sent  an  invisible  army  to  her  aid.  How 

*  This,  however,  is  only  a  rumor  (Audivit  dici.  .  .  .),  a  dramatic  incident, 
with  which  popular  tradition  has,  perhaps,  gratuitously  adorned  the  tale. 


56  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

could  they  abandon  their  obedient  girl,  they  who  had  so  often  pro- 
mised her 'n>/fct//  and  deliverance?  .  .  . 

What  then  must  her  thoughts  have  been  when  she  saw  that  she 
must  die  ;  when,  carried  in  a  cart,  she  passed  through  a  trembling 
crowd,  under  the  guard  of  eight  hundred  Englishmen  armed  with 
sword  and  lance  ?  She  wept  and  bemoaned  herself,  yet  reproached 
neither  her  king  nor  her  saints.  .  .  .  She  was  only  heard  to  utter, 
"  O  Rouen,  Rouen  !  must  I  then  die  here  ?" 

The  term  of  her  sad  journey  was  the  old  mar'ivt-plaee,  the  fish- 
market.  Three  scaffolds  had  been  raised  :  on  one  v  as  the  Episcopal 
and  royal  chair,  the  throne  of  the  Cardinal  of  England,  surrounded 
by  the  "stalls  of  his  prelates  ;  on  another  were  to  figure  the  principal 
personages  of  the  mournful  drama,  the  preacher,  the  j  udges,  and  the 
bailli,  and  lastly,  the  condemned  one  ;  apart  was  a  large  scaffolding 
of  plaster,  groaning  under  a  weight  of  wood — nothing  had  been 
grudged  the  stake,  which  struck  terror  by  its  height  alone.  This 
was  not  only  to  add  to  the  solemnity  of  the  execution,  but  was  done 
with  the  intent  that  from  the  height  to  which  it  was  reared,  the  ex- 
ecutioner might  not  get  at  it  save  at  the  base,  and  that  to  light  it  only, 
so  that  he  would  be  unable  to  cut  short  the  torments  and  relieve  the 
sufferer  as  he  did  with  others,  sparing  them  the  flames.  On  this  oc- 
casion, the  important  point  was  that  justice  should  not  be  defrauded 
of  her  due,  or  a. dead  body  be  committed  to  the  flames  ;  they  desired 
that  she  should  be  really  burnt  alive,  and  that,  placed  on  the  summit 
of  this  mountain  of  wood,  and  commanding  the  circle  of  lances  and 
of  swords,  she  might  be  seen  from  every  part  of  the  market-place. 
There  was  reason  to  suppose  that  being  slowly,  tediously  burnt  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  a  curious  crowd,  she  might  at  last  be  surprised  into 
some  weakness,  that  something  might  escape  her  which  could  be  set 
down  as  a  disavowal,  at  the  least  some  confused  words  which  might 
be  interpreted  at  pleasure,  perhaps,  low  prayers,  humiliating  cries  for 
mercy,  such  as  proceed  from  a  woman  in  despair.  .  .  . 

A  chronicler,  friendly  to  the  English,  brings  a  heavy  charge 
against  them  at  this  moment.  According  to  him,  they  wanted  her 
gown  to  b3  burnt  first  so  that  she  might  remain  naked,  "  in  order  to  re- 
move all  the  doubts  of  the  people  ;"  that  the  fagots  should  then  b'j 
removed  so  that  all  might  draw  nigh  to  see  her,  "  and  all  the  secrets 
which  can  or  should  be  in  a  woman  :  "  and  that  after  this  immodest, 
ferocious  exhibition,  "  the  executioners  should  replace  the  great  fire 
on  her  poor  carrion.  .  .  ." 

The  frightful  ceremony  began  with  a  sermon.  Master  Nicolas 
Midy,  one  of  the  lights  of  the  University  of  Paris,  preached  upon  the 
edifying  text:  "When  one  limb  of  the  Church  is  sick,  the  whole 
Church  is  sick."  This  poor  Church  could  only  be  cured  by  cutting 
off  a  limb.  He  wound  up  with  the  formula  :  "  Jeanne,  go  in  peace, 
the  Church  can  no  longer  defend  thee." 

The  ecclesiastical  judge,  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais,  then  benignly  ex- 


THE   MAID   OF   ORLEANS.  57 

horted  her  to  take  care  of  her  soul  and  to  recall  all  her  misdeeds,  in 
order  that  she  might  awaken  to  true  repentance.  The  assessors  had 
ruled  that  it  AVRS  the  law  to  read  over  her  abjuration  to  her;  \]\>-. 
bishop  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  feared  her  denials,  her  disclaim- 
ers. But  the  poor  girl  had  no  thought  of  so  chicaning  away  life  :  her 
mind  was  fixed  on  far  other  subjects.  Even  before  she  was  exhorted 
to  repentance,  she  had  knelt  down  and  invoked  God,  the  Virgin,  St. 
Michael,  and  St.  Catherine,  pardoning  all  and  asking  pardon,  saving 
to  the  bystanders,  "Pray  for  me!"  ...  In  particular,  she"  be- 
sought the  priests  to  say  each  a  mass  for  her  soul.  .  .  .  And  all 
this  so  devoutly,  humbly,  and  touchingly,  that  sympathy  becoming  con 
tagious,  no  one  could  any  longer  contain  himself  ;  the  Bishop  of  Beau 
vais  melted  into  tears,  the  Bishop  of  Boulogne  sobbed,  and  the  very 
English  cried  and  wept  as  well,  Winchester  with  the  rest. 

Might  it  be  in  this  moment  of  universal  tenderness,  of  tears,  of 
contagious  weakness,  that  the  unhappy  girl  softened,  and  relapsing 
into  the  mere  woman,  confessed  that  she  saw  clearly  she  had  erred, 
and  that  apparently  she  had  been  deceived  when  promised  deliver- 
ance. This  is  a  point  on  which  we  cannot  implicitly  rely  on  the  in- 
terested testimony  of  the  English.  Nevertheless,  it  would  betray 
scant  knowledge  of  human  nature  to  doubt,  with  her  hopes  so  frus- 
trated, her  having  wavered  in  her  faith.  .  .  .  Whether  she  con 
fessed  to  this  effect  in  words  is  uncertain  ;  but  I  will  confidently 
affirm  that  she  owned  it  in  thought. 

Meanwhile  the  judges,  for  a  moment  put  out  of  countenance,  had 
recovered  their  usual  bearing,  and  the  Bishop  of  Beativais,  drying  his 
eyes,  began  to  read  the  act  of  condemnation.  He  reminded  the 
guilty  one  of  all  her  crimes,  of  her  schism,  idolatry,  invocation  of 
demons,  how  she  had  been  admitted  to  repentance,  and  how,  "se- 
duced by  the  prince  of  lies,  she  had  fallen,  O  grief  !  like  the  dog  which 
returns  to  his  vomit.  .  .  .  Therefore,  we  pronounce  you  to  be  a 
rotten  limb,  and  as  such  to  be  lopped  off  from  the  Church.  We  de- 
liver you  over  to  the  secular  power,  praying  it  at  the  same  time  to  re- 
lax its  sentence,  and  to  spare  you  death  and  the  mutilation  of  your 
members." 

Deserted  thus  by  the  Church,  she  put  her  whole  trust  in  God.  She 
asked  for  the  cross.  An  Englishman  handed  her  a  cross  which  he 
made  out  of  a  stick  ;  she  took  it,  rudely  fashioned  as  it  was,  with  not 
less  devotion,  kissed  it,  and  placed  it  under  her  garments  next  to  her 
skin.  .  .  .  But  what  she  desired  was  the  crucifix  belonging  to  the 
Church,  to  have  it  before  her  eyes  till  she  brfeathed  her  last.  The 
good  hussier  Massieu  and  brother  Isambart,  interfered  with  such 
effect  that  it  was  brought  her  from  St.  Sauveur's.  While  she  was 
embracing  this  crucifix,  and  brother  Isambart  was  encouraging  her, 
the  English  began  to  think  all  this  exceedingly  tedious  ;  it  was  now 
noon  at  least  ;  the  soldiers  grumbled  and  the  captains  called  out, 
" 'What's  this,  priest ;  do  you  mean  us  to  dine  here?"  .  .  .  Then, 


58  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

losing  patience,  and  without  waiting  for  the  order  from  the  bailli, 
who  alone  had  authority  to  dismiss  her  to  death,  they  sent  two  consta- 
bles to  take  her  out  of  the  hands  of  the  priests.  She  was  seized  at 
the  foot  of  the  tribunal  by  the  men-at-arms,  who  dragged  her  to 
the  executioner  with  the  words,  "  Do  thy  office.  .  .  ."  The  fury 
of  the  soldiery  filled  all  present  with  horror ;  and  many  there,  even 
of  the  judges,  fled  the  spot  that  they  might  see  no  more. 

When  she  found  herself  brought  down  to  the  market  place,  sur- 
rounded by  English,  laying  rude  hands  on  her,  nature  asserted  her 
rights,  and  the  flesh  was  troubled.  Again  she  cried  out,  "  O  Rouen, 
thou  art  then  to  be  my  last  abode  ?  .  .  ."  She  said  no  more,  and, 
in  this  hour  of  fear  and  trouble,  did  not  si/i  with  her  lips.  .  . 

She  accused  neither  her  king  nor  her  holy  ones.  But  when  she  set 
foot  on  the  top  of  the  pile,  on  viewing  this  great  city,  this  motionless 
and  silent  crowd,  she  could  not  refrain  from  exclaiming,  "  Ah  ! 
Rouen,  Rouen,  much  do  I  fear  you  will  suffer  from  my  death  ! "  She 
who  had  saved  the  people,  and  whom  that  people  deserted,  gave  voice 
to  no  other  sentiment  when  dying  (admirable  sweetness  of  soul !)  than 
that  of  compassion  for  it. 

She  was  made  fast  under  the  infamous  placard,  mitred  with  a  mitre 
on  which  was  read — "  Heretic,  relapser,  apostate,  idolater.  .  .  ." 
And  then  the  executioner  set  fire  to  the  pile.  ...  .  She  saw  this 
from  above  and  uttered  a  cry.  .  .  .  Then  as  the  brother  who  was 
exhorting  her  paid  no  attention  to  the  fire,  forgetting  herself  in  her 
fear  for  him,  she  insisted  on  his  descending. 

The  proof  that  up  to  this  period  she  had  made  no  express  recanta- 
tion is,  that  the  unhappy  Cauchon  was  obliged  (no  doubt  by  the  high 
satanic  will  which  presided  over  the  whole)  to  proceed  to  the  foot  of 
the  pile,  obliged  to  face  his  victim,  to  endeavor  to  extract  some  ad- 
mission from  her.  All  that  he  obtained  was  a  few  words,  enough  to 
rack  his  soul.  She  said  to  him  mildly  what  she  had  already  said  : 
"  Bishop,  I  die  through  you.  ...  If  you  had  put  me  into  the 
church  prisons  this  would  not  have  happened."  No  doubt  hopes  had 
been  entertained  that  on  finding  herself  abandoned  by  her  king,  she 
would  at  last  accuse  and  defame  him.  To  the  last  she  defended  him  : 
"  Whether  I  have  done  well  or  ill,  my  king  is  faultless  ;  it  was  not 
lie  who  counselled  me. 

Meanwhile  the  flames  rose.  .  .  .  When  they  first  seized  her, 
the  unhappy  girl  shrieked  for  holy  water — this  must  have  been  the 
cry  of  fear.  .  .  .  But  soon  recovering,  she  called  only  on  God, 
ou  her  angels  and  her  s"aints.  She  bore  witness  to  them  : — "  Yes,  my 
voices  were  from  God,  my  voices  have  not  deceived  me."  The  fact 
that  all  her  doubts  vanished  at  this  trying  moment  must  be  taken  as 
a  proof  that  she  accepted  death  as  the  promised  deliverance  ;  that  she 
no  longer  understood  her  salvation  in  the  Judaic  and  material  sense, 
ns  until  now  she  had  done,  that  at  length  she  saw  clearly  ;  and  that 
rising  above  all  shadows,  her  gifts  of  illumination  and  of  sanctity 
were  at  the  final  hour  made  perfect  unto  her. 


1 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  59 

The  great  testimony  she  thus  bore  is  attested  by  the  sworn  and  com- 
pelled witness  of  her  death,  by  the  Dominican  who  mounted  the  pile 
with  her,  whom  she  forced  to  descend,  but  who  spoke  to  her  from  its 
foot,  listened  to  her,  and  held  out  to  her  the  crucifix. 

There  is  yet  another  witness  of  this  sainted  death,  a  most  grave 
witness,  who  must  himself  have  been  a  saint.  This  witness,  whose 
name  history  ought  to  preserve,  was  the  Augustine  monk  already 
mentioned,  brother  Isambart  de  la  Pierre.  During  the  trial,  he  had 
hazarded  his  life  by  counselling  the  Pucelle,  and  yet,  though  so  clearly 
pointed  out  to  the  hate  of  the  English,  he  persisted  in  accompanying 
her  in  the  cart,  procured  the  parish  crucifix  for  her,  and  comforted 
her  in  the  midst  of  the  raging  multitude,  both  on  the  scaffold  where 
she  was  interrogated  and  at  the  stake. 

Twenty  years  afterwards,  the  two  venerable  friars,  simple  monks, 
vowed  to  poverty,  and  having  nothing  to  hope  or  fear  in  this  world,  ; 
bear  witness  to  the  scene  we  have  just  described  :  "  We  heard  her," 
they  say,  "in  the  midst  of  the  flames  invoke  her  saints,  her  arch- 
angel ;  several  times  she  called  on  her  Saviour  ...  At  the  last, 
as  her  head  sunk  on  her  bosom,  she  shrieked,  '  Jesus  ! '  " 

' '  Ten  thousand  men  wept.     .     .     . "     A  few  of  the  English  alone 
laughed,  or  endeavored  to  laugh.     One  of  the  most  furious  among 
them  had  sworn  that  he  would  throw  a  fagot  on  the  pile.     Just  as  he 
brought  it,  she  breathed  her  last.     He  was  taken  ill.     His  comrades  1 
led  him  to  a  tavern  to  recruit  his  spirits  by  drink,  but  he  was  beyond    < 
recovery.     "  I  saw,"  he  exclaimed,  in  his  frantic  despair,  "I  saw  a  j 
dove  fly  out  of  her  mouth  with  her  last  sigh."     Others  had  read  in  / 
the  flames  the  word  "  Jesus,"  which  she  so  often  repeated.     The  ex-i 
ecutioner  repaired  in  the  evening  to  brother  Isambart,  full  of  conster- 1 
nation,  and  confessed  himself;  but  felt  persuaded  that  God  would  1 
never  pardon  him.     .     .     .     One  of  the  English  King's  secretaries  \ 
said  aloud,  on  returning  from  the  dismal  scene,  "We  are  lost  ;  we  \ 
have  burnt  a  saint." 

Though  these  words  fell  from  an  enemy's  mouth,  they  are  not  the   ; 
less  important    and  will  live,  uncontradicted  by  the  future.     Yes,   j 
whether  considered  religiously  or  patriotically,  Jeanne  Dare  was  a 
saint. 

Where  find  a  finer  legend  than  this  true  history?  Still,  let  us  be- 
ware of  converting  it  into  a  legend  ;  let  us  piously  preserve  its  every 
trait,  even  such  as  are  most  akin  to  human  nature,  and  respect  its 
terrible  and  touching  reality.  .  .  . 

Let  the  spirit  of  romance  profane  it  by  its  touch,  if  it  dare ;  poetry 
will  ever  abstain.  For  what  could  it  add  ?  .  .  .  The  idea  which, 
throughout  the  middle  age,  it  had  pursued  from  legend  to  legend, 
was  found  at  the  last  to  be  a  living  being — the  dream  was  a  reality. 
The  Virgin,  succorer  in  battle,  invoked  by  knights,  and  looked  for 
from  above,  was  here  below.  .  .  .  and  in  whom?  Here  is  the 
marvel,  In  what  was  despised,  ir>  what  was  lowliest  of  all*  in  a  child. 


60  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

in  a  simple  country  girl,  one  of  the  poor,  of  the  people  of  Franc*. 
.  .  .  For  there  was  a  people,  there  was  a  France.  This  last  im- 
personation of  the  past  was  also  the  first  of  the  period  that  was  com- 
mencing. In  her  there  at  once  appeared  the  Virgin.  .  .  .  and, 
already,  country. 

Such  is  the  poetry  of  this  grand  fact,  such  its  philosophy,  its  lofty 
truth.  But  the  historic  reality  is  not  the  less  certain  ;  it  was  but  too 
positive,  and  too  cruelly  verified.  .  .  .  This  living  enigma,  this 
mysterious  creature,  whom  all  concluded  to  be  supernatural,  this 
angel  or  demon,  who,  according  to  some,  was  to  fly  away  some  morn- 
ing, was  found  to  be  a  woman,  a  young  girl  ;  was  found  to  be  without 
wings,  and,  linked  as  we  ourselves  to  a  mortal  body,  was  to  suffer,  to 
die — and  how  frightful  a  death  ! 

But  it  is  precisely  in  this  apparently  degrading  reality,  in  this  sad 
trial  of  nature,  that  the  ideal  is  discoverable,  and  shines  brightly. 
Her  contemporaries  recognized  in  the  scene  Christ  among  the  Phari- 
sees. .  .  .  Still  we  must  see  in  it  something  else — the  Passion  of 
the  Virgin,  the  martyrdom  of  purity. 

There  have  been  many  martyrs  :  history  shows  us  numberless  ones, 
more  or  less  pure,  more  or  less  glorious.  Pride  has  had  its  martyrs  ; 
so  have  hate  and  the  spirit  of  controversy.  No  age  has  been  without 
martyrs  militant,  who  no  doubt  died  with  a  good  grace  when  they 
could  no  longer  kill.  .  .  .  Such  fanatics  are  irrelevant  to  our  sub- 
ject. The  sainted  girl  is  not  of  them  ;  she  had  a  sign  of  her  own — 
goodness,  charity,  sweetness  of  soul. 

She  had  the  sweetness  of  the  ancient  martyrs,  but  with  a  differ- 
ence. The  first  Christians  remained  gentle  and  pure  only  by  shun- 
ning action,  by  sparing  themselves  the  struggles  and  the  trials  of  the 
world.  Jehanne  was  gentle  in  the  roughest  struggle,  good  amongst 
the  bad,  pacific  in  war  itself  ;  she  bore  into  war  (that  triumph  of  the 
devil's)  the  spirit  of  God. 

.  She  took  up  arms,  when  she  knew  "  the  pity  for  the  kingdom  of 
France."  She  could  not  bear  to  see  "  French  blood  flow."  This  ten- 
derness of  heart  she  showed  towards  all  men.  After  a  victory  sh» 
would  weep,  and  would  attend  to  the  wounded  English. 

Purity,  sweetness,  heroic  goodness — that  this  supreme  beauty  of  the 
soul  should  have  centred  in  a  daughter  of  France  may  surprise 
foreigners  who  choose  to  judge  of  our  nation  by  the  levity  of  its  man- 
ners alone.  We  may  tell  them  (and  without  partiality,  as  we  speak 
of  circumstances  so  long  since  past)  that  under  this  levity,  and  in  the 
midst  of  its  follies  and  its  very  vices,  old  France  was  not  styled  with 
out  reason  the  most  Christian  people.  They  were  certainly  the  peo- 
ple of  love  and  of  grace  ;  and  whether  we  understand  this  humanly  or 
Christianly,  in  either  sense  it  will  ever  hold  good. 

The  deliverer  of  France  could  be  no  other  than  a  woman.  Franca 
herself  was  woman  ;  having  her  nobility,  but  her  amiable  sweetness 
likewise,  her  prompt  and  charming  pity ;  at  the  least,  possessing  th« 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  Cl 

virtue  of  quickly-excited  sympathies.  And  though  she  might  take 
pleasure  in  vain  elegances  and  external  refinements,  she  remained  at 
bottom  closer  to  nature.  The  Frenchman,  even  when  vicious,  pre- 
served, beyond  the  man  of  every  other  nation,  good  sense  and  good- 
ness of  heart.  .  .  . 

May  new  France  never  forget  the  saying  of  old  France  •  ' '  Great 
hearts  alone  understand  how  much  glory  there  is  in  being  good!  "  To 
be  and  to  keep  so,  amidst  the  injuries  of  man  and  the  severity  of 
Providence,  is  not  the  gift  of  a  happy  nature  alone,  but  it  is  strength 
and  heroism.  .  .  To  preserve  sweetness  and  benevolence  in  the 
midst  of  so  many  bitter  disputes,  to  pass  through  a  life's  experiences 
without  suffering  them  to  touch  this  internal  treasure — is  divine. 
They  who  persevere,  and  so  go  on  to  the  end,  are  the  true  elect.  And 
though  they  may  even  at  times  have  stumbled  in  the  difficult  path  of 
the  world,  amidst  their  falls,  their  weaknesses  and  their  infancies, 
they  will  not  the  less  remain  children  of  God  ! 


LIFE  OF  HANNIBAL. 


TWICE  in  history  has  there  been,  witnessed  the  struggle  of  the  high- 
est individual  genius  against  the  resources  and  institutions  of  a  great 
nation  ;  and  in  both  cases  the  nation  has  been  victorious.  For  sev- 
enteen years  Hannibal  strove  against  Rome  ;  for  sixteen  years  Na- 
poleon Buonaparte  strove  against  England  :  the  efforts  of  the  first 
ended  in  Zama,  those  of  the  second  in  Waterloo. 

True  it  is,  as  Polybius  has  said,  that  Hannibal  was  supported  by 
the  zealous  exertions  of  Carthage  ;  and  the  strength  of  the  opposi- 
tion to  his  policy  has  been  very  possibly  exaggerated  by  the  Roman 
writers.  Bict  the  zeal  of  his  country  in  the  contest,  as  Polybius  him- 
self remarks  in  another  place,  was  itself  the  work  of  his  family. 
Never  did  great  men  more  show  themselves  the  living  spirit  of  a  na- 
tion than  Hamilcar,  and  Hasdrubal,  and  Hannibal,  during  a  period  of 
nearly  fifty  years,  approved  themselves  to  be  to  Carthage.  It  is  not 
then  merely  through  our  ignorance  of  the  internal  state  of  Carthage, 
that  Hannibal  stands  so  prominent  in  all  our  conceptions  of  the  sec- 
ond Punic  war  :  he  was  really  its  moving  and  directing  power  ;  and 
the  energy  of  his  country  was  but  a  light  reflected  from  his  own. 
History  therefore  gathers  itself  into  his  single  person  :  in  that  vast 
tempest,  which,  from  north  and  south,  from  the  west  and  the  east, 
broke  upon  Italy,  we  see  nothing  but  Hannibal. 

But  if  Hannibal's  genius  may  be  likened  to  the  Homeric  god,  who 
in  his  hatred  of  the  Trojans  rises  from  the  deep  to  rally  the  fainting 
Greeks,  and  to  lead  them  against  the  enemy  ;  so  the  calm  courage 
with  which  Hector  met  his  more  than  human  adversary  in  his  coun- 
try's cause,  is  no  unworthy  image  of  the  unyielding  magnanimity 
displayed  by  the  aristocracy  of  Rome.  As  Hannibal  utterly  eclipses 
Carthage,  so,  on  the  contrary,  Fabius,  Marcellus,  Claudius  Nero,  even 
Scipio  himself,  are  as  nothing  when  compared  to  the  spirit,  and  wis- 
dom, and  power  of  Rome.  The  senate  which  voted  its  thanks  to  its 
political  enemy  Varro,  after  his  disastrous  defeat,  "  because  he  had 
not  despaired  of  the  Commonwealth,"  and  which  disdained  either  to 
solicit,  or  to  reprove,  or  to  threaten,  or  in  any  way  to  notice  the 
twelve  colonies  which  had  refused  their  accustomed  supplies  of  men 

A.B.-9 


4  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL. 

for  the  army,  is  far  more  to  be  honored  than  the  conqueror  of  Zama, 
This  we  should  the  more  carefully  bear  in  mind,  because  our  ten- 
dency is  to  admire  individual  greatness  far  more  than  national  ;  and 
as  no  single  Roman  will  bear  comparison  with  Hannibal,  we  are  apt 
to  murmur  at  the  event  of  the  contest,  and  to  think  that  the  victory 
was  awarded  to.the  least  worthy  of  the  combatants.  On  the  con- 
trary, never  was  the  wisdom  of  God's  providence  more  mai  .lost  than 
in  the  issue  of  the  struggle  between  Rome  and  G'arihiigi  .  It  was 
clearly  for  the  good  of  mankind  that  Hannibal  should  be  ci  dquered  : 
his  triumph  would  have  stopped  the  progress  of  the  world.  For 
great  men  can  only  act  permanently  by  forming  great  nations  ,  and 
no  one  man,  even  though  it  were  Hannibal  himself,  can  in  one  gen- 
eration effect  such  a  work.  But  where  the  nation  has  been  merelj* 
enkindled  for  a  while  by  a  great  man's  spirit,  the  light  passes  away 
with  him  who  communicated  it ;  and  the  nation,  when  he  is  gone,  is. 
like  a  dead  body,  to  which  magic  power  had  for  a  moment  given  an 
unnatural  life  :  when  the  charm  has  ceased,  the  body  is  cold  and 
stiff  as  before.  He  who  grieves  over  the  battle  of  Zama,  should 
carry  on  his  thoughts  to  a  period  thirty  years  later,  when  Hannibal 
must,  in  the  course  of  nature,  have  been  dead,  and  consider  how  the 
isolated  Phoenician  city  of  Carthage  was  fitted  to  receive  and  to  con- 
solidate the  civilization  of  Greece,  or  by  its  laws  and  institutions  to 
bind  together  barbatians  of  every  race  and  language  into  an  organized 
empirerand  prepare  them  for  becoming,  when  that  empire  was  dis- 
solved, the  free  members  of  the  commonwealth  of  Christian  Europe. 
The  year  of  Hannibal's  birth  is  not  mentioned  by  any  ancient 
writer,  but  from  the  statements  concerning  his  age  at  l'»e  battle  of 
Zama,  it  appears  that  he  must  have  been  born  in  the  very  year  in 
which  his  father,  Hamilcar,  was  first  appointed  to  the  command  in 
Sicily.  He  was  only  nine  years  of  age  when  his  father  took  him  with 
him  into  Spain  ;  and  it  was  on  this  occasion  that  Hamilcar  made  him 
swear  upon  the  altar  eternal  hostility  to  Rome.  The  story  was  told 
by  Hannibal  himself,  many  years  afterwards,  to  Autiochus,  and  is 
one  of  the  best  attested  in  ancient  history.*  Child  as  he  then  was, 
Hannibal  never  forgot  his  vow,  and  his  whole  life  was  one  con- 
tinued strugs^le  against  the  power  and  domination  of  Rome.  He  was 
early  trained  in  arms  under  the  eye  of  his  father,  and  probably 
accompanied  him  on  most  of  his  campaigns  in  Spain.  We  find  him 
present  with  him  in  the  battle  in  which  Hamilcar  perished  ;  and 
though  only  eighteen  years  old  at  this  time,  he  had  already  displayed 
so  much  courage  and  capacity  for  war,  that  he  was  intrusted  by 
Hasdrubal  (the  son-in-law  and  successor  of  Hamilcar)  with  the  chief 
command  of  most  of  the  military  enterprises  planned  by  that  general. 
Of  the  details  of  these  campaigns  we  know  nothing  ;  but  it  is  clear 

*  Polyb.  iii.  11 ;  Liv.  xxi.   1 ;  xxxv.  19  ;  Com.  Nep.  Hann.  ;  Appiau.  Ilisp.  9: 
Val.  Max.  ix.  3,  ext.  §  3. 


LIFE    OF   HANNIBAL.  5 

that  Hannibal  thus  early  gave  proof  of  that  remarkable  power  over 
the  minds  of  men,  which  be  afterwards  displayed  in  so  eminent  a 
degree,  and  secured  to  himself  the  devoted  attachment  of  the  army 
under  his  command.  The  consequence  was,  that  on  the  assassina- 
tion of  Hasdrubal,  the  soldiers  unanimously  proclaimed  their  youth- 
ful leader  Commander-in-chief,  and  the  government  of  Caithage  has- 
tened to  ratify  an  appointment  which  they  had  not,  in  fact,  th 
power  to  prevent. 

Hannibal  was  at  this  time  in  the  twenty-sixth  year  of  his  age. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  already  looked  forward  to  the  inva- 
sion and  conquest  of  Italy  as  the  goal  of  his  ambition  ;  but  it  was 
necessary  for  him,  first,  to  complete  the  work  which  had  been  so 
ably  begun  by  his  tsvo  predecessors,  and  to  establish  the  Carthaginian 
power  as  firmly  as  possible  in  Spain,  before  he  made  that  country 
the  base  of  his  subsequent  operations.  This  was  the  work  of  two 
campaigns.  Immediately  after  he  had  received  the  command,  he 
turned  his  arms  against  the  Olcad.es,  a  nation  of  the  interior,  who 
were  speedily  compelled  to  submit  by  the  fall  of  their  capital  city, 
Althaea.  Hannibal  levied  large  sums  of  money  from  them  and  the 
neighboring  tribes,  after  which  he  returned  into  winter  quarters  at 
New  Carthage.  The  next  year  he  penetrated  farther  into  the  coun- 
try, in  order  to  assail  the  powerful  tribe  of  the  Vaccaeans,  and  reduced 
their  two  strong  and  populous  cities  of  Ilelmautiea  and  Arbocala. 
On  his  return  from  this  expedition,  he  was  involved  in  great  danger 
by  a  sudden  attack  from  the  Carpetanians,  together  with  the  remain- 
ing forces  of  the  Olcades  and  Vaccaeans,  but  by  a  dexterous  ma- 
noeuvre he  placed  the  river  Tagus  between  himself  arid  the  enemy, 
and  the  barbarian  army  was  cut  to  pieces  in  the  attempt  to  force  their 
passage.  After  these  successes  he  again  returned  to  spend  the  win- 
ter at  New  Carthage.* 

Two  years,  we  have  seen,  had  been  employed  in  expeditions 
against  the  native  Spaniards  ;  the  third  year  was  devoted  to  the  siege 
of  Sagtmlum.  Hannibal's  pretext  for  attacking  it  was,  that  tha 
Saguntines  had  oppressed  one  of  the  Spanish  tribes  in  alliance  with 
Carthage  ;  but  no  caution  in  the  Saguntine  government  could  have 
avoided  a  quarrel,  which  their  enemy  was  determined  to  provoke. 
Saguntum,  although  not  a  city  of  native  Spaniards,  resisted  as  ob- 
stinately as  if  the  very  air  of  Spain  had  breathed  into  foreign  seltlen 
on  its  soil  the  spirit  so  often,  in  giany  different  ages,  displayed  by 
the  Spanish  people.  Saguntum  was  defended  like  Numantia  and 
Gerona  :  the  siege  lasted  eight  months  ;  and  when  all  hope  was  gone, 
several  of  the  chiefs  kindled  a  tire  in  the  market-place,  and  after  hav- 
ing thrown  in  their  most  precious  effects,  leaped  into  it  themaelves, 
and  perished.  Still  the  spoil  fouml  in  the  place  was  very  considera- 
ble ;  there  was  a  large  treasure  of  money,  which  Hannibal  kept  for 

*  Polyb.  iii.  13-15  ;  Liv,  xxi,  5. 


6  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL. 

his  war  expenses  ;  there  were  numerous  captives,  whom  he  distributed 
amongst  his  soldiers  as  their  share  of  the  plunder  ;  and  there  was 
much  costly  furniture  from  the  public  and  private  buildings,  which 
he  sent  home  to  decorate  the  temples  and  palaces  of  Carthage. 

It  must  have  been  towards  the  close  of  the  year,  but  apparently  be- 
fore the  consuls  were  returned  from  lllyria,  that  the  news  of  the  fall 
»f  Saguntum  reached  Rome.  Immediately  ambassadors  were  sent  to 
Carthage  ;  M.  Fabius  Buteo,  who  had  been  consul  seven-and-twenty 
years  before,  C.  Licinius  Varus  and  Q.  Bsebius  Tamphilus.  Their 
orders  were  simply  to  demand  that  Hannibal  and  his  principal  offi- 
cers should  be  given  up  for  their  attack  upon  the  allies  of  Rome,  in 
breach  of  the  treaty,  and,  if  this  were  refused,  to  declare  war.  The 
Carthaginians  tried  to  discuss  the  previous  question,  whether  the  at- 
tack on  Saguntum  was  a  breach  of  the  treaty  ;  but  to  this  the  Ro- 
mans would  not  listen.  At  length.  M.  Fabius  gathered  up  his  toga, 
as  if  he  were  wrapping  up  something  in  it,  and  holding  it  out  thus 
together,  he  said,  "  Behold,  here  are  peace  and  war ;  take  which 
you  choose  !"  The  Carthaginian  suffete  or  judge  answered,  "Give 
whichever  thou  wilt."  Hereupon  Fabius  shook  out  the  folds  of 
his  toga,  saying,  "  Then  here  we  give  you  war  ;"  to  which  several 
members  of  the  council  shouted  in  answer,  "  With  all  our  hearts  we 
welcome  it."  Thus  the  Roman  ambassador  left  Carthage,  and  re- 
turned straight  to  Rome. 

But  before  the  result  of  the  embassy  could  be  known  in  Spain, 
Hannibal  had  been  making  preparations  for  his  intended  expedition, 
in  a  manner  which  showed,  not  only  that  he  was  sure  of  the  support 
of  his  government,  but  that  he  was  able  to  dispose  at  his  pleasure  of 
all  the  military  resources  of  Carthage.  At  his  suggestion  fresh 
troops  from  Africa  were  sent  over  to  Spain  to  secure  it  during  his 
absence,  and  to  be  commanded  by  his  own  brother,  Hasdrubal ;  apd 
their  place  was  to  be  supplied  by  other  troops  raised  in  Spain,  so 
that  Africa  was  to  be  defended  by  Spaniards,  and  Spain  by  Africans, 
the  soldiers  of  each  nation,  when  quartered  amongst  foreigners,  be- 
ing cut  off  from  all  temptation  or  opportunity  to  revolt.  So  com- 
pletely was  he  allowed  to  direct  every  military  measure,  that  he  is 
said  to  have  sent  Spanish  and  Numidian  troops  to  garrison  Carthage 
itself  ;  in  other  words,  this  was  a  part  of  his  general  plan,  and  \va.s 
adopted  accordingly  by  the  government.  Meanwhile,  he  had  sent 
ambassadors  into  Gaul,  and  cven*acrosa  the  Alps,  to  the  Gauls  who 
had  so  lately  been  at  war  with  the  Romans,  both  to  obtain  informa- 
tion as  to  the  country  through  which  his  march  lay,  and  to  secure  the 
assistance  and  guidance  of  the  Gauls  in  his  passage  of  the  Alps,  and 
their  co-operation  in  arms  when  he  should  arrive  in  Italy.  His  Span- 
ish troops  he  had  dismissed  to  their  several  homes,  at  the  end  of  the 
last  campaign,  that  they  might  carry  their  spoils  with  them,  and  tell 
of  their  exploits  to  their  countrymen,  and  enjoy,  during  the  winter, 
that  almost  listless  ease  which  is  the  barbarian's  relief  from  war  and 


LIFE    OF   HANNIBAL.  7 

plunder.  At  length  he  received  the  news  of  the  Roman  embassy  to 
Carthage,  and  the  actual  declaration  of  war  ;  his  officers  also  had  re- 
turned from  Cisalpine  Gaul.  "  The  natural  difficulties  of  the  passage 
of  the  Alps  were  great,"  they  said,  "  but  by  no  means  insuperable  ; 
while  the  disposition  of  the  Gauls  was  most"  friendly,  and  they  were 
eagerly  expecting  his  arrival."  Then  Hannibal  called  his  soldiers 
together,  and  told  them  openly  that  he  was  going  to  lead  them  into 
Italy.  "The  Romans,"  he  said,  "  have  demanded  that  I  and  my 
principal  officers  should  be  delivered  up  to  them  as  malefactors.  Sol- 
diers, will  you  suffer  such  an  indignity  ?  The  Gar.ls  are  holding  out 
their  arms  to  us,  inviting  us  io  come  to  them,  and  to  assist  them  in 
revenging  their  manifold  injuries.  And  the  country  which  we  shall 
invade,  so  ricL  in  corn  and  wine  and  oil,  so  full  of  flocks  and  herds, 
so  covered  with  flourishing  cities,  will  be  the  richest  prize  that  could 
be  offered  by  the  gods  to  reward  your  valor."  One  common  shout 
from  the  soldier s  assured  him  of  their  readiness  to  follow  him.  He 
thanked  them,  fixed  the  day  on  which  they  were  to  be  ready  to 
march,  and  then  dismissed  them. 

In  this  interval,  and  now  on  the  very  eve  of  commencing  his  ap- 
pointed work,  to  which  for  eighteen  yearslie  had  been  solemnly  de- 
voted, and  to  which  he  had  so  long  been  looking  forward  with  al- 
most sickening  hope,  he  left  the  headquarters  of  his  army  to  visit 
Gades,  and  there,  in  the  temple  of  the  supreme  god  of  Tyre,  and  all 
the  colonies  of  Tyre,  to  offer  his  prayers  and  vows  for  the  success  of 
his  enterprise.  Ho  was  attended  only  by  those  immediately  attached 
to  his  person  ;  and  amongst  these  was  a  Sicilian  Greek,  Silenus,  who 
followed  him  throughout  his  Italian  expedition,  and  lived  at  his 
table.  When  the  sacrifice  was  over,  Hannibal  returned  to  his  army  ;:t, 
New  Carthage  ;  and  everything  being  ready,  and  the  season  suffi- 
ciently advanced,  for  it  was  now  late  in  May,  he  set  out  on  his  march 
for  the  Iberus. 

And  here  the  fulness  of  his  mind,  and  his  strong  sense  of  being 
the  devoted  instrument  of  his  countrj-'s  gods  to  destroy  their  enemies, 
haunted  him  by  night  as  they  possessed  him  by  day.  In  his  sleep, 
so  he  told  Silenus,  he  fancied  that  the  supreme  god  of  his  fat  hers 
had  called  him  into  the  presence  of  all  the  gods  of  Carthage,  who 
were  sitting  on  their  thrones  in  council.  There  he  received  a  solemn 
charge  to  invade  Italy  ;  and  one  of  the  heavenly  council  went  with 
him  and  with  his  army,  to  guide  him  on  his  AVUV.  He  went  on,  and 
his  divine  guide  commanded  him,  "  See  that  thou  look  not  behind 
thee."  But  after  a  while,  impatient  of  the  restraint,  he  turned  to 
look  back  ;  and  there  he  beheld  a  huge  and  monstrous  form,  thick 
set  all  over  with  serpents  ;  wherever  it  moved  orchards  and  woods 
and  houses  fell  crashing  before  it.  He  asked  his  guide  in  wonder, 
what  that  monster  form  was  t  The  god  answered,  "  Thou  srcst  the 
desolation  of  Italy  ;  go  on  thy  way,  straight  forward,  and  cast  no 
look  behind."  Thus,'  with  no  divided  heart,  and  with  an  entire  res. 


&  LIFE    OF   HANNIBAL. 

ignation  of  all  personal  and  domestic  enjoyments  forever.  Hannibal 
went  forth  at  the  age  of  twenty -seven,  to  do  the  work  of  his  coun- 
try's gods,  and  to  redeem  his  early  vow. 

The  consuls  at  Rome  came  into  office  at  this  period  on  the  loth  of 
March  ;  it  was  possible  therefore  for  a  consular  army  to  arrive  en  the 
scene  of  action  in  time  to  dispute  with  Hannibal  not  only  the  passage 
of  the  Rhone,  but  that  of  the  Pyrenees.  But  the  Romans  exagger- 
ated the  difficulties  of  his  march,  and  seem  to  have  expected  that 
the  resistance  of  the  Spanish  tribes  between  the  Iberus  and  the  Pyr- 
enees, and  of  the  Gauls  between  the  Pyrenees  and  the  Rhone,  would 
so  delay  him  that  he  would  not  reach  the  Rhone  till  the  end  of  the 
season.  They  therefore  made  their  preparations  leisurely. 

Of  the  consuls  for  this  year,  the  year  of  Rome  586,  and  218  before 
the  Christian  era,  one  was  P.  Cornelius  Scipio,  the  sou  of  L.  Scipio, 
who  had  been  consul  in  the  sixth  year  of  the  first  Punic  war,  and 
the  grandson  of  L.  Scipio  Barbatus,  whose  services  in  the  third  Sam- 
nite  war  are  recorded  in  his  famous  epitaph.  The  other  was  Ti. 
Sempronius  Longus,  probably,  but  not  certainly,  the  son  of  that  C. 
Sempronius  Blresus  who  had  been  consul  in  the  year  501.  The 
consuls'  provinces  were  to  be  Spain  and  Sicily  ;  Scipio,  with  two 
Roman  legions,  and  15,600  of  the  Italian  allies,  and  with  a  fleet  of 
sixty  quinqueremes,  was  to  command  in  Spain  ;  Sempronius,  willi  a 
somewhat  larger  army,  and  a  lleet  of  160  quinqueremes,  was  to  cross 
over  to  Lilybaeum,  and  from  thence,  if  circumstances  favored,  to 
make  a  descent  on  Africa.  A  third  army,  consisting  also  of  two  Ro- 
man legions,  and  11,000  of  the  allies,  was  stationed  in  Cisalpine  Gaul, 
under  the  praetor  L.  Manlius  Vulso.  The  Romans  suspectecj  that 
the  Gauls  would  rise  in  arms  ere  long  ;  and  they  hastened  to  send 
out  the  colonists  of  two  colonies,  which  had  been  resolved  on  before, 
but  not  actually  founded,  to  occupy  the  important  stations  of  Pla- 
ceutia  and  Cremona  on  the  opposite  banks  of  the  Po.  The  colonists 
sent  to  each  of  these  places  were  no  fewer  than  six  thousand  ;  and 
they  received  notice  to  be  at  their  colonies  in  thirty  days.  Three 
commissioners,  one  of  them,  C.  Lutatius  Catulus,  being  of  consular 
rank,  were  sent  out,  as  usual,  to  superintend  the  allotment  of  lands 
to  the  settlers ;  and  these  12,000  men,  together  with  the  praetor's 
army,  were  supposed  to  be  capable  of  keeping  the  Gauls  quiet. 
^  It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  the  danger  on  the  side  of  Spain  was  con- 
sidered to  be  so  much  the  least  urgent,  that  Scipio 's  army  was  raised 
the  last,  after  those  of  his  colleague  and  of  the  praetor  L.  Manlius. 
Indeed  Scipio  was  still  at  Rome/when  tidings  came  that  the  Boiaus 
and  Insubrians  had  revolted,  had  dispersed  the  new  settlers  at  Pla- 
centia  and  Cremona,  and  driven  them  to  take  refuge  at  Mutina.  had 
treacherously  seized  the  three  commissioners  at  a  conference,  and 
had  defeated  the  praetor  L.  Manlius,  and  obliged  him  also  to  take 
shelter  in  one  of  the  towns  of  Cisalpine  Gaul,  where  they  were 
blockading  him.  One  of  Scipio's  legions,  with  five  thousand  of  tag 


LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL.  9 

allies,  was  immediately  sent  off  into  Gaul  under  another  praetor,  C. 
Autilius  Serraims  ;  and  Scipio  waited  till  his  own  army  should  again 
be  completed  by  new  levies.  Thus  he  cannot  have  left  Rome  till'  late 
in  the  summer  ;  and  when  he  arrived  with  his  fleet  and  army  at  the 
mouth  of  the  eastern  branch  of  the  Rhone,  he  found  that  Hannibal 
had  crossed  the  Pyrenees  ;  but  he  still  hoped  to  impede  his  passage 
of  the  river. 

Hannibal  meanwhile,  having  set  out  from  New  Carthage  with  an 
army  of  90,000  foot  and  12,000  horse,  crossed  the  Iberus^  and  from 
thenceforward  the  hostile  operations  of  his  march  began.  He  might 
probably  have  marched  through  the  country  between  the  Iberus  and 
the  Pyrenees,  had  that  been  his  sole  object,  as  easily  as  he  made  his 
way  from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  Rhone  ;  a  few  presents  and  civilities 
would  easily  have  induced  the  Spanish  chiefs  to  allow  him  a  free 
passage.  But  some  of  the  tribes  northward  of  the  Iberus  were 
friendly  to  Rome  :  on  the  coast  were  the  Greek  cities  of  Rhoda  and 
Emporise,  Massaliot  colonies,  and  thus  attached  to  the  Romans  as 
the  old  allies  of  their  mother  city  :  if  this  part  of  Spain  were  left  un- 
conquered,  the  Romans  would  immediately  make  use  of  it  as  the 
base  of  their  operations,  and  proceed  fiom  thence  to  attack  the  whole 
Carthaginian  dominion.  Accordingly,  Hannibal  employed  his  army 
in  subduing  the  whole  country,  which  he  effected  with  no  great  loss 
of  time,  but  at  a  heavy  expense  of  men,  as  he  was  obliged  to  carry 
the  enemy's  strongholds  by  assault,  rather  than  incur  the  delay  of 
besieging  them.  He  left  Hunno  with  eleven  thousand  men  to  retain 
possession  ofr  the  newly-conquered  country  ;  and  he  further  dimin- 
ished his  army  by  sending  home  as  many  more  of  his  Spanish  sol- 
diers, probably  those  who  had  most  distinguished  themselves,  as  an 
earnest  to  the  rest,  that  they  too,  if  they  did  their  duty  well,  might 
expect  a  similar  release,  and  might  look  forward  to  return  ere  loin; 
to  their  homes,  full  of  spoil  and  glory.  These  detachments,  together 
with  the  heavy  loss  sustained  in  the  field,  reduced  the  force  with 
which  Hannibal  entered  Gaul  to  no  more  than  50,000  foot  and  9000 
horse. 

From  the  Pyrenees  to  the  Rhone  his  progress  was  easy.  Here  he 
had  no  wish  to  make  regular  conquests  ;  and  presents  to  the  chiefs 
mostly  succeeded  in  conciliating  their  friendship,  so  that  he  was 
allowed  to  pass  freely.  But  on  the  left  bank  of  the  1  flume,  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Massaliots  with  the  Gaulish  tribes  had  disposed  them 
to  resist  the  invader  ;  and  the  passage  of  the  Rhone  was  not  to  be 
effected  without  a  contest. 

Scipio  by  this  time  had  landed  his  army  near  the  eastern  mouth  of 
the  Rhone  ;  and  his  information  of  Hannibal's  movements  was  vtiguo 
and  imperfect.  His  men  had  suffered  from  sea-sickness  on  their 
voyage  from  Pisa  to  the  Rhone  ;  and  lie  wished  to  give  them  a  short 
time  to  recover  their  strength  and  spirits,  before  he  led  them  against 
the  enemy.  He  still  felt  confident  that  Hannibal's  advance  from  the 


10  LIFE   OJ?   HAiTKlBAt. 

Pyrenees  must  be  slow,  supposing  that  he  would  be  obliged  to  tight 
his  way  ;  so  that  he  never  doubted  that  he  should  have  ample  time  to 
oppose"  his  passage  of  the  Rhone.  Meanwhile  he  sent  out  300  horse, 
with  some  Gauls  who  were  iu  the  service  of  the  Massaliots,  ordering 
them  to  ascend  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhone,  and  discover,  if  possible, 
the  situation  of  the  enemy.  He  seems  to  have  been  unwilling  to 
place  the  river  on  his  rear,  and  therefore  never  to  have  thought  of 
conducting  his  operations  on  the  right  bank,  or  even  of  sending  out 
reconnoitring  parties  in  this  direction. 

The  resolution  which  Scipio  formed  a  few  days  afterwards,  of 
sending  his  army  to  Spain,  when  he  himself  returned  to  Italy,  was 
deserving  of  such  high  praise,  that  we  must  hesitate  to  accuse  him  of 
over-caution  or  needless  delay  at  this  critical  moment.  Yet  he  was 
sitting  idle  at  the  mouth  of  the  Rhone,  while  the  Gauls  were  vainly 
endeavoring  to  oppose  Hannibal's  passage  of  the  river.  We  must 
understand  that  Hannibal  kept  his  army  as  far  away  from  the  sea  as 
possible  in  order  to  conceal  his  movements  from  the  Romans  ;  there- 
fore he  came  upon  the  Rhone,  not  on  the  line  of  the  later  Roman  load 
from  Spain  loll::/,  which  crossed  the  river  at  Tarasco,  between 
Avignon  and  Aries,  but  at  a  point  much  higher  up,  above  its  conflu- 
ence with  the  Durance,  and  nearly  half  way,  if  we  can  trust  Poly- 
bius's  reckoning,  from  the  sea  to  its  confluence  with  the  Isere.  Here 
he  obtained  from  the  natives  on  the  right  bank,  by  paying  a  fixed 
price,  all  their  boats  and  vessels  of  every  description  with  which  they 
were  accustomed  to  traffic  down  the  river  :  they  allowed  him  also  to 
cut  timber  for  the  construction  of  others  ;  and  thus  in«two  days  he 
was  provided  with  the  means  of  transporting  his  army.  But  rinding 
that  the  Gauls  were  assembled  on  the  eastern  bank  to  oppose  his  pas- 
s-t^c,  he  sent  off  a  detachment  of  his  army  by  night  with  native  guides, 
to  ascend  the  right  bank,  for  about  two-and-twenty  miles,  and  there 
to  cross  as  they  could,  where  there  Avas  no  enemy  to  stop  them. 
The  woods,  which  then  lined  the  river,  supplied  this  detachment  with 
the  means  of  constructing  barks  and  rafts  enough  for  the  passage  ; 
they  look  advantage  of  one  of  the  many  islands  in  this  part  of  the 
Rhone,  to  cross  where  the  stream  was  divided  ;  and  thus  they  all 
readied  the  left  bunk  in  safety.  There  they  took  up  a  strong  posi- 
tion, probably  one  of  those  strange  masses  of  rock  which  rise  here 
and  tlu  re  with  steep  cliffy  sides  like  islands  out  of  (he  vast  plain,  and 
rested  for  four-anti-twenty  hours  after  their  exertions  in  the  march 
and  the  passage  of  the  river. 

Hannibal  allowed  eiglit-and-forty  hours  to  pass  from  the  time  when 

the  detachment  left  his  camp  ;  and  then,  on  the  morning  of  the  fifth 

•  lay  aft'T  his  ai rival  on  the  Rhone,  he  made  his  preparations  for  the 

•••<•  of  lii.s  main  num.     The  mighty  stream  of  the  river,  fed  by 

the  snows  ot  the  hi-h  Alps,  is  swelled  rather  than  diminished  by  the 

'immer;   so  that,  although  the  reason  was  that  when  the 

southern  rivers  are  generally  at  their  lowest,  it  was  rolling  the  vast 


LIFE   OF  HANiflBAL.  11 

mass  of  its  waters  along  with  a  startling  fulness  and  rapidity.  The 
heaviest  vessels  were  therefore  placed  on  the  left,  highest  up  the 
stream,  to  form  something  of  a  break  water  for  the  smaller  craft  cross- 
ing below  ;  the  small  boats  held  the  flower  of  the  liifht-armed  foot, 
while  the  cavalry  were  in  the  larger  vessels  ;  most  of  the  horses  being 
towed  aslern  swimming,  and  a  single  soldier  holding  three  or  four 
together  by  their  bridles.  Everything  was  ready,  and  the  Gauls  on 
the  opposite  side  had  poured  out  of  their  camp,  and  lined  the  bunk  in 
scattered  groups  at  the  most  accessible  points,  thinking  that  their  task 
of  stopping  the  enemy's  landing  would  be  easily  accomplished.  At 
length  Hannibal's  eye  observed  a  column  of  smoke  rising  on  the  far- 
tlier  shore,  above  or  on  the  right  of  the  barbarians.  This  was  the 
concerted  signal  which  assured  him  of  the  arrival  of  his  detachment ; 
and  he  instantly  ordered  his  men  to  embark,  and  to  push  across  with 
all  possible  speed.  They  pulled  vigorously  against  the  rapid  stream, 
cheering  each  other  to  the  work  ;  while  behind  them  were  their 
friends,  cheering  them  also  from  the  bank  ;  and  before  them  were  the 
Gauls,  singing  their  war-songs,  and  calling  them  to  come  on  with 
tones  and  gestures  of  defiance.  But  on  a  sudden  a  mass  of  lire  was 
seen  on  the  rear  of  the  barbarians  ;  the  Gauls  on  the  bank  looked  be- 
hind, and  began  to  turn  away  from  the  river  ;  and  presently  the 
bright  arms  and  white  linen  coats  of  the  African  and  Spanish  soldiers 
appeared  above  the  bank,  breaking  in  upon  the  disorderly  line  of  the 
Ganls.  Hannibal  himself ,  who  was  with  the  party  crossing  the  river, 
leaped  on  shore  amongst  the  first,  and,  forming  his  men  as  last  :ls 
they  landed,  led  them  instantly  to  the  charge.  But  the  Gauls,  con 
fused  and  bewildered,  made  little  resistance  ;  they  lied  in  utter  rout  ; 
whilst  Hannibal,  not  losing  a  moment,  sent  back  his  vessels  and  boats 
for  a  fresh  detachment  of  his  army  ;  and  before  night  liis  whole 
force,  with  the  exception  of  his  elephants,  was  safely  established  on 
the  eastern  side  of  the  Rhone. 

As  the  river  was  no  longer  between  him  and  the  enemy,  Hannibal 
early  ou  the  next  morning  sent  out  a  party  of  Numidian  cavalry  to 
discover  the  position  and  number  of  Scipio's  forces,  and  then  called 
his  army  together,  to  see  and  hear  the  communications  of  some  chiefs 
of  the  Cisalpine  Gauls,  who  were  just  arrived  from  the  other  side  of 
the  Alps.  Their  words  were  explained  to  the  Africans  and  Spaniards 
in  the  army  by  interpreters  ;  but  the  very  sight  of  the  chiefs  was  it- 
aeli'  an  encouragement  ;  for  it  told  the  soldiers  that  the  communica- 
tion with  Cisalpine  Gaul  was  not  impracticable,  and  that  the  Gauls 
had  undertaken  so  long  a  journey  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  the 
aid  of  the  Carthaginian  army  against  their  old  enemies,  the  Romans. 
Besides,  the  interpreters  explained  to  the  soldiers  that  the  chiefs  un- 
dertook to  guide  them  into  Italy  by  a  short  and  safe  route,  on  which 
.they  would  be  able  to  find  provisions  :  and  spoke  strongly  of  the 
great  extent  and  richness  of  Italy,  when  they  did  arrive  there,  and 
how  zealously  the  Gauls  would  aid  them.  Hannibal  then  came  for- 


12  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

w:xid  himself  and  addressed  his  army  :  their  work,  he  said,  was  more 
than  accomplished  by  the  passage  of  the  Rhone  ;  their  own  eyes  and 
ears  had  witnessed  the  zeal  of  their  Gaulish  a'lies  in  their  cause  ;  for 
the  rest,  their  business  was  to  do  their  duty,  and  obey  his  orders  im- 
plicitly, leaving  everything  else  to  him.  The  cheers  and  shouts  of 
the  soldiers  again  satisfied  him  how  fully  he  might  depend  upo'n 
them  ;  and  he  then  addressed  his  prayers  and  vows  to  the  gods  of  Car- 
tluure,  imploring  them  to  watch  over  the  army,  and  to  prosper  its 
Work  to  the  end,  as  they  had  prospered  its  beginning.  The  soldiers 
were  now  dismissed,  with  orders  to  prepare  for  their  march  on  the 
morrow. 

Scarcely  was  the  assembly  broken  up,  when  some  of  the  Numidiaiis 
who  had  been  sent  out  in  the  morning  were  seen  riding  fur  their  lives 
to  the  camp,  manifestly  in  flight  from  a  victorious  enemy.  Not  half 
of  the  original  party  returned  ;  for  they  had  fallen  in  with  Scipio's 
detachment  of  Roman  and  Gaulish  horse,  and  after  an  obstinate  con- 
flict  had  been  completely  beaten.  Presently  after,  the  Roman  horse- 
men appeared  in  pursuit  ;  hut  when  they  observed  the  Carthaginian 
camp,  they  wheeled  and  rode  off,  to  carry  back  word  to  their  gen- 
eral. Then  at  last  Scipio  put  his  army  in  motion,  and  ascended  the 
left  bank  of  the  river  to  find  and  engage  the  enemy.  But  when  he 
arrived  at  the  spot  where  his  cavalry  had  seen  the  Carthaginian 
camp,  he  found  it  deserted,  and  was  told  that  Hannibal  had  been  gone 
three  days,  having  marched  northwards,  ascending  the  left  bank  of 
the  river.  To  follow  him  seemed  desperate  :  it  was  plunging  into  a 
country  wholly  unknown  to  the  Romans,  where  they  had  neither 
allies  nor  guides,  nor  resources  of  any  kind  ;  and  where  the  natives, 
over  and  above  the  common  jealousy  felt  by  all  barbarians  towards  a 
foreign  enemy,  were  likely,  as  Gauls,  to  regard  the  Romans  with 
peculiar  hostility.  But  if  Hannibal  could  not  be  followed  now,  he 
might  easily  be  met  on  his  first  arrival  in  Italy  ;  from  the  mouth  of 
the  Rhone  to  Pisa  was  the  chord  of  a  circle,  while  Hannibal  was 
going  to  make  a  long  circuit  ;  and  the  Romans  had  an  army  already 
in  Cisalpine  Gaul  ;  while  the  enemy  would  reach  the  scene  of  action 
exhausted  with  the  fatigues  and  privations  of  his  march  across  (lie 
Alps.  Accordingly  Scipio  descended  the  Rhone  again,  embarked  his 
army,  and  sent  it  on  to  Spain  under  the  command  of  his  brother 
Cna-us  Scipio,  as  his  lieutenant;  while  he  himself  in  his  own  ship 
sailed  for  Pisa,  and  immediately  crossed  the  Apennines  to  take  the 
command  of  the  forces  of  the  two  praetors,  Maiilius  and  Atilius,  who, 
as  we  have  seen,  had  an  army  of  about  25,000  men,  over  and  above 
the  colonists  of  Placentia  and  Cremona,  still  disposable  in  Cisalpine 
Gaul. 

This  resolution  of  Scipio  to  send  his  own  army  on  to  Spain,  and  to 
meet  Hannibal  with  the  army  of  the  two  praetors,  appears  to  show 
that  he  possessed  the  highest  qualities  of  a  general,  which  involve  the 
wisdom  of  a  statesman  no  less  than  of  a  soldier.  As  a  mere  military 


LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL  13 

Question,  his  calculation,  though  baffled  by  the  event,  was  sound 
but  if  we  view  it  in  a  higher  light,  the  importance  to  the  Romans  o! 
retaining  their  hold  on  Spain  would  have  justified  a  far  greatei 
hazard  ;  for  if  the  Carthaginians  were  suffered  to  consolidate  theii 
dominion  in  Spain,  and  to  avail  themselves  of  its  immense  resources, 
not  in  money  only,  but  in  men,  the  hardiest  and  steadiest  of  bar- 
barians, and,  under  the  training  of  such  generals  as  Hannibal  and 
his  brother,  equal  to  the  best  soldiers  in  the  world,  the  Romans  would 
hardly  have  been  able  to  maintain  the  contest.  Had  not  P.  Scipio 
then  dispatched  his  army  to  Spain  at  this  critical  moment,  instead  of 
carrying  it  home  to  Italy,  his  son  in  all  probability  would  never  have 
won  the  battle  of  Zama. 

Meanwhile  Hannibal,  on  the  day  after  the  skirmish  with  Scipio's 
horse,  had  sent  forward  his  infantry,  keeping  the  cavalry  to  cover  his 
operations,  as  he  still  expected  the  Romans  to  pursue  him  ;  whilst  he 
himself  waited  to  superintend  the  passage  of  the  elephants.  These 
were  thirty-seven  in  number  ;  and  their  dread  of  the  water  made 
their  transport  a  very  difficult  operation.  It  was  effected  by  fasten- 
ing to  the  bank  large  rafts  of  200  feet  in  length,  covered  carefully 
with  earth  :  to  the  end  of  these,  smaller  rafts  were  attached,  covered 
with  earth  in  the  same  manner,  and  with  towing  lines  extended  to  a 
number  of  the  largest  barks,  which  were  to  tow  them  over  the 
stream.  The  elephants,  two  females  leading  the  way,  were  brought 
upon  the  rafts  by  their  drivers  without  difficulty  ;  and  as  soon  as  they 
came  upon  the  smaller  rafts,  these  were  cut  loose  at  once  from  the 
larger,  and  towed  out  into  the  middle  of  the  river.  Some  of  the  ele- 
phants in  their  terror  leaped  overboard,  and  drowned  their  drivers  ; 
but  they  themselves,  it  is  said,  held  their  huge  trunks  above  water, 
and  struggled  to  the  shore  ;  so  that  the  whole  thirty-seven  were 
landed  in  safety.  Then  Hannibal  called  in  his  cavalry,  and  covering 
his  march  with  them  and  with  the  elephants,  set  forward  up  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhone  to  overtake  the  infantry. 

In  four  days  they  reached  the  spot  where  the  Isere,  coming  down 
from  the  main  Alps,  brings  to  the  Rkone  a  stream  hardly  less  full  or 
mighty  than  his  own.  In  the  plains  above  the  confluence  two  Gaul- 
ish  brothers  were  contending  which  should  be  chief  of  their  tribe ; 
and  the  elder  called  in  the  stranger  general  to  support  his  cause. 
Hannibal  readily  complied,  established  him  firmly  on  the  throne,  and 
received  important  aid  from  him  in  return.  He  supplied  the  Cartha 
ginian  army  plentifully  with  provisions,  furnished  them  with  new 
arms,  gave  them  new  clothing,  especially  shoes,  which  were  found 
very  useful  in  the  subsequent  march,  and  accompanied  them  to  the 
first  entrance  on  the  mountain  country,  to  secure  them  from  attacks 
on  the  part  of  his  countrymen. 

The  attentive  reader,  who  is  acquainted  with  the  geography  of  the 
Alps  and  their  neighborhood,  will  perceive  that  this  account  of  Han- 
nibal's march  is  va^ue.  It  does  noi  appear  whether  the  Cartha 


14  LIFE  OF  HAKKIBAL, 

giuians  ascended  the  left  bank  of  the  Isere  or  the  right  bank  ,  or 
whether  they  continued  to  ascend  the  Rhone  for  a  time,  and  leaving 
it  only  so  far  as  to  avoid  the  great  angle  which  it  makes  at  Lyons,  re- 
joined it  again  just  before  they  entered  the  mountain  country,  a  little 
to  the  left  of  the  present  road  from  Lyons  to  Chamberri.  But  these 
uncertainties  cannot  now  be  removed,  because  Polybius  neither  pos- 
sessed a  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  bearings  of  tbe  country,  nor 
sufficient  liveliness  as  a  painter,  to  describe  the  line  of  the  march  so 
as  to  be  clearly  recognized.  I  believe,  however,  that  Hannibal 
crossed  the  Isere,  and  continued  to  ascend  the  Rhone  :  and  that  after- 
wards, striking  off  to  the  right  across'  the  plains  of  Dauphine,  he 
reached  what  Polybius  calls  the  first  ascent  of  the  Alps,  at  the  north- 
ern extremity  of  that  ridge  of  limestone  mountains,  which,  rising  ab- 
ruptly from  the  plain  to  the  height  of  4000  or  5000  feet,  and  filling  up 
the  whole  space  between  the  Rhone  at  Belley  and  the  Isere  below 
Grenoble,  first  introduces  the  traveller  coming  from  Lyons  to  the 
remarkable  features  of  Alpine  scenery. 

At  the  end  of  the  lowland  country,  the  Gaulish  chief,  who  had  ac- 
companied Hannibal  thus  far,  took  leave  of  him  :  his  influence  prob- 
ably did  not  extend  to  the  Alpine  valleys  ;  and  the  mountaineers,  far 
from  respecting  his  safe  conduct,  might  be  in  the  habit  of  making 
plundering  inroads  on  his  own  territory.  Here,  then,  Hannibal  was 
left  to  himself  ;  and  he  found  that  the  natives  were  prepared  to  beset 
his  passage.  They  occupied  all  such  points  as  commanded  the  road  ; 
which,  as  usual,  was  a  sort  of  terrace  cut  in  the  mountain-side,  over- 
hanging the  valley  whereby  it  penetrated  to  the  central  ridge.  But 
as  the  mountain  line  is  of  no  great  breadth  here,  the  natives  guarded 
the  defile  only  by  day,  and  withdrew  when  night  came  on  to  their 
own  homes,  in  a  town  or  village  among  the  mountains,  and  lying  in 
the  valley  behind  them.  Hannibal,  having  learned  this  from  some  of 
his  Gaulish  guides  whom  he  sent  among  them,  encamped  in  their 
sight  just  below  the  entrance  of  the  defile  ;  ,and  as  soon  as  it  was 
dusk,  he  set  out  with  a  detachment  of  light  troops,  made  his  way 
through  the  pass,  and  occupied  the  positions  which  the  barbarians, 
after  their  usual  practice,  had  abandoned  at  the  approach  of  night. 

Day  dawned  ;  the  main  army  broke  up  from  its  camp,  and  began 
to  enter  the  defile  ;  while  the  natives,  finding  their  positions  occu- 
pied by  the  enemy,  at  first  looked  on  quietly,  and  ollered  no  disturb- 
ance to  the  march.  But  when  they  saw  the  long  narrow  line  of  the 
Carthaginian  army  winding  along  the  steep  mountain-side,  and  the 
cavalry  and  baggage  cattle  struggling  at  every  step  with  the  difficul- 
ties of  the  road,  the  temptation  to  plunder  was  too  strong  to  be  re- 
sisted ;  and  from  many  points  of  the  mountain,  above  the  road,  they 
rushed  down  upon  the  Carthaginians.  The  confusion  was  terrible  ; 
for  the  road  or  track  was  so  narrow,  that  the  least  crowd  or  disorder 
pushed  the  heavily  loaded  baggage  cattle  down  the  steep  below  ;  and 
the  horses,  wounded  by  the  barbarians'  missiles,  and  plunging  about 


LIFE   OF  HAKNIBAL.  15 

wildly  in  their  pain  and  terror,  increased  the  mischief.  At  last  Han- 
nibal was  obliged  to  charge  down  from  his  position,  which  com- 
manded the  whole  scene  of  confusion,  aud  to  drive  the  barbarians 
off.  This  he  eifected  :  yet  the  conflict  of  so,  many  men  on  the  narrow 
road  made  the  disorder  worse  for  a  time  ;  aud  he  unavoidably  occa- 
sioned the  destruction  of  mauy  of  his  own  men.  At  last,  the  bar- 
barians being  quite  beaten  off,  the  army  wound  its  way  out  of  the 
defile  in  safety,  and  rested  in  the  wide  and  rich  valley  wliich  ex- 
tends  from  the  Lake  of  Bourget,  with  scarcely  a  perceptible  change 
of  level,  to  the  Isere  at  Montmeillan.  Hannibal  meanwhile  attacked 
and  stormed  the  town,  which  was  the  barbarians'  principal  strong- 
hold ;  and  here  he  recovered  not  only  a  great  many  of  his  own  men, 
horses  aud  baggage  cattle,  but  also  found  a  large  supply  of  corn  aud 
cattle  belonging  to  the  barbarians,  which  he  immediately  made  use  of 
for  the  consumption  of  his  soldiers. 

In  the  plain  which  he  had  now  reached,  he  halted  for  a  whole  day, 
and  then  resuming  his  march,  proceeded  for  three  days  up  the  valley 
of  the  Isere  on  the  right  bank,  without  encountering  auy  difficulty. 
Then  the  natives  mat  him  with  branches  of  trees  in  their  hands,  and 
wreaths  on  their  heads,  in  token  of  peace  :  they  spoke  fairly,  offered 
hostages,  and  wished,  they  said,  neither  to  do  the  Carthaginians  auy 
injury,  nor  to  receive  any  from  them.  Hannibal  mistrusted  them, 
yet  did  not  wish  to  offend  them  ;  he  accepted  their  terms,  received 
their  hostages,  and  obtained  large  supplies  of  cattle  ;  aud  their  whole 
behavior  seemed  so  trustworthy,  that  at  last  he  accepted  their  guid- 
ance, it  is  said,  through  a  difficult  part  of  the  country,  which  he  was 
now  approaching.  For  all  the  Alpine  valleys  become  narrower  as 
they  draw  near  to  the  central  chain  ;  and  the  mountains  often  come 
so  close  to  the  stream,  that  the  roads  in  old  times  were  often  obliged 
to  leave  the  valley  aud  ascend  the  hills  by  any  accessible  point,  to 
descend  again  when  the  gorge  became  wider,  and  follow  the  stream 
as  before.  If  this  is  not  done,  and  the  track  is  carried  nearer  the 
river,  it  passes  often  through  defiles  of  the  most  formidable  character, 
being  no  more  than  a  narrow  ledge  above  a  furious  torrent,  with  cliffs 
rising  above  it  absolutely  precipitous,  and  coming  down  on  the  other 
side  of  the  torrent  abruptly  to  the  water,  leaving  no  passage  by  which 
man,  or  even  goat,  could  make  his  way. 

It  appears  that  the  barbarians  persuaded  Hannibal  to  pass  through 
one  of  these  defiles,  instead  of  going  round  it ;  and  while  his  army 
was  involved  in  it,  they  suddenly,  and  without  provocation,  as  we 
are  told,  attacked  him.  Making  their  way  along  the  mountain -sides, 
above  the  defile,  they  rolled  down  masses  of  rock  on  the  Cartha- 
ginians below,  or  even  threw  stones  upon  them  from  their  hands, 
stones  and  rocks  being  equally  fatal  against  an  enemy  so  entangled. 
It  was  well  for  Hannibal,  that,  still  doubting  the  barbarians'  faith, 
he  had  sent  forward  his  cavalry  and  baggage,  and  covered  the  march 
with  his  infantry,  who  thus  had  to  sustain  the  brunt  of  the  attack. 


16  llFE  OF  HANNIBAL. 

Foot-soldiers  on  such  ground  were  able  to  move  where  horses  would 
be  quite  helpless  ;  and  thus,  at  last,  Hannibal,  with  his  infantry, 
forced  his  way  to  the  summit  of  one  of  the  bare  cliffs  overhanging 
the  defile,  and  remained  there  during  the  night,  whilst  the  cavalry 
and  baggage  slowly  struggled  out  of  the  defile.  Thus,  again  baffled, 
the  barbarians  made  no  more  general  attacks  on  the  army  ;  some  par- 
tial annoyance  was  occasioned  at  intervals  ;  and  some  baggage  was 
carried  off  ;  but  it  was  observed,  that  wherever  the  elephants  were, 
the  line  of  march  was  secure  ;  for  the  barbarians  beheld  those  huge 
creatures  with  terror,  having  never  had  the  slightest  knowledge  of 
them,  and  not  daring  to  approach  when  they  saw  them. 

Without  any  further  recorded  difficulty,  the  army,  on  the  ninth 
day  after  they  had  left  the  plains  of  Dauphine,  arrived  at  the  summit 
of  the  central  ridge  of  the  Alps.  Here  there  is  always  a  plain  of 
some  extent,  immediately  overhung  by  the  snowy  summits  of  the 
high  mountains,  but  itself  in  summer  presenting,  in  many  parts,  a 
carpet  of  the  freshest  grass,  with  the  chalets  of  the  shepherds  scat- 
tered over  it,  and  gay  with  a  thousand  flowers.  But  far  different  is 
its  aspect  through  the  greatest  part  of  the  year  :  then  it  is  one  un- 
varied waste  of  snow  ;  and  the  little  lakes,  which,  on  many  of  the 
passes,  enliven  the  summer  landscape,  are  now  frozen  over  and  cov- 
ered with  snow,  so  as  to  be  no  longer  distinguishable.  Hannibal  was 
on  the  summit  of  the  Alps  about  the  end  of  October  ;  the  first  winter 
snows  had  already  fallen  ;  but  two  hundred  years  before  the  Chris- 
tian era,  when  all  Germany  was  one  vast  forest,  the  climate  of  the 
Alps  was  far  colder  than  at  present,  and  the  snow  lay  on  the  passes 
all  through  the  year.  Thus  the  soldiers  were  in  dreary  quarters  ; 
they  remained  two  days  on  the  summit,  resting  from  their  fatigues, 
and  giving  opportunity  to  many  of  the  stragglers,  and  of  the  horses 
and  cattle,  to  rejoin  them  by  following  their  track  ;  but  they  were 
cold,  and  worn,  and  disheartened  ;  and  mountains  still  rose  before 
them,  through  which,  as  they  knew  too  well,  even  their  descent 
might  be  perilous  and  painful. 

But  their  great  general,  who  felt  that  he  now  stood  victorious  on 
the  ramparts  of  Italy,  and  that  the  torrent  which  rolled  before  him 
was  carrying  its  waters  to  the  rich  plains  of  Cisalpine  Gaul,  endeav- 
ored to  kindle  his  soldiers  with  his  own  spirit  of  hope.  He  called 
them  together  ;  he  pointed  out  the  valley  beneath,  to  which  the  de- 
scent seemed  the  work  of  a  moment :  "  That  valley,"  he  said,  "  is 
Italy  ;  it  leads  us  to  the  country  of  our  friends  the  Gauls  ;  and  yon- 
der is  our  way  to  Rome."  His  eyes  were  eagerly  fixed  on  that  point 
of  the  horizon  ;  and  as  he  gazed,  the  distance  between  seemed  to  van- 
ish, till  he  could  almost  fancy  that  he  was  crossing  the  Tiber,  and  as. 
sailing  the  capital. 

After  the  two  days'  rest  the  descent  began.  Hannibal  experienced 
no  more  open  hostility  from  the  barbarians,  only  some  petty  attempts 
here  and  there  to  plunder  ;  a  fact  strange  in  itself,  but  doubly  so 


LIFE    OF   HANNIBAL.  17 

if  he  ware  really  descending  the  valley  of  the  Doria  Baltea,  through 
the  country  of  the  Salassians,  the  most  untamable  robbers  of  all  the 
Alpine  barbarians.  It  is  possible  that  the  influence  of  the  Insuhrians 
may  partly  have  restrained  the  mountaineers  ;  and  partly  also  they 
may  have  been  deterred  by  the  ill  success  of  former  attacks,  and 
may  by  this  time  have  regarded  the  strange  army  and  its  monstrous 
beasts  with  something  of  superstitious  terror.  But  the  natural  diffi- 
culties of  the  ground  on  the  descent  were  greater  than  ever.  The 
snow  covered  the  track  so  that  the  men  often  lost  it,  and  fell  down 
the  steep  below  :  at  last  they  came  to  a  place  where  an  avalanche  had 
carried  it  away  altogether  for  about  three  hundred  yards,  leaving  the 
mountain-side  a  mere  wreck  of  scattered  rocks  and  snow.  To  go 
round  was  impossible  ;  for  the  depth  of  the  snow  on  the  heights 
above  rendered  it  hopeless  to  scale  them  ;  nothing  therefore  was  left 
but  to  repair  the  road.  A  summit  \>f  some  extent  was  found,  aud 
cleared  of  the  snow  ;  and  here  the  army  were  obliged  to  encamp 
whilst  the  work  went  on.  There  was  no  want  of  hands  ;  and  every 
man  was  laboring  for  his  life  :  the  road,  therefore,  was  restored,  and 
supported  with  solid  substructions  below  ;  and  in  a  single  day  it  was 
made  practicable  for  the  cavalry  and  baggage  cattle,  which  were  im- 
mediately sent  forward,  and  reached  the  lower  valley  in  safety, 
where  they  were  turned  out  to  pasture.  A  harder  labor  was  required 
to  make  a  passage  for  the  elephants  :  the  way  for  them  must  be  wide 
and  solid  ;  and  The  work  could  not  be  accomplished  in  less  than  three 
days.  The  poor  animals  suffere  !  severely  in  the  .interval  from  hun- 
ger ;  for  no  forage  was  to  be  found  in  that  wilderness  of  snow,  nor 
any  trees  whose  leaves  might  supply  the  place  of  other  herbage.  At 
last,  they  too  were  able  to  proceed  with  safety  :  Hannibal  overtook 
his  cavalry  and  baggage  ;  and  in  three  days  more  the  whole  army 
had  got  clear  of  the  Alpine  valleys,  and  entered  the  country  of  their 
friends,  the  Insubrians,  on  the  wide  plain  of  northern  Italy. 

Hannibal  was  arrived  in  Italy,  but  with  a  force  so  weakened  by  its 
losses  in  men  aud  horses,  aud  by  the  exhausted  state  of  the  surviv- 
ors, that  he  might  seem  to  have  accomplished  his  great  inarch  iii 
vain.  According  to  his  own  statement,  which  there  is  no  reason  to 
doubt,  he  brought  out  of  the  Alpine  valleys  no  more  than  12,01)0 
African  and  8000  Spanish  infantry,  with  0000  cavalry  ;  so  that  his 
march  from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  plains  of  northern  Italy  must  have 
cost  him  33,000  men  ;  an  enormous  loss,  which  proves  how  severely 
the  army  must  have  suffered  from  the  privations  of  the  march  and 
the  severity  of  the  Alpine  climate  ;  for  not  half  of  these  oli.OOO  men 
can  have  fallen  in  battle.  With  his  army  in  this  condition,  some 
period  of  repose  was  absolutely  necessary:  accordingly,  Hannibal 
remained  in  the  country  of  the  Insubrians,  till  rest,  and  a  more  tem- 
perate climate,  and  wholesome  food,  with  which  the  Gauls  plentifully 
supplied  him,  restored  the  bodies  and  spirits  of  his  soldiers,  and  made 
them  again  ready  for  action.  His  first  movement  was  against  tho 


18  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL. 

Taurinians,  a  Ligurian  people,  who  were  constant  enemies  of  the  In 
subrians,  and  therefore  would  not  listen  to  Hannibal  when  he  in- 
vited them  to  join  his  cause.  He  therefore  attacked  and  stormed 
their  principal  town,  put  the  garrison  to  the  sword,  and  struck  such 
terror  into  the  neighboring  tribes,  that  they  submitted  immediately, 
and  became  his  allies.  This  was  his  first  accession  of  strength  in 
Italy,  the  first  fruits,  as  he  hoped,  of  a  long  succession  of  defections 
among  the  allies  of  Rome,  so  that  the  swords  of  the  Italians  might 
effect  for  him  the  conquest  of  Italy. 

Meanwhile  Scipio  had  landed  at  Pisa,  had  crossed  the  Apennines, 
and  taken  the  command  of  the  praetors'  army,  sending  the  praetors 
themselves  back  to  Rome,  had  crossed  the  Po  at  Placentia,  and  was 
ascending  its  left  bank,  being  anxious  to  advance  with  all  possible 
haste,  in  order  to  hinder  a  general  rising  of  the  Gauls  by  his  pres- 
ence. Hannibal,  for  the  opposite  reason,  was  equally  anxious  to 
meet  him,  being  well  aware  that  the  Gauls  were  only  restrained  from 
revolting,  to  the  Carthaginians,  by  fear,  and  that  on  his  first  success 
in  the  field  they  would  join  him.  He  therefore  descended  the  left 
bank  of  the  Po,  keeping  the  river  on  his  right ;  and  Scipio  having 
thrown  a  bridge  over  the  Ticinus,  had  entered  what  are  now  the  Sar- 
dinian dominions,  and  was  still  advancing  westward,  with  the  Po  on 
his  left,  although,  as  the  river  here  makes  a  bend  to  the  southward, 
he  was  no  longer  in  its  immediate  neighborhood. 

Each  general  was  aware  that  his  enemy  was  at  hand,  and  both 
pushed  forward  with  their  cavalry  and  light  troops  in  advance  of 
their  main  armies,  to  reconnoitre  each  other's  position  and  numbers. 
Thus  was  brought  on  accidentally  the  first  action  between  Hannibal 
and  the  Romans  in  Italy,  which,  with  some  exaggeration,  has  been 
called  the  battle  of  the  Ticinus.  The  Numidians  in  Hannibal's  army, 
being  now  properly  supported  by  heavy  cavalry,  were  able  to  follow 
their  own  manner  of  fighting,  and  falling  on  the  flanks  and  rear  of 
the  Romans,  who  were  already  engaged  in  front  with  Hannibal's 
heavy  horsemen,  took  ample  vengeance  for  their  defeat  on  the 
Rhone.  The  Romans  were  routed  ;  and  the  consul  himself  was 
severely  wounded,  and  owed  his  life,  it  is  said,  to  the  courage  ;aul 
fidelity  of  a  Ligurian  slave.  With  their  cavalry  thus  crippled,  it  was 
impossible  to  act  in  such  an  open  country  ;  the  Romans  therefore 
hastily  retreated,  recrossed  the  Ticinus,  and  broke  down  the  bridge, 
yet  with  so  much  hurry  and  confusion,  that  600  men  were  left  on  the 
right  bank,  and  fell  into  the  enemy's  hands  ;  and  then  crossing  the  Po 
also,  established  themselves  under  the  walls  of  their  colony  Placeutia. 

Hannibal,  finding  the  bridge  over  the  Ticinus  destroyed,  reascended 
the  left  bank  of  the  Po  till  he  found  a  convenient  point  to  cross,  and 
then,  having  constructed  a  bridge  with  the  river  boats,  carried  over 
his  army  in  safety.  Immediately,  as  he  had  expected,  the  Gauls  on 
the  right  bank  received  him  with  open  arms  ;  and  again  descending 
the  river,  he  arrived  on.  the  second  day  after  his  passage  in  sight  of 


tlFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  19 

the  Roman  army,  and  on  the  following  day  offered  them  battle.  But 
as  the  Romans  did  not  move,  he  chose  out  u  sp.it'  for  his  camp,  and 
posted  his  army  rive  or  six  miles  from  the  enemy,  and  apparently  ou 
the  east  of  Placeutia,  tutting  off  their  direet  communication  with 
Ai'iminum  and  Rome, 

Ou  the  first  news  of  Hannibal's  arrival  in  Italy,  the  senate  sent 
orders  to  the  other  consul,  Ti.  Sempronius,  to  return  immediately  to 
reinforce  his  colleague.  No  event  of  importance  had  marked  the 
first  summer  of  the  war  in  Sicily.  Hannibal's  spirit  so  animated  the 
Carthaginian  government  that  they  were  everywhere  preparing  to  act 
en  the  offensive  ;  and  before  the  arrival  of  Sempronius,  JEmiiius,  the 
praetor,  had  already  had  to  fight  a  naval  action  with  the  enemy,  in 
order  to  defend  Lilybseum.  He  had  defeated  them,  and  prevented 
their  landing,  but  the  Carthaginian  fleets  still  kept  the  sea  ;  and  whilst 
Sempronius  was  employing  his  whole  force  in  the  conquest  of  the 
Island  of  Melila,  the  enemy  were  cruising  on  the  northern  side  of 
Sicily,  and  making  descents  on  the  coast  of  Italy.  On  his  return  to 
Lilylneiun  lie  was  going  in  pursuit  of  them,  when  he  received  orders 
to  return  home  and  join  his  colleague.  He  accordingly  left  part  of  his 
fleet  with  the  praetor  in  Sicily,  and  part  he  committed  to  Sex.  Pom- 
ponius,  his  lieutenant,  for  the  protection  of  the  coasts  of  Lucania  and 
Campania  ;  whilst,  from  a  dread  of  the  dangers  and  delays  of  the 
winter  navigation  of  the  Adriatic,  his  army  was  to  march  from 
Lilybseum  to  Messana,  and  after  crossing  the  strait  to  go  by  land 
through  the  whole  length  of  Italy,  the  soldiers  being  bound  by  <;;ilh 
to  appear  on  a  certain  day  at  Ariminum.  They  completed  their  long 
inarch,  it  is  said,  in  forty  days  ;  and  from  Ariminum  they  lis- 
tened to  the  scene  of  action,  and  effected  their  junction  with  the  army 
of  Scipio. 

Sempronius  found  his  colleague  no  longer  in  his  original  position, 
close  by  Placentia  and  the  Po,  but  withdrawn  to  the  first  hylls  which 
bound  the  great  plain  on  the  south,  and  leave  an  interval  here  of 
about  six  miles  between  themselves  and  the  river.  But  Hannibal's 
army,  lying,  as  it  seems,  to  the  eastward,  the  Roman  consul  retreated 
westward,  and  leaving  Placentia  to  its  own  resources,  crossed  to  the 
left  bank  of  the  Trebia,  and  there  lay  encamped,  just  where  Hie 
stream  issues  from  the  last  hills  of  the  Apennines.  It  appears  that 
the  Romans  had  several  magazines  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Po  above 
Placentia,  on  which  the  consul  probably  depended  foi  his  subsistence  ; 
and  these  posts,  together  with  the  presence  of  his  army,  kept  tho 
Gauls  on  the  immediate  bank  of  the  river  quiet,  so  that  they  gave 
Hannibal  no  assistance.  When  the  Romans  fell  back  behind  thq 
Trebia,  Hannibal  followed  them,  and  encamped  about  live  miles  off 
from  them,  directly  between  them  and  Plaeeutia.  But  his  powerful 
cavalry  kept  his  communications  open  in  every  direction;  and  the 
Gauls  who  lived  out  of  the  immediate  control  of  the  Roman  army  aud 
garrisons,  supplied  him  with  provisions  abundantly. 


20  LIFE   OF   HAHNIBAL. 

It  is  not  explained  by  any  existing  writer  how  Seinpronius  wa» 
able  to  effect  his  junction  with  his  colleague  without  any  opposition 
from  Hannibal.  The  regular  road  from  Ariminum  to  Placentia 
passes  through  a  country  unvaried  by  a  singlj  hill  ;  and  the  approach 
of  a  large  army  should  have  been  announced  to  Hannibal  by  his 
Numidian  cavalry,  soon  enough  to  allow  him  to  interrupt  it.  But  so 
much  in  war  depends  upon  trifling  accidents,  that  it  is  in  vain  to 
guess  where  we  are  without  information.  We  only  know  that  the 
two  consular  armies  were  united  in  Scipio's  position  on  the  left  bank 
of  the  Trebia  ;  -that  their  united  forces  amounted  to  40,000  men  ;  ai:c 
that  Hannibal,  with  an  army  so  reinforced  by  the  Gauls  since  his 
arrival  in  Italy,  that  it  was  little  inferior  to  his  enemy's,  was  so  far 
from  fearing  to  engage  either  consul  singly,  that  he  Avished  for  noth- 
ing so  much  as  to  bring  on  a  decisive  battle  with  the  combined  armies 
of  both.  Depending  on  the  support  of  the  Gauls  for  his  subsistence, 
he  must  not  be  too  long  a  burden  to  them  :  they  had  hoped  to  be  led 
to  live  on  the  plunder  of  the  enemy's  country,  not  to  maintain  him  at 
the  expense  of  their  own.  In  order  to  force  the  Humans  to  a  battle, 
he  began  to  attack  their  magazines.  Clastidium,  now  Castiggio,  a 
small  town  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Po,  nearly  opposite  to  the  mouth 
of  the  Ticinus,  was  betrayed  into  his  hands  by  the  governor  ;  and  he 
here  found  large  supplies  of  corn. 

On  the  other  hand,  Semprorrius,  having  no  fears  for  the  event  of  a 
battle,  was  longing  for  the  glory  of  a  triumph  over  such  an  enemy  as 
Hannibal ;  and  as  Scipio  was  still  disabled  by  his  wound,  lie  had  the 
command  of  the  whole  Roman  army.  Besides,  the  Gauls  who  lived 
in  the  plain  between  the  Trebia  and  Placentia,  not  knowing  which 
side  to  espouse,  had  been  plundered  by  Hannibal's  cavalry,  and  be- 
sought the  consuls  to  protect  them.  This  was  no  time,  Sempronius 
thought,  to  neglect  any  ally  who  still  remained  faithful  to  Rome  :  he 
sent  out  his  cavalry  and  light  troops  over  the  Trebia  to  drive  off  the 
plundered  ;  and  in  such  skirmishes  he  obtained  some  partial  success, 
which  made  him  the  more  disposed  to  risk  a  general  battle. 

For  this,  as  a  Roman  officer,  and  before  Hannibal's  military  talents 
were  fully  known,  he  ought  not  to  be  harshly  judged  ;  but  his  manner 
of  engaging  was  rash,  and  unworthy  of  an  able  general.  He  allowed 
the  attacks  of  Hannibal's  light  cavalry  to  tempt  him  to  follow  them 
to  their  own  field  of  battle.  Early  in  the  morning  the  Nnmidians, 
crossed  the  river,  and  skirmished  close  up  to  the  Roman  camp  :  the 
consul  first  sent  out  his  cavalry,  and  then  his  light  infantry,  to  repel 
them  ;  and  when  they  gave  way  and  recrossed  the  river,  he  led  hia 
regular  infantry  out  of  his  camp,  and  gave  orders  for  the  whole 
army  to  advance  over  the  Trebia  and  attack  the  enemy. 

It  was  midwinter,  and  the  wide  pebbly  bed  of  the  Trebia,  which 
the  summer  traveller  may  almost  pass  dry-shod,  was  now  filled  with 
a  rapid  stream  running  breast-high.  In  the  night  it  had  rained  or 
snowed  heavily ;  and  the  morning  was  raw  and  chilly,  threatening 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  2l 

sleet  or  snow.  Yet  Sempronius  led  his  soldiers  through  the  river, 
before  they  had  eaten  anything  ;  and  wet,  cold,  and  hungry  as  they 
were,  he  formed  them  in  order  of  battle  on  the  plain.  Meanwhile 
Hannibal's  men  had  eaten  their  breakfast  in  Iheir  tents,  and  had  oiled 
their  bodies,  and  put  on  their  armor  around  their  fires.  Then,  when 
the  enemy  had  crossed  the  Trebia,  and  were  advancing  in  the  open 
plain,  the  Carthaginians  marched  out  to  meet  them  ;  and  about  a 
mile  in  front  of  their  camp,  they  formed  in  order  of  battle.  Their 
disposition  was  simple  :  the  heavy  infantry,  Gauls,  Spaniards,  and 
Africans,  to  the  number  of  20,000,  were  drawn  up  in  a  single  line  : 
the  cavalry,  10,000  strong,  was,  with  the  elephants,  on  the  two 
wings  ;  the  light  infantry  and  Balerian  slingers  were  in  the  front  of 
the  whole  army.  This  was  all  Hannibal's  visible  force.  But  near 
the  Trebia,  and  now  left  in  their  rear  by  the  advancing  Roman 
legions,  were  lying  close  hid  in  the  deep  and  overgrown  bed  of  a 
small  watercourse,  two  thousand  picked  soldiers,  horse  and  foot,  com- 
manded by  Hannibal's  younger  brother  Mago,  whom  he  had  posted 
there  during  the  night,  and  whose  ambush  the  Romans  passed  with 
no  suspicion.  •  Arrived  on  the  field  of  battle,  the  legions  were  formed 
in  their  usual  order,  with  the  allied  infantry  on  the  wings  ;  and  their 
weak  cavalry  of  4000  men,  ill  able  to  contend  with  the  numerous 
horsemen  of  Hannibal,  were  on  the  flanks  of  the  whole  line. 

The  Roman  velites,  or  light  infantry,  who  had  been  in  action  since 
daybreak,  and  had  already  shot  away  half  their  darts  and  arrows, 
were  soon  driven  back  upon  the  liastati  and  principes,  and  passed 
through  the  intervals  of  the  maniples  to  the  rear.  With  no  less  cast; 
were  the  cavalry  beaten  on  both  wings,  by  Hannibal's  horse  and  ele- 
phants. But  when  the  heavy  infantry,  superior  in  number  and  bet- 
ter armed  both  for  offence  and  defence,  closed  with  the  enemy,  the 
confidence  of  Sempronius  seemed  to  be  justified  ;  and  the  Romans, 
numbed  and  exhausted  as  they  were,  yet,  by  their  excellence  in  all 
soldierly  qualities,  maintained  the  fight  with  equal  advantage. 

On  a  sudden  a  loud  alarm  was  heard  ;  and  Mago,  with  his  chosen 
band,  broke  out  from  his  ambush,  and  assaulted  them  furiously  in 
the  rear.  Meantime  both  wings  of  the  Roman  infantry  were  broken 
down  by  the  elephants,  and  overwhelmed  by  the  missiles  of  the 
light  infantry,  till  they  were  utterly  routed,  and  fled  towards  the 
Trebia.  The  legions  in  the  centre,  finding  themselves  assailed  on  tin 
rear,  pushed  desperately  forwards,  forced  their  way  through  the  en- 
emy's line  and  marched  off  the  field  straight  to  Placentia.  Many  of 
the  routed  cavalry  made  off  in  the  same  direction,  and  so  escaped. 
But  those  who  tied  towards  the  river  were  slaughtered  unceasingly 
by  the  conquerors  till  they  reached  it  ;  and  the  loss  here  was  enor- 
mous. The  Carthaginians,  however,  stopped  their  pursuit  on  the  back 
of  the  Trebia  :  the  cold  was  piercing,  and  to  the  elephants  so  intoler- 
able that  they  almost  all  perished  ;  even  of  the  men  and  horse*  in;  ny 
were  lost,  so  that  the  wreck  of  the  Roman  army  reached  their  camp 


J&  LIFE    OF   HA XLMHAL. 

in  safety  ;  and  when  night  came  on,  Scipio  again  led  them  across  the 
river,  and,  passing  unnoticed  by  the  camp  of  the  enemy,  took  refuge 
with  his  colleague  within  the  walls  of  Plaeentia. 

So  ended  Hannibal's  first  campaign  in  Italy.  The  Romans,  after 
their  defeat,  despaired  of  maintaining  their  ground  on  the  Po  ;  and 
the  two  consular  armies  retreated  in  opposite  directions,  Scipio's 
upon  Arimiuum,  and  that  of  Bempronius  across  the  Apennines  into 
Etruria.  Hannibal  remained  master  of  Cisalpine  Gaul  ;  but  the 
season  did  not  allow  him  to  besiege  Placentia  and  Cremona  ;  and  the 
temper  of  the  Gauls  rendered  it  evident  that  he  must  not  make  their 
country  the  seat  of  war  in  another  campaign.  Already  they  bore  the 
burden  of  supporting  his  army  so  impatiently,  that  he  made  an  at- 
tempt, in  the  dead  of  the  winter,  to  cross  the  Apennines  into  Etruria, 
and  was  only  driven  back  by  the  extreme  severity  of  the  weather, 
the  wind  sweeping  with  such  fury  over  the  ridges,  and  through  the 
passes  of  the  mountains,  that  neither  man  nor  beast  could  stand 
against  it.  He  was  forced,  therefore,  to  winter  in  Gaul  ;  but  the 
innate  fickleness  and  treachery  of  the  people  led  him  to  suspect  that 
attempts  would  be  made  against  his  life,  and  that  a  Gaulish  assassin 
might  hope  to  purchase  forgiveness  from  the  Romans  for  his  coun- 
try's revolt,  by  destroying  the  general  who  had  seduced  them,  lie 
therefore  put  on  a  variety  of  disguises  to  battle  such  designs  ;  he 
wore  false  hair,  appearing  sometimes  as  a  man  of  mature  years,  and 
sometimes  with  the  gray  hairs  of  old  age  ;  and  if  he  had  that  taste 
for  humor  which  great  men  are  seldom  without,  and  which  some 
anecdotes  of  him  imply,  he  must  have  been  often  amused  by  the  mis- 
takes thus  occasioned,  and  have  derived  entertainment  from  that 
which  policy  or  necessity  had  dictated. 

We  should  be  glad  to  catch  a  distinct  view  of  the  state  of  Rome, 
when  the  news  first  arrived  of  the  battle  of  the  Trebia.  Since  the 
disaster  of  Caudium,  more  than  a  hundred  years  before,  there  had 
been  known  no  defeat  of  two  consular  armies  united  ;  and  the  sur- 
prise and  vexation  must  have  been  great.  Sempronius,  it  is  said, 
returned  to  Rome  to  hold  the  comitia  ;  and  the  people  resolved  to 
elect  as  consul  a  man  who,  however  unwelcome  to  the  aristocracy, 
had  already  distinguished  himself  by  brilliant  victories,  in  the  very 
country  which  was  now  the  seat  of  war.  They  accordingly  chose  C. 
Flaminius  for  the  second  time  consul  ;  and  with  him  was  elected  Cn. 
Servilius  Gcminus,  a  man  of  an  old  patrician  family,  and  personally 
attached  to  the  aristocralical  party,  but  unknown  to  us  before  his 
present  consulship.  Flamiuius'  election  was  most  unpalatable  to  the 
aristocracy  ;  and,  as  numerous  prodigies  were  reported,  and  the  Sibyl- 
line books  consulted,  and  it  was  certain  that  various  rites  would  be  or- 
dered to  propitiate  the  favor  of  the  gods,  he  had  some  reason  to  suspect 
that  his  election  would  again  be  declared  null  and  void,  and  he  him- 
self thus  deprived  of  his  command  ;  he  was  anxious  therefore  to  leave 
Rome  as  soon  as  possible  ;  as  his  colleague  was  detained  by  the  re 


LIFE   OP  HAIOTIBAL.  X'J 

ligious  ceremonies,  and  by  the  care  of  superintending  the  new  levies, 
Plaminius,  it  is  said,  left  the  city  before  the  15th  of  March,  when  his 
consulship  was  to  begin,  and  actually  entered  upon  his  office  at  Ari- 
minum,  whither  he  had  gone  to  superintend  the  formation  of  maga- 
zines, and  to  examine  the  state  of  the  army.  But  the  aristocracy 
thought  it  was  no  time  to  press  party  animosities  ;  they  made  no  at- 
tempt to  disturb  Flamiuius'  election  ;  and  he  appears  to  have  had  his 
province  assigned  him  without  opposition,  and  to  have  been  ap- 
pointed to  command  Sempronius'  army  in  Etruria,  while  Servilius 
succeeded  Scipio  at  Ariminum.  The  levies  of  soldiers  went  on  vig- 
orously ;  two  legions  were  employed  in  Spain  ;  one  was  sent  to 
Sicily,  another  to  Sardinia,  and  another  to  Tarentnm  ;  and  four 
legions,  more  or  less  thinned  by  the  defeat  at  the  Trebia,  still  formed 
the  nucleus  of  two  armies  in  Ariminum  and  in  Etruria.  It  appeals 
that  four  new  legions  were  levied,  with  an  unusually  large  propor- 
tion of  soldiers  from  the  Italian  allies  and  the  Latin  name  ;  and  these 
being  divided  between  the  two  consuls,  the  armies  opposed  to  Han- 
nibal on  either  line,  by  which  he  might  advance,  must  have  been  in 
point  of  numbers  exceedingly  formidable.  Servilius,  as  we  have 
seen,  had  his  headquarters  at  Ariminura  ;  and  Scipio,  whom  he 
superseded,  sailed  as  proconsul  into  Spain,  to  take  command  of  his 
original  army  there.  Flamiuius  succeeded  to  Sempronius  in  Etruria, 
and  lay  encamped,  it  is  said,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Arretium. 

Thus  the  main  Roman  armies  lay  nearly  in  the  same  positions 
which  they  had  held  eight  years  before,  to  oppose  the  expected  in- 
vasion of  the  Gauls.  But  as  the  Gauls  then  broke  into  Etruria  un- 
perceived,  by  either  Roman  army,  so  the  Romans  were  again  sur- 
prised by  Hannibal  on  a  line  where  they  had  not  expected  him.  He 
crossed  the  Apennines,  not  by  the  ordinary  road  to  Lucca,  descend- 
ing the  valley  of  the  Macra,  but,  as  it  appears,  by  a  straighter  line 
down  the  valley  of  the  Anser  or  Serchio  ;  and  leaving  Lucca  on  his 
right,  he  proceeded  to  struggle  through  the  low  and  flooded  country 
which  lay  between  the  right  bank  of  the  Arno  and  the  Apennines 
below  Florence,  and  of  which  the  marsh  or  lake  of  Fucecchio  still 
remains  a  specimen.  Here,  again,  the  sufferings  of  the  army  were  ex- 
treme ;  but  they  were  rewarded  when  they  reached  the  firm  ground 
below  Faesute,  and  were  let  loose  upon  the  plunder  of  the  rich  valley 
of  the  upper  Aruo. 

Flaminius  lay  quietly  at  Arretium,  and  did  not  attempt  to  give 
battle,  but  sent  messengers  to  his  colleague,  to  inform  him  of  the 
enemy's  appearance  in  Etruria.  Hannibal  was  now  on  the  south  of 
the  Apennines,  and  in  the  heart  of  Italy  ;  but  the  experience  of  the 
Samnites  and  of  Pyrrhus  had  shown  that  the  Etruscans  were  scarcely 
more  to  be  relied  on  than  the  Gauls  ;  and  it  was  in  the  south,  in 
Samnium  and  Lucania  and  Apulia,  that  the  only  materials  existed  for 
organizing  a  new  Italian  war  against  Rome.  Accordingly  Hannibal 
advanced  rapidly  into  Etruria,  and  finding  that  Flamiaiue  still  did 


^4  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

not  move,  passed  by  Arretium,  leaving  the  Roman  army  in  his  rer.r. 
and  marching,  as  it  seemed,  to  gain  the  great  plain  of  central  Italy 
which  reaches  from  Perusia  to  Spoletum,  and  was  traversed  by  the 
great  road  from  Ariminum  to  Rome. 

The  consul  Flaminius  now  at  last  broke  up  from  his  position,  and. 
followed  the  enemy.  Hannibal  laid  waste  the  country  on  every  side 
with  fire  and  sword,  to  provoke  the  Romans  to  a  hasty  battle  ;  and 
leaving  Cortona  on  his  left  untouched  on  its  mountain  seat,  he  ap- 
proached the  Lake  of  Thrasymenus,  and  followed  the  road  along  its 
north-eastern  shore,  till  it  ascended  the  hills  which  divide  tke  lake 
from  the  basin  of  the  Tiber.  Flamiuius  was  fully  convinced  that 
Hannibal's  object  was  not  to  fight  a  battle,  but  to  lay  waste  the  rich- 
est part  of  Italy  :  had  he  wished  to  engage,  why  had  he  not  attacked 
him  when  he  lay  at  Arretium,  and  while  his  colleague  was  far  away 
fit  Ariminum  ?  With  this  impression  he  pressed  on  his  rear  closely, 
never  dreaming  that  the  lion  would  turn  from  the  pursuit  of  his  de- 
fenceless prey,  to  spring  on  the  shepherds  who  were  dogging  his 
steps  behind. 

The  modern  road  along  the  lake,  after  passing  the  village  of  Passig- 
nano,  runs  for  some  way,  close  to  the  water's  edge  on  the  right, 
hemmed  in  on  the  left  by  a  line  of  cliffs,  which  make  it  an  absolute 
defile.  Then  it  turns  from  the  lake  and  ascends  the  hills  ;  yet, 
although  they  form  something  of  a  curve,  there  is  nothing  to  deserve 
the  name  of  valley  ;  and  the  road,  after  leaving  the  lake,  begins  to 
ascend  almost  immediately,  so  that  there  is  a  very  short  distance 
during  which  the  hills  on  the  right  and  left  command  it.  The 
ground,  therefore,  does  not  well  correspond  with  the  description  of 
Polybius,  who  states  that  the  valley  in  which  the  Romans  were 
caught  was  not  the  narrow  interval  between  the  hills  and  the  lake, 
but  a  valley  beyond  this  defile,  and  running  down  to  the  lake,  so  that 
the  Romans,  when  engaged  in  it,  had  the  water  not  on  their  right 
flank,  but  on  their  rear.  Livy's  account  is  different,  and  represents 
the  Romans  as  caught  in  the  defile  beyond  Passignano,  between  the 
cliff  and  the  lake.  It  is  possible  that,  if  the  exact  line  of  the  ancient 
road  could  be  discovered,  it  might  assist  in  solving  the  difficulty  .  in 
the  mean  time  the  battle  of  Thrasymenus  must  be  one  of  the  many 
events  in  ancient  military  history,  where  the  accounts  of  historians, 
differing  either  with  each  other  or  with  the  actual  appearances  of 
the  ground,  are  to  us  inexplicable. 

The  consul  had  encamped  in  the  evening  on  the  side  of  the  lake, 
just  within  the  present  Roman  frontier,  and  on  the  Tuscan  side  of 
Passiguano  :  he  had  made  a  forced  march,  and  had  arrived  at  his 
position  so  late  that  he  could  not  examine  the  ground  before  him. 
Early  the  next  morning  he  set  forward  again  ;  the  morning  mist 
hung  thickly  over  the  lake  and  the  low  grounds,  leaving  the  heights, 
us  is  of  ten  the  case,  quite  clear.  Flaminius,  anxious  to  overtake  his 
enemy,  rejoiced  in  the  friendly  veil  which  thus  concealed  his  ad- 


LIFP;   OF   HANNIBAL.  2§ 

vaace,  and  hoped  to  fall  upon  Hannibal's  army  while  it  was  still  in 
marching  order,  and  its  columns  encumbered  with  the  plunder  of  the 
valley  of  the  Arno.  He  passed  through  the  defile  of  Passignano,  and 
found  no  enemy  ;  this  confirmed  him  in  his  belief  that  Hannibal  did 
not  mean  to  fight.  Already  the  Nuruidian  cavalry  were  on  the  edge 
of  the  basin  of  the  Tiber  :  unless  he  could  overtake  them  speedily, 
they  would  have  reached  the  plain  ;  and  Africans,  Spaniards,  and 
Gauls,  would  be  rioting  in  the  devastation  of  the  garden  of  Italy, 
So  the  consul  rejoiced  as  the  heads  of  his  columns  emerged  from  the 
defile,  and,  turning  to  the  left,  began  to  ascend  the  hills,  where  he 
hoped  at  least  to  find  the  rear-guard  of  the  enemy. 

At  this  moment,  the  stillness  of  the  mist  was  broken  by  barbarian 
war-cries  on  every  side  ;  and  both  flanks  of  the  Roman  column  were 
assailed  at  puce.  Their  right  was  overwhelmed  l>y  a  storm  of  jave- 
lins and  arrows,  shot  as  if  from  the  midst  of  darkness,  and  striking 
into  the  soldier's  unguarded  side,  where  he  had  no  shield  to  cover 
him  ;  while  ponderous  stones,  against  which  no  shield  or  helmet  could 
avail,"  came  crashing  down  upon  their  heads.  On  the  left  were  heard 
the  trampling  of  horse,  and  the  well-known  war-cries  of  the  Gauls  ; 
and  presently  Hannibal's  dreaded  cavalry  emerged  from  the  mist,  and 
were  in  an  instant  in  the  midst  of  their  ranks  ;  and  the  huge  forms 
of  the  Gauls,  and  their  vast  broadswords,  broke  in  upon  them  at 
the  same  moment.  The  head  of  the  Roman  column— which  was 
already  ascending  to  the  higher  ground — found  its  advance  also 
barred  ;  for  here  was  the  enemy  whom  they  had  so  longed  to  over- 
take :  here  were  some  of  the  Spanish  and  African  foot  of  Hannibal's 
army  drawn  up  to  wait  their  assault.  The  Romans  instantly  attacked 
these  troops,  and  cut  their  way  through  ;  these  must  be  the  covering 
parties,  they  thought,  of  Hannibal's  main  battle  ;  and,  eager  to  bring 
the  contest  to  a  decisive  issue,  they  pushed  forward  up  the  heights, 
not  doubting  that  on  the  summit  they  should  find  the  whole  force  of 
the  enemy.  And  now  they  were  on  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  to  their 
astonishment  no  enemy  was  there  ;  but  the  mist  drew  up,  and,  as 
they  looked  behind,  they  saw  too  plainly  where  Hannibal  was  ;  the 
whole  valley  was  one  scene  of  carnage,  whilst  on  the  sides  of  the  hills 
above  were  the  masses  of  the  Spanish  and  African  foot  witnessing 
the  destruction  of  the  Roman  army,  which  had  scarcely  cost  them  a 
single  stroke. 

The  advanced  troops  of  the  Roman  column  had  thus  escaped  the 
slaughter  ;  but,  being  too  few  to  retrieve  the  day,  they  continued  their 
advance,  which  was  now  become  a  flight,  and  took  .refuge  in  one  of 
the  neighboring  villages.  Meantime,  while  the  centre  of  the  army 
was  cut  to  pieces  in  the  valley,  the  rear  was  still  winding  through  the 
defile  beyond,  between  the  cliffs  and  the  lake.  But  they,  top,  were 
attacked. from  the  heights  above  by  the  Gauls,  and  forced  in  con- 
fusion into  the  water.  Some  of  the  soldiers,  in  desperation,  struck 
out  into  the  deep  water,  swimming ;  and,  weighed  down  by  their 


26  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL. 

armor,  presently  sank  :  others  ran  in  as  far  as  was  within  their  depth, 
and  there  stood  helplessly,  till  the  enemy's  cavalry  dushed  in  after 
them.  Then  they  lifted  up  their  hands,  and  cried  for  quarter  ;  but, 
on  this  day  of  sacrifice,  the  gods  of  Carthage  were  not  to  be  de- 
frauded of  a  single  victim ;  and  the  horsemen  pitilessly  fulfilled 
Hannibal's  vow. 

Thus,  with  the  exception  of  the  advanced  troops  of  the  Roman  col- 
umn, who  were  about  6000  men,  the  rest  of  the  army  were  utterly 
destroyed.  The  consul  himself  had  not  seen  the  wreck  consum- 
mated. On  finding  himself  surrounded,  he  had  vainly  endeavored  to 
form  his  men  amidst  the  confusion,  and  to  offer  some  regular  resist- 
ance ;  when  this  was  hopeless,  he  continued  to  do  his  duly  as  a  brave 
soldier,  till  one  of  the  Gaulish  horsemen,  who  is  said  to  have  known 
him  by  sight  from  his  former  consulship,  rode  up  and  ran  ly'm  through 
the  body  with  his  lance,  crying  out,  "  So  perish  the  man  who  slaugh- 
tered our  brethren,  and  robbed  us  of  the  lands  of  our  fathers."  In 
these  last  words,  we  probably  rather  read  the  unquenchable  hatred 
of  the  Roman  aristocracy  to  the  author  of  an  agrarian  law.  than  the 
genuine  language  of  the  Gaul.  Flaminius  died  bravely,  sword  in 
hand,  having  committed  no  graver  military  error  than  many  an 
impetuous  soldier,  whose  death  in  his  country's  cause  lias  been 
felt  to  throw  a  veil  over  his  rashness,  and  whose  memory  is 
pitied  and  honored.  The  party  feelings  which  have  so  colored 
the  language  of  the  ancient  writers  respecting  him,  need  not 
be  shared  by  a  modern  historian  ;  Flaminius  was  indeed  an  unequal 
antagonist  to  Hannibal  ;  but  in  his  previous  life,  as  consul  and  as 
censor,  he  had  served  his  country  well  ;  and  if  the  defile  of  Thrasy- 
menus  witnessed  his  rashness,  it  also  contains  his  honorable  grave. 

The  battle  must  have  been  ended  before  noon  ;  and  Hannibal's  in- 
defatigable cavalry,  after  having  destroyed  the  centre  and  mir  of  the 
Roman  army,  hastened  to  pursue  the  troops  Avho  had  broken  off 
from  the  front,  and  had  for  the  present  escaped  the  geneial  over- 
throw. They  were  supported  by  the  light-armed  foot  and  the  Span- 
iards, and  finding  the  Romans  in  the  village  to  which  they  had  re- 
i  rented,  proceeded  to  invest  it  on  every  side.  The  Romans,  cutoff 
from  all  relief,  and  with  no  provisions,  surrendered  to  Malmrlml,  who 
commanded  the  party  sent  against  them.  They  were  brought  to 
Hannibal  ;  with  the  other  prisoners  taken  in  the  battle,  the  whole 
number  amounted  to  15, 000.  The  general  addressed  them  by  an  in- 
terpreter ;  he  told  the  soldiers  who  had  surrendered  to  Ma'harbal, 
that  their  lives,  if  he  pleased,  were  still  foifeited,  for  Maharbal  had 
no  authority  to  grant  terms  without  his  consent ;  then  he  proceeded, 
with  the  vehemence  often  displayed  by  Napoleon  in  similar  circum- 
stances, to  inveigh  against  the  Roman  government  and  people,  and 
concluded  by  giving  all  his  Roman  prisoners  to  the  custody  of  the 
several  divisions  of  his  army.  Then  he  turned  to  the  Italian  allies  ; 
they  were  not  his  enemies,  he  said  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  invaded 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  2? 

Italy  to  aid  them  in  casting  off  the  yoke  of  Rome  ;  he  should  still 
deal  with  them  as  he  had  treated  his  Italian  prisoners  taken  at  the 
Trebia  ;  they  were  free  from  that  moment,  and  without  ransom. 
This  being  done,  he  halted  for  a  short  time  to  rest  his  army,  and 
buried  with  great  solemnity  thirty  of  the  most  distinguished  of  those 
who  had  fallen  on  his  own  side  in  the  battle.  His  whole  loss  had 
amounted  only  to  1500  men,  of  whom  the  greater  part  were  Gauls.  It 
is  said  also  that  he  caused  careful  search,  but  in  vain,  to  be  made  for 
the  body  of  the  consul,  Flaminius,  being  anxious  to  give  him  honor- 
able burial.  So  he  acted  afterwards  to  L.  ^Emilius  and  to  Marcellus ; 
and  these  humanities  are  worthy  of  notice,  as  if  he  had  wished  to 
show  that,  though  his  vow  bound  him  to  unrelenting  enmity  towards 
the  Romans  while  living,  it  was  a  pleasure  to  him  to  feel  that  he 
might  honor  them  when  dead. 

The  army  of  Hannibal  now  broke  up  from  the  scene  of  its  victory, 
and,  leaving  Pcrusia  unassailed,  crossed  the  infant  stream  of  the  Ti- 
ber and  entered  upon  the  plains  of  Umbria.  Here  Maharbal,  with 
the  cavalry  and  light  troops,  obtained  another  victory  over  a  party 
of  some  thousand  men,  commanded  by  C.  Ceutenius,  and  killed, 
took  prisoners,  or  dispersed  the  whole  body.  Then  that  rich  plain, 
extending  from  the  Tiber,  under  Perusia,  to  Spoletum,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Monte  Sonima,  was  laid  waste  by  the  Carthaginians  without 
mercy.  The  while  oxen  of  the  Clitumnus,  so  often  offered  in  sacri- 
fice to  the  gods  of  Rome  by  her  triumphant  generals,  were  now  the 
spoil  of  the  enemy,  and  were  slaughtered  on  the  altars  of  the  gods  of 
Carthage,  amidst  prayers  for  the  destruction  of  Rome.  The  loft. 
bank  of  the  Tiber  again  heard  the  G  rilish  war-cry  :  and  the  terri- 
fied inhabitants  fled  to  the  mountains  or  into  the  fortified  cities,  from 
lliis  unwonted  storm  of  barbarian  invasion.  The  figures  and  arms 
of  the  Gauls,  however  formidable,  might  be  familiar  to  many  of  Hi:' 
Umbrians  ;  but  they  gazed  in  wonder  on  the  slingers  from  the  B.i 
learian  islands,  on  the  hardy  Spanish  foot,  conspicuous  by  their  whit-; 
linen  coats  bordered  with  scarlet;  on  the  regular  African  infantry, 
who  had  not  yet  exchanged  their  long  lances  and  small  shields  !VM- 
the  long  shield  and  stabbing  sword  of  the  Roman  soldier;  on  tin- 
heavy  cavalry,  so  numerous,  and  mounted  on  horses  so  superior  to 
those  of  Italy  ;  above  all,  on  the  bands  of  wild  Numidiaus,  who  rode 
without  saddle  or  bridle,  as  if  the  rider  and  his  horse  were  one  crea- 
ture, and  who  scoured  over  the  country  with  a  speed  and  impetuosity 
defying  escape  or  resistance.  Amidst  such  a  scene,  the  colonists  of 
Spoletum  deserved  well  of  their  country,  for  shutting  their  gates: 
boldly,  and  not  yielding  to  the  general  panic  ;  and  when  the  Numi- 
dian  horsemen  reined  up  their  horses,  and  turned  away  from  its 
well-manned  walls,  the  colonists,  with  an  excusable  boasting,  might 
claim  the  glory  of  having  repulsed  Hannibal. 

But  Hannibal's  way  lay  not  over  the  Monte  Somma,  although  its 
steep  pass,  rising  immediately  behind  Spoletum,  was  the  last  natural 


28  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL. 

obstacle  between  him  and  Rome.  Beyond  that  pass  the  country  was 
full,  not  of  Roman  colonies  merely,  but  of  Roman  citizens  :  he 
would  soon  have  entered  on  the  territory  of  the  thirty-five  Roman 
tribes,  where  every  man  whom  he  would  have  met  was  his  enemy. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  elsewhere  :  the  south  was  entirely  open  to  him  ; 
the  way  to  Apulia  and  Samnium  was  cleared  of  every  impediment. 
He  crossed  the  Apennines  in  the  direction  of  Ancona,  and  invaded 
Picenum  ;  he  then  followed  the  coast  of  the  Adriatic,  through  the 
country  of  the  Marrucinians  and  Frentanians,  till  he  arrived  in  the 
northern  part  of  Apulia,  in  the  country  called  by  the  Greeks  Daunia. 
He  advanced  slowly  and  leisurely,  encamping  after  short  marches, 
and  spreading  devastation  far  and  wide  :  the  plunder  of  slaves,  cat- 
tle, corn,  wine,  oil,  and  valuable  property  of  every  description,  was 
almost  more  than  the  army  could  carry  or  drive  along.  The  sol- 
diers, who,  after  their  exhausting  march  from  Spain  over  the  Alps, 
had  ever  since  been  in  active  service,  or  in  wretched  quarters,  and 
who,  from  cold  and  the  want  of  oil  for  anointing  the  skin,  had 
suffered  severely  from  scorbutic  disorders;  were  now  revelling  in 
plenty  in  a  land  of  corn  and  olives  and  vines,  where  all  good  things 
were  in  such  abundance  that  the  very  horses  of  the  army,  so  said  re- 
port, were  bathed  in  old  wines  to  improve  their  condition.  Mean- 
while, wherever  the  army  passed,  all  Romans,  or  Latins,  of  an  age 
to  bear  arms,  were,  by  Hannibal's  express  orders,  put  to  the  sword. 
Many  an  occupier  of  domain  land,  many  a  farmer  of  the  taxes,  or  of 
those  multiplied  branches  of  revenue  which  the  Roman  government 
possessed  all  over  Italy,  collectors  of  customs  and  port  duties,  sur- 
veyors and  farmers  of  the  forests,  farmers  of  the  mountain  pastures, 
fanners  of  the  salt  on  the  sea- coast,  and  of  the  mines  in  the  moun 
tains,  were  cut  off  by  the  vengeance  of  the  Carthaginians  ;  and  Rome, 
having  lost  thousands  of  her  poorer  citizens  in  battle,  and  uow  losing 
hundreds  of  the  richer  classes  in  this  exterminating  march,  lay  bleed- 
ing at  every  pore. 

But  her  spirit  was  invincible.  "When  the  tidings  of  the  disaster  of 
Thrasy menus  reached  the  city,  the  people  crowded  to  the  Forum, 
and  called  upon  the  magistrates  to  tell  them  the  whole  truth.  The 
praetor  peregrinus,  M.  Pomponius  Matho,  ascended  the  rostra  and  said 
to  the  assembled  multitude,  "  We  have  been  beaten  in  a  great  battle  ; 
our  army  is  destroyed  ;  and  C.  Flaminius,  the  consul,  is  killed."  Our 
colder  temperaments  scarcely  enable  us  to  conceive  the  effect  of  such 
tidings  on  the  lively  feelings  of  the  people  of  the  south,  or  to  image 
to  ourselves  the  cries,  the  tears,  the  hands  uplifted  in  prayer  or 
clenched  in  rage,  the  confused  sounds  of  ten  thousand  voices,  giv- 
ing utterance  with  breathless  rapidity  to  their  feelings  of  eager  in- 
terest, of  terror,  of  grief,  or  of  fury.  All  the  northern  gates  of  the 
city  were  beset  with  crowds  of  wives  and  mothers,  imploring  every 
fresh  fugitive  from  the  fatal  field  for  some  tidings  of  those  most  dear 
to  them.  The  praetors,  M.  ^Emilius  and  M.  Pomponius,  kept  the  sen- 


LIFE    OF   HANNIBAL.  29 

ate  sitting  for  several  days,  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  without  adjourn- 
ment, in  earnest  consultation  on  the  alarming  state  of  their  country. 

Peace  was  not  thought  of  for  a  moment  ;  nor  was  it  proposed  to 
withdraw  a  single  soldier  from  Spain,  or  Sicily,  or  Sardinia  ;  but  it 
was  resolved  that  a  dictator  ought  to  be  appointed,  to  secure  unity  of 
command.  There  had  been  no  dictatorship  for  actual  service  since 
that  of  A.  Atilius  Calatinus,  two-and-thirty  years  before,  in  the  dis- 
astrous consulship  of  P.  Claudius  Pulcher  and  L.  Juuius»Pullus. 
But  it  is  probable  that  some  jealousy  was  entertained  of  the  senate's 
choice,  if,  in  the  absence  of  the  consul  Cn.  Servilius,  the  appoint- 
ment, according  to  ancient  usage,  had  rested  with  them  ;  nor  was  it 
thought  safe  to  leave  the  dictator  to  nominate  his  master  of  the  horse. 
Hence,  an  unusual  course  was  adopted  ;  the  centuries  in  their  comi- 
tia  elected  both  the  one  and  the  other,  choosing  one  from  each  of  the 
two  parties  in  the  state  ;  the  dictator,  Q.  Fabius  Maximus,  from  one 
of  the  noblest,  but  at  the  same  time  the  most  moderate  families  of  the 
aristocracy,  and  himself  a  man  of  a  nature  no  less  gentle  than  wise  ; 
the  master  of  the  horse,  M.  Minucius  Rufus,  as  representing  the  pop- 
ular party. 

Religion  in  the  mind  of  Q.  Fabius  was  not  a  mere  instrument  for 
party  purposes  ;  although  he  may  have  had  little  belief  in  its  truth, 
he  was  convinced  of  its  excellence,  and  that  a  reverence  for  the  gods 
was  an  essential  element  in  the  character  of  a  nation,  without  which 
it  must  assuredly  degenerate.  Therefore,  on  the  very  day  that  he  en- 
tered on  his  office,  he  summoned  the  senate,  and,  dwelling  on  the 
importance  of  propitiating  the  gods,  moved  that  the  sibylline  books 
should  forthwith  be  consulted.  They  directed,  among  other  things, 
that  the  Roman  people  should  vow  to  the  gods  what  was  called  "  a 
holy  spring" — that  is  to  say,  that  every  animal  fit  for  sacrifice  born 
in  the  spring  of  that  year,  between  the  first  day  of  March  and  the 
thirtieth  of  April,  and  reared  on  any  mountain,  or  plain,  or  river-bank, 
or  upland  pasture  throughout  Italy,  should  be  offered  to  Jupiter. 
Extraordinary  games  were  also  vowed  to  be  celebrated  in  the  Circus 
Maximus  ;  prayers  were  put  up  at  all  the  temples  ;  new  temples  wcro 
vowed  to  be  built,  ;  and  for  three  days  those  solemn  sacrifices  were 
performed,  in  which  the  images  of  the  gods  were  taken  down  from 
their  temples,  and  laid  on  couches  richly  covered,  with  tables  full  of 
meat  and  wine  set  before  them,  in  the  sight  of  all  the  people,  as  if 
the  gods  could  not  but  bless  the  city  where  they  had  deigned  to  re- 
ceive hospitality. 

Then  the  dictator  turned  his  attention  to  the  state  of  the  war. 
A  long  campaign  was  in  prospect ;  for  it  was  still  so  early  in  the  sea- 
son, that  the  prators  had  not  yet  gone  out  of  their  provinces  ;  and 
Hannibal  was  already  in  the  heart  of  Italy.  All  measures  were  taken 
for  the  defence  of  the  country  ;  even  the  walls  and  towers  of  Rome 
were  ordered  to  be  made  good  against  an  attack.  Bridges  were  to 
be  broken  down  ;  the  inhabitants  of  open  towns  were  to  withdraw 


30  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

into  places  of  security  ;  and,  in  the  expected  line  of  Hannibal's 
march,  the  country  was  to  be  laid  waste  before  him,  the  corn  de- 
stroyed, and  the  houses  burnt.  This  would  probably  be  done  effec- 
tually in  the  Roman  territory  ;  but  the  allies  were  not  likely  to  make 
such  extreme  sacrifices :  and  this,  of  itself,  was  a  reason  why  Han- 
nibal did  not  advance  directly  upon  Rome. 

Afore  than  thirty  thousand  men,  in  killed  and  prisoners,  had  been 
lost  to  trie  Romans  in  the  late  battle.  The  consul,  Cn.  Servilius,  com- 
manded above  thirty  thousand  in  Cisalpine  Gaul ;  and  he  was  now 
retreating  in  all  haite,  after  having  heard  of  the  total  defeat  of  his 
colleague.  Two  new  legions  were  raised,  besides  a  large  force  out  of 
the  city  tribes,  which  was  employed  partly  for  the  defence  of  Rome 
itself,  and  partly,  as  it  consisted  largely  of  the  poorer  citizens,  for  the 
service  of  the  fleet.  This  last  indeed  was  become  a  matter  of  urgent 
necessity  ;  for  the  Carthaginian  fleet  was  already  on  the  Italian  coast, 
and  had  taken  a  whole  convoy  of  corn-ships,  off  Cosa,  in  Etruria, 
carrying  supplies  to  the  army  in  Spain  ;  whilst  the  Roman  ships,  both 
in  Sicily  and  at  Ostia,  had  not  yet  been  launched  after  the  winter. 
Now  all  the  ships  at  Ostia  and  in  the  Tiber  were  sent  to  sea  in  haste, 
and  the  consul,  Cn.  Servilius,  commanded  them  ;  whilst  the  dictator 
and  master  of  the  horse,  having  added  the  two  newly  -raised  legions 
to  the  consul's  army,  proceeded  through  Campania  and  Samnium  into 
Apulia,  and,  with  an  army  greatly  superior  in  numbers,  encamped 
at  the  distance  of  about  five  or  six  miles  from  Hannibal. 

Besides  the  advantage  of  numbers,  the  Romans  had  that  of  being 
regularly  and  abundantly  supplied  with  provisions.  They  had  no 
occasion  to  scatter  their  forces  in  order  to  obtain  subsistence  ;  but, 
keeping  their  army  together,  and  exposing  no  weak  point  lo  fortune, 
they  followed  Hannibal  at  a  certain  distance,  watched  their  oppor- 
tunity to  cut  off  his  detached  parties,  and  above  all,  by  remaining  in 
the  field  with  so  imposing  an  army,  overawed  the  allies,  and  checked 
their  disposition  to  revolt.  Thus  Hannibal,  finding  that  the  Apulians 
did  not  join  him,  recrossed  the  Apennines,  and  moved  through  the 
country  of  the  Hirpinians,  into  thai,  of  the  Caudinian  Samnites.  But 
Beneventum,  once  a  great  Samnite  city,  was  now  a  Latin  colony  ; 
and  its  gates  were  close  shut  against  the  invader.  Hannibal  laid 
waste  its  territory  with  fire  and  sword,  then  moved  downwards  under 
the  south  side  of  the  Matese,  and  took  possession  of  Telesia,  the  na- 
tive city  of  C.  Pontius,  but  now  a  decayed  and  defenceless  town  : 
thence  descending  the  Calor  to  its  junction  with  the  Vulturnus,  and 
ascending  the  Vulturnus  till  he  found  it  easily  fordable,  he  finally 
crossed  it  near  Allifoe,  and  passing  over  the  hills  behind  Calatia,  de- 
scended by  Cales  into  the  midst  of  the  Falernian  plain,  the  glory  of 
Campania. 

Fabius  steadily  followed  him,  not  descending  into  the  plain,  but 
keeping  his  army  on  the  hills  above  it,  and  watching  all  his  move- 
ments, Again  the  NuraidJan  cavalry  were  seen  scouring  the  country 


LIFE   OF   HAKNIBAL.  31 

on  every  side  ;  and  the  smoke  of  burning  houses  marked  their  track. 
The  soldiers  in  the  Roman  army  beheld  the  sight  with  the  greatest 
impatience  :  they  were  burning  for  battle,  and  the  master  of  the 
horse  himself  shared  and  encouraged  the  general  feeling.  But  Fa- 
bius  was  firm  in  his  resolution  ;  he  sent  parties  to  secure  even  the 
pass  of  Tarracina,  lest  Hannibal  should  attempt  to  advance  by  the 
Appian  road  upon  Rome  ;  he  garrisoned  Casilinum,  on  the  enemy's 
rear  ;  the  Vulturnus,  from  Casilinum  to  the  sea,  barred  all  retreat 
southwards  ;  the  colony  of  Cales  stopped  the  outlet  from  the  plain  by 
the  Latin  road  ;  while  from  Cales  to  Casilinum  the  hills  formed  an 
unbroken  barrier,  steep  and  wooded,  the  few  paths  over  Avhich  were 
already  secured  by  Roman  soldiers.  Thus  Fabius  thought  that  Han- 
nibal was  caught  as  in  a  pitfall  ;  that  his  escape  was  cut  off,  whilst 
his  army,  having  soon  wasted  its  plunder,  could  not  possibly  winter 
where  it  was, without  magazines,  and  without  a  single  town  in  its  pos- 
session. For  himself,  he  had  all  the  resources  of  Campania  and  Sam- 
niutn  on  his  rear  ;  whilst  on  his  right,  the  Latin  road,  secured  by  the 
colonies  of  Gales,  Casinum,  and  Fregelke,  kept  his  communications 
with  Rome  open. 

Hannibal,  on  his  part,  had  no  thought  of  wintering  where  he  was  ; 
but  he  had  carefully  husbanded  his  plunder,  that  it  might  supply  his 
winter  consumption,  so  that  it  was  important  to  him  to  carry  it  off  in 
safety.  He  had  taken  many  thousand  cattle  ;  and  his  army  besides 
was  encumbered  with  its  numerous  prisoners,  over  and  above  the 
corn,  wine,  oil,  and  other  articles,  which  had  been  furnished  by  the 
ravage  of  one  of  the  richest  districts  in  Italy.  Finding  that  the 
passes  in  the  hills  between  Cales  and  the  Vulturnus  were  occupied  by 
the  enemy,  he  began  to  consider  how  he  could  surprise  or  force  his 
passage  without  abandoning  any  of  his  plunder.  He  first  thought  of 
his  numerous  prisoners  ;  and  dreading  lest  in  a  night  march  they 
should  either  escape  or  overpower  their  guards  and  join  their  coun- 
trymen in  attacking  him,  he  commanded  them  all,  to  the  number,  it 
is  said,  of  5000  men,  to  be  p\it  to  the  sword.  Then  he  ordered  2000 
of  the  stoutest  oxen  to  be  selected  from  the  plundered  cattle,  and 
pieces  of  split  pine  wood,  or  dry  vine  wood,  to  be  fastened  to  their 
horns.  About  two  hours  before  midnight  the  drovers  began  to  drive 
them  straight  to  the  hills,  having  first  set  on  fire  the  bundles  of  wood 
about  their  heads  ;  whilst  the  light  infantry  following  them  till  they 
began  to  run  wild,  then  made  their  own  way  to  the  hills,  scouring 
the  points  just  above  the  pass  occupied  by  the  enemy.  Hannibal 
then  commenced  his  march  ;  his  African  infantry  led  the  way,  fol- 
lowed by  the  cavalry  ;  then  came  all  the  baggage  ;  and  the  rear  was 
covered  by  the  Spaniards  and  Gauls.  In  this  order  lie  followed  the 
road  in  the  defile,  by  which  he  was  to  get  out  into  the  upper  valley  of 
the  Vulturuus,  above  Casilinum  and  the  enemy's  army. 

He  found  the  way  quite  clear  ;  for  the  Romans  who  had  guarded 
jt,  seeing  the  hills  above  them  illuminated  on  a  sudden  with  a  nmlti- 


32  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

tude  of  moving  lights,  and  nothing  doubting  that  Hannibal's  army 
was  attempting  to  break  out  over  the  hills  in  despair  of  forcing  the 
road,  quitted  their  position  in  haste,  and  ran  towards  the  heights  to 
interrupt  or  embarrass  his  retreat.  Meanwhile  Fabius,  with  his  main 
army,  confounded  at  the  strangeness  of  the  sight,  and  dreading  lest 
Hannibal  was  tempting  him  to  his  ruin  as  he  had  tempted  Flaminius, 
kept  close  within  his  camp  until  the  morning.  Day  dawned  only  to 
show  him  his  own  troops,  who  had  been  set  to  occupy  the  defile,  en- 
gaged on  the  hills  above  with  Hannibal's  light  infantry.  But  pres- 
ently the  Spanish  foot  were  seen  scaling  the  heights  to  reinforce  the 
enemy  ;  and  the  Romans  were  driven  down  to  the  plain  with  great 
loss  and  confusion  ;  while  the  Spaniards  and  the  light  troops,  having 
thoroughly  done  their  work,  disappeared  behind  the  hills,  and  fol- 
lowed their  main  army.  Thus  completely  successful,  and  leaving 
his  shamed  and  baffled  enemy  behind  him,  Hannibal  no  longer 
thought  of  returning  to  Apulia  by  the  most  direct  road,  but  resolved 
to  extend  his  devastations  still  farther  before  the  season  ended.  He 
mounted  the  valley  of  the  Vulturnus  towards  Venafrum,  marched 
from  thence  into  Samnium,  crossed  the  Apennines,  and  descended 
into  the  rich  Pelignian  plain  by  Sulmo,  -which  yielded  him  an  ample 
harvest  of  plunder  ;  and  thence  retracing  his  steps  into  Samnium,  he 
finally  returned  to  the  neighborhood  of  his  old  quarters  in  Apulia. 

The  summer  was  far  advanced  ;  Hannibal  had  overrun  the  greater 
part  of  Italy  :  the  meadows  of  the  Clitumnus  and  the  Vulturnus,  and 
the  forest  glades  of  the  high  Apennines,  had  alike  seen  their  cattle 
driven  away  by  the  invading  army ;  the  Falernian  plain  and  the  plain  of 
Sulmo  had  alike  yielded  their  tribute  of  wine  and  oil ;  but  not  a  single 
city  had  as  yet  opened  its  gates  to  the  conqueror,  not  a  single  state  of 
Samnium  had  welcomed  him  as  its  champion,  under  whom  it  might 
revenge  its  old  wrongs  against  Rome.  Everywhere  the  aristocrati- 
cal  party  had  maintained  its  ascendency,  and  had  repressed  all  men- 
tion of  revolt  from  Rome.  Hannibal's  great  experiment  therefore 
had  hitherto  failed.  He  knew  that  his  single  army  could  not  con- 
quer Italy  ;  as  easily  might  King  William's  Dutch  guards  have  con- 
quered England  :  and  six  months  had  brought  Hannibal  no  fairer 
prospect  of  aid  within  the  country  itself  than  the  first  week  after  his 
landing  in  Torbay  brought  to  King  William.  But  among  Hannibal's 
greatest  qualities  was  tlie  patience  with  which  he  knew  how  to  abide 
his  time  ;  if  one  campaign  had  failed  of  its  main  object,  another  must 
be  tried  ;  if  the  fidelity  of  the  Roman  allies  had  been  unshaken  by 
the  disaster  of  Thrasymenus,  it  must  be  tried  by  a  defeat  yet  more 
fatal.  Meantime  he  would  take  undisputed  possession  of  the  best 
winter  quarters  in  Italy  ;  his  men  would  be  plentifully  fed  ;  his  in- 
valuable cavalry  would  have  forage  in  abundance  ;  and  this  at  no 
cost  to  Carthage,  but  wholly  at  the  expense  of  the  enemy.  The  point 
which  he  fixed  upon  to  winter  at  was  the  very  edge  of  the  Apulian 
plain,  where  it  joins  the  mountains  :  on  one  side  was  a  boundli 


LIFE   OF  HASTNIBAL.  35 

panse  of  corn,  intermixed  with  open  grass  land,  burnt  up  in  summer, 
but  in  winter  fresh  and  green  ;  whilst  on  the  other  side  were  the 
wide  pastures  of  the  mountain  forests,  where  his  numerous  cattle 
might  be  turned  out  till  the  first  snows  of  autumn  fell.  These  were 
as  yet  far  distant ;  for  the  corn  in  the  plain,  although  ripe,  was  still 
etanding  ;  and  the  rich  harvests  of  Apulia  were  to  be  gathered  this 
year  by  unwonted  reapers. 

Descending  from  Samnium,  Hannibal  accordingly  appeared  before 
the  little  town  of  Geronium,  which  was  situated  somewhat  more  than 
twenty  miles  northwest  of  the  Latin  colony  of  Luceria.in  the  imme- 
diate neighborhood  of  Larinum.  The  town,  refusing  to  surrender,  was 
i.- ken,  and  the  inhabitants  put  to  the  sword  ;  but  the  houses  and  walls 
were  left  standing,  to  serve  as  a  great  magazine  for  the  army  ;  and 
(lie  soldiers  were  quartered  in  a  regularly  fortified  camp  without  the 
town.  Here  Hannibal  posted  himself  ;  and  keeping  a  third  part  of  his 
men  under  arms  to  guard  the  camp  and  to  cover  his  foragers,  he  sent 
oat  the  other  two  thirds  to  gather  in  all  the  corn  of  the  surrounding 
country,  or  to  pasture  his  cattle  on  the  adjoining  mountains.  In  this 
manner  the  store-houses  of  Geronium  were  in  a  short  time  filled  with 
corn. 

Meanwhile  the  public  mind  at  Rome  was  strongly  excited  against 
the  dictator.  He  seemed  like  a  man  who,  having  played  a  cautious 
game,  at  last  makes  a  false  move,  and  is  beaten  ;  his  slow,  defensive 
system,  unwelcome  in  itself,  seemed  rendered  contemptible  by  Han- 
nibal's triumphant  escape  from  the  Faleruian  plain.  But  here,  too, 
Fabius  showed  a  patience  worthy  of  all  honor.  Vexed  as  he  must 
have  been  at  his  failure  in  Campania,  he  still  felt  sure  that  his  sys- 
tem was  wise  ;  and  again  he  followed  Hannibal  into  Apulia,  and  en- 
camped as  before  in  thy  high  grounds  in  his  neighborhood.  Certain 
religious  offices  called  him  at  this  time  to  Rome  ;  but  he  charged 
Miuucius  to  observe  his  system  strictly,  and  on  no  account  to  risk  a 
battle. 

The  master  of  the  horse  conducted  his  operations  wisely  :  he  ad- 
vanced his  camp  to  a  projecting  ridge  of  hills,  immediately  above  the 
plain,  and,  sending  out  his  cavalry  and  light  troops  to  cut  off  Hanni- 
bal's foragers,  obliged  the  enemy  to  increase  his  covering  force,  and 
to  restrict  the  range  of  his  harvesting.  On  one  occasion  he  cut  off  a 
great  number  of  the  foragers,  and  even  advanced  to  attack  Hannibal's 
camp,  which,  owing  to  the  necessity  of  detaching  so  many  men  al 
over  the  country,  was  left  with  a  very  inferior  force  to  defend  it. 
The  return  of  some  of  the  foraging  parties  obliged  the  Romans  to  re- 
treat ;  but  Minucius  was  greatly  elated,  and  sent  home  very  encour- 
aging reports  of  his  success. 

The  feeling  against  Fabius  could  no  longer  be  restrained.  Minu- 
cius had  known  how  to  manage  his  system  more  ably  than  he  had 
done  himself  ;  such  merit  at  such  a  crisis  deserved  to  be  rewarded  ,• 
aor  was  it  fit  that  the  popular  party  should  continue  to  be  deprired 


34  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

of  its  share  in  the  conduct  of  the  war.  Even  among  liis  OWP  party 
Fabius  was  not  universally  popular :  he  had  magnified  himself  and 
his  system  somewhat  offensively,  and  had  spoken  too  harshly  of  'the 
blunders  of  former  generals.  Thus  it  does  not  appear  that  the  aris- 
tocracy offered  any  strong  resistance  to  a  bill  brought  forward  by  the 
tribune  M.  Metilius,  for  giving  the  master  of  the  horse  power  equal 
to  the  dictator's.  The  bill  was  strongly  supported  by  C.  Terentius 
Varro,  who  had  been  praetor  in  the  preceding  year,  and  was  easily 
carried. 

The  dictator  and  master  of  the  horse  now  divided  the  army  be- 
tween them,  and  encamped  apart,  at  more  than  a  mile's  distance 
from  each  other.  Their  want  of  co-operation  was  thus  notorious  ; 
and  Hannibal  was  not  slow  to  profit  by  it.  He  succeeded  in  tempt- 
ing Minucius  to  an  engagement  on  his  own  ground  ;  aud  having 
concealed  about  5000  men  in  some  ravines  and  hollows  close  by,  he 
called  them  forth  in  the  midst  of  the  action  to  fall  on  the  enemy's 
rear.  The  rout  of  the  Trebia  was  well-nigh  repeated  ;  but  Fabius 
was  near  enough  to  come  up  in  time  to  the  rescue  ;  and  his  fresh 
legions  checked  the  pursuit  of  the  conquerors  and  enabled  the  bro- 
kerf  Romans  to  rally.  Still  the  loss  already  sustained  was  severe  ; 
and  it  was  manifest  that  Fabius  had  saved  his  colleague  from  total 
destruction.  Minucius  acknowledged  this  generously  :  he  instantly 
gave  up  his  equal  and  separate  command,  and  placed  himself  aud 
his  army  under  the  dictator's  orders.  The  rest  of  the  season 
passed  quietly  ;  and  the  dictator  and  master  of  the  horse  resign- 
ing their  offices  as  usual  at  the  end  of  six  months,  the  army  during 
the  winter  was  put  under  the  command  of  the  consuls  ;  Cn.  Servilius 
having  brought  home  and  laid  up  the  fleet,  which  he  had  commanded 
during  the  summer,  and  M.  Atilius  Regulus  having  been  elected  to 
fill  the  place  of  Flaminius. 

Meanwhile  the  elections  for  the  following  year  were  approaching  ; 
and  it  was  evident  that  they  would  be  maiked  by  severe  party  siiug- 
gles.  The  mass  of  the  Roman  people  wen-  impatient  of  the  continu- 
ance of  the  war  in  Italy  ;  not  only  the  poorer  citizens,  whom  it 
obliged  to  constant  military  service  through  the  winter,  and  with  no 
prospect  of  plunder,  but  still  more  perhaps  the  moneyed  classes, 
whose  occupation  as  farmers  of  the  revenue  was  so  great!}'  curtailed 
by  Hannibal's  army.  Again,  the  occupiers  of  domain  lands  in  re- 
mote parts  of  Italy  could  get  no  returns  from  their  property  ;  the 
wealthy  graziers,  who  fed  their  cattle  on  the  domain  pastures,  saw 
their  stock  carried  off  to  furnish  winter  provisions  for  the  enemy. 
Besides,  if  Hannibal  were  allowed  to  be  unassailable  in  the  field,  the 
allies,  sooner  or  later,  must  be  expected  to  join  him  ;  they  would  not 
sacrifice  everything  for  Rome,  if  Rome  could  neither  protect  them 
nor  herself.  The  excellence  of  the  Roman  infantry  was  undisputed  : 
If  with  equal  numbers  they  could  not  conquer  Hannibal's  veterans, 
lot  their  numbers  be  increased,  and  they  must  overwhelm  him. 


Lll'i;    ()!•'    HAXNIBAL.  34 

These  were  no  doubt  the  feelings  of  many  of  the  nobility  themselves, 
as  well  as  of  the  majority  of  the  people  ;  but  they  were  embittered 
by  party  animosity  :  the  aristocracy,  it  was  said,  seemed  bent  on 
throwing  reproach  on  all  generals  of  the  popular  party,  as  if  none  but 
themselves  were  fit  to  conduct  the  war  ;  Miuncins  himself  had 
yielded  to  this  spirit  by  submitting  to  be  commanded  by  Fabius, 
when  the  law  had  made  him  his  equal  :  one  consul  at  least  must  be 
chosen,  who  would  act  firmly  for  himself  and  for  the  people  ;  and 
such  a  man,  to  whose  merits  the  bitter  hatred  of  the  aristocratical 
party  bore  the  best  testimony,  was  to  be  found  in  C.  Terentiua 
Varro. 

Vurro,  his  enemies  said,  was  a  butcher's  son  ;  nay,  it  was  addc-,1 
.that  he  had  himself  been  a  butcher's  boy,  and  had  only  been 
enabled  by  the  fortune  which  his  father  had  left  him  to  throw 
aside  his  ignoble  calling,  and  to  aspire  to  public  offices.  So  Crom- 
well was  called  a  brewer  :  but  Varro  had  been  successively  elected 
quaestor,  plebeian,  and  curule;  aedile,  and  praetor,  whilst  we  are 
not  told  that  he  was  ever  tribune  ;  and  it  is  without  example  in 
Roman  history,  that  a  mere  demagogue,  of  no  family,  with  no  other 
merits,  civil  or  military,  should  be  raised  to  such  nobility.  Varro 
was  eloquent,  it  is  true  ;  but  eloquence  alone  would  scarcely  have  so 
recommended  him  ;  and  if  in  his  pryetorship,  as  is  probable,  he  had 
been  one  of  the  two  home  praetors,  he  must  have  possessed  a  compe- 
tent knowledge  of  law.  Besides,  even  after  his  defeat  at  Cannae,  he 
was  employed  for  several  years  in  various  important  offices,  civil  and 
military  ;  which  would  never  have  been  the  case  had  he  been  the 
mere  factious  braggart  that  historians  have  painted  him.  The  aris- 
tocracy tried  in  vain  to  prevent  his  election  :  he  was  not  only  re- 
turned consul,  but  he  was  returned  alone,  no  other  candidate  obtain- 
ing a  sufficient  number  of  votes  to  entitle  him  to  the  suffrage  of  a 
tribe.  Thus  he  held  the  comitia  for  the  election  of  his  colleague  ; 
and  considering  the  great  influence  exercised  by  the  magistrate  so 
presiding,  it  is  creditable  to  him,  and  to  the  temper  of  the  people  gen- 
erally, that  the  other  consul  chosen  was  L.  ^Emilius  Paullus,  who  \vaa 
not  only  a  known  partisan  of  the  aristocracy,  but  having  been  consul 
three  years  before,  had  been  brought  to  trial  for  an  alleged  misap- 
propriation of  the  plunder  taken  in  the  Illyrian  war,  and,  although 
acquitted,  was  one  of  the  most  unpopular  men  in  Rome.  Yet  he  was 
known  to  be  a  good  soldier  ;  and  the  people,  having  obtained  the 
election  of  Varro,  did  not  object  to  gratify  the  aristocracy  by  accept, 
ing  the  candidate  of  their  choice. 

No  less  moderate  and  impartial  was  the  temper  shown  in  the  elec- 
tions of  praetors.  Two  of  the  four  were  decidedly  of  the  aristocrati- 
cal party,  M.  Marcellus  and  L.  Postumius  Albinus  ;  the  other  two 
were  also  men  of  consular  rank,  and  no  way  known  as  opponents  of 
the  nobility,  P.  Furius  Philus  and  M.  Ppmponius  Matho.  The  two 
latter  were  to  have  the  home  praetorships  ;  Marcellus  was  to  com. 

A.B.— 10 


36  LIFE  OF   HANNIBAL. 

mand  the  fleet,  and  take  charge  of  the  southern  coast  of  Italy  ;  L. 
Postumius  was  to  \vatch  the  frontier  of  Cisalpine  Gaul. 

The  winter  and  spring  passed  without  any  military  events  of  im- 
portance. Servilius  and  Regulus  retained  their  command  as  procon- 
suls for  some  time  after  their  successors  had  come  into  office  ;  but 
nothing  beyond  occasional  skirmishes  took  place  between  them  and 
the  enemy.  Hannibal  was  atGerouium,  maintaining  his  army  on  the 
supplies  which  he  had  so  carefully  collected  in  the  preceding  cam- 
paign :  the  consuls  apparently  were  posted  a  little  to  the  southward, 
receiving  their  supplies  from  the  country  about  Canusium,  and  im- 
mediately from  a  large  magazine  which  they  had  established  at  the 
email  town  of  Cannse,  near  the  Aufidus. 

Never  was  Hannibal's  genius  more  displayed  than  during  this 
long  period  of  inactivity.  More  than  half  of  his  army  consisted  of 
Gauls,  of  all  barbarians  the  most  impatient  and  uncertain  in  their  hu- 
mor, whose  fidelity,  it  is  said,  could  only  be  secured  by  an  ever-open 
hand  ;  no  man  was  their  friend  an}'  longer  than  he  could  gorge  them 
With  pay  or  plunder.  Those  of  his  soldiers  who  were  not  Gauls  were 
either  Spaniards  or  Africans  ;  the  Spaniards  were  the  newly-con- 
quered subjects  of  Carthage,  strangers  to  her  race  and  language,  and 
accustomed  to  divide  their  lives  between  actual  battle  and  the 
most  listless  bodily  indolence  ;  so  that,  when  one  of  their  tribes 
fret  saw  the  habits  of  a  Roman  camp,  and  observed  the  cen- 
turions walking  up  and  down  before  the  praetorium  for  exercise, 
the  Spaniards  thought  them  mad,  and  ran  up  to  guide  them  to 
their  tents,  thinking  that  he  who  was  not  fighting  could  do  noth- 
ing but  lie  at  his  ease  and  enjoy  himself.  Even  the  Africans 
were  foreigners  to  Carthage  :  they  were  subjects  harshly  governed, 
and  had  been  engaged  within  the  last  twenty  years  in  a  war  of 
extermination  with  "their  masters.  Yet  the  long  inactivity  of  win- 
ter quarters,  trying  to  the  discipline  of  the  best  national  armies, 
was  borne  patiently  by  Hannibal's  soldiers  :  there  was  neither  deser- 
tion nor  mutiny  amongst  them  ;  even  the  fickleness  of  the  Gauls 
seemed  spellbound  ;  they  remained  steadily  in  their  camp  in  Apulia, 
neither  going  home  to  their  own  country,  nor  over  to  the  enemy. 
On  the  contrary,  it  seems  that  fresh  bands  of  Gauls  must  have  joined 
the  Carthaginian  army  after  Ihe  battle  of  Thrasymenus,  and  the  re- 
ireat  of  the  Roman  army  from  Ariminum.  For  the  Gauls  and  the 
Spaniards  and  the  Africans  were  overpowered  by  the  ascendency  of 
Hannibal's  character  :  under  his  guidance  they  felt  themselves  in- 
vincible :  with  such  a  general  the  yoke  of  Carthage  might  seem  to . 
the  Africans  and  Spaniards  the  natural  dominion  of  superior  beings  ; 
in  such  a  champion  the  Gauls  beheld  the  appointed  instrument  of 
their  country's  gods  to  lead  them  once  more  to  assault  the  capital. 

Silanus,  the  Greek  historian,  was  living  with  Hannibal  daily  ;  and 
though  not  intrusted  vvit.li  his  military  and  political  secrets,  he  must 
l*ave-  seen  and  known  lum  as  a  man  ;  he  must  have  been  familiar  witk 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  3' 

his  habits  of  life,  and  must  have  heard  his  conversation  in  those  un- 
restrained moments  when  the  lightest  words  of  great  men  display  the 
character  of  their  minds  so  strikingly.  His  work  is  lost  to  us  ;  but 
had  it  been  worthy  of  his  opportunities,  anecdotes  from  it  must  have 
been  quoted  by  other  writers,  and  we  should  know  what  Hannibal 
•was.  Then,  too,  the  generals  who  were  his  daily  companions  would 
be  something  more  to  us  than  names  :  we  should  know  Alaharbal, 
the  best  caVulry  officer  of  the  finest  cavalry  service  in  the  world  ; 
and  Hasdrubal,  who  managed  the  commissariat  of  the  army  for  so 
many  years  in  an  enemy's  country  ;  and  Hannibal's  young  brother, 
Mago,  so  full  of  youthful  spirit  and  enterprise,  who  commanded  the 
ambush  at  the  battle  of  the  Trebia.  We  might  learn  something  too 
of  that  Hannibal,  surnamed  the  Fighter,  who  v*is  the  general's  coun- 
sellor, ever  prompting  him,  it  was  said,  to  deeds  of  savage  cruelty, 
but  whose  counsels  Hannibal  would  not  have  listened  to,  had  they 
been  merely  cruel,  had  they  not  breathed  a  spirit  of  deep  devotion, to 
the- cause  of  Carthage,  and  of  deadly  hatred  to  Rome,  such  as  pos- 
sessed the  heart  of  Hannibal  himself.  But  Silanus  saw  and  heard 
without  heeding  or  recording  ;  and  on  the  tent  and  camp  of  Hanni- 
bal there  hangs  a  veil,  which  the  fancy  of  the  poet  may  penetrate  ; 
but»the  historian  turns  away  in  deep  disappointment  ;  for  to  him  it 
yields  neither  sight  nor  sound. 

Spring  was  come,  and  well-nigh  departing  ;  and  hi  the  warm 
plains  of  Apulia  the  earn  was  ripening  fast,  while  Hannibal's  winter 
supplies  were  now  nearly  exhausted.  He  broke  up  from  his  camp 
before  Geroniurn,  descended  into  the  Apulian  plains,  and  whilst  the 
Roman  army  was  still  in  its  winter  position,  he  threw  himself  on  its 
rear,  and  surprised  its  great  magazine  at  Cannas.  The  citadel  of 
Caniue  was  a  fortress  of  some  strength  ;  this  accordingly  he  occu- 
pied, and  placed  himself,  on  the  very  eve  of  harvest,  between  the 
Roman  army  and  its  expected  resources,  whilst  he  secured  to  himself 
all  the  corn  of  southern  Apulia.  It  was  only  in  such  low  and  warm 
situations  that  the  corn  was  nearly  ready  ,  the  higher  country,  in  tho 
immediate  neighborhood  of  Apulia,  is  cold  and  backward  ;  and  the 
Romans  were  under  the  necessity  of  receiving  their  supplies  from  a 
great  distance,  or  else  of  retreating,  or  of  offering  battle.  Under 
these  circumstances  the  proconsuls  sent  to  Rome,  to  ask  what  they 
were  to  do. 

The  turning-point  of  this  question  lay  in  the  disposition  of  th»  allies. 
We  cannot  doubt  that  Hannibal  had  been  busy  during  the  winter  in 
sounding  their  feelings  ;  and  now  it  appeared  that,  if  Italy  was  to  be 
ravaged  by  the  enemy  for  a  second  summer,  without  resistance,  their 
patience  would  endure  no  longer.  The  Roman  government,  there- 
fore, resolved  to  risk  a  battle  ;  but  they  sent  orders  to  the  proconsuls 
to  wait  till  the  consuls  should  join  them  with  their  newly-raised 
army  ;  for  a  battle  buing  resolved  upon,  the  senate  hoped  to  secure 
success  by  an.  overwhelming  superiority  of  numbers.  We  do  not 


38  LIFE   OF  HAKNIBAL. 

exactly  know  the  proportion  of  the  new  levies  to  the  old  soldiers  -, 
but  when  the  two  consuls  arrived  on  the  scene  of  action,  and  took 
the  supreme  commaud  of  the  whole  army,  there  were  no  fewer  than 
eight  Roman  legions  under  their  orders,  with  an  equal  force  of  allies  ; 
so  that  the  army  opposed  to  Hannibal  must  have  amounted  to  90,000 
men.  It  was  evident  that  so  great  a  multitude  could  not  long  be  fed 
at  a  distance  from  its  resources  ;  and  thus  a  speedy  engagement  was 
'  inevitable. 

But  the  details  of  the  movements,  by  which  the  two  armies  were 
brought  in  presence  of  each  other,  on  the  banks  of  the  Aufidus,  are 
not  easy  to  discover.  It  appears  that  the  Romans,  till  the  arrival  of 
the  new  consuls,  had  not  ventured  to  follow  Hannibal  closely  ;  for, 
when  they  did  follow%im,  it  took  them  two  days'  march  to  arrive  in 
his  neighborhood,  where  they  encamped  at  about  six  miles'  distance 
from  him.  They  found  him  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Aufidus,  about 
eight  or  nine  miles  from  the  sea,  and  busied,  probably,  in  collecting 
the  corn  from  the  early  district  on  the  coast,  the  season  being  about 
the  middle  of  June.  The  country  here  was  so  level  and  open,  that 
the  consul,  L.  ^Emilius,  was  unwilling  to  approach  the  enemy  moise 
closely,  but  wished  to  take  a  position  on  the  hilly  ground  farther 
from  the  sea,  and  to  bring  on  the  action  there.  But  Varro,  impatymt 
for  battle,  and  having  the  supieme  command  of  the  whole  army, 
alternately  with  ^Emilius  every  other  day,  decided  the  question 
irrevocably  on  the  very  next  day,  by  interposing  himself  between  the 
enemy  and  the  sea,  with  his  left  resting  on  the  Aufidxis,  and  his  right 
communicating  with  the  town  of  Salapia. 

From  this  position  ^Emilius,  when  he  again  took  the  commaud  in 
chief,  found  it  impossible  to  withdraw.  But  availing  himself  of  his 
great  superiority  in  numbers,  he  threw  a  part  of  his  army  across  the 
river,  and  posted  them  in  a  separate  camp  on  the  right  bank,  to  have 
the  supplies  of  the  country,  south  of  the  Aufidus,  at  command,  and  to 
restrain  the  enemy's  parties  who  might  attempt  to  forage  in  that  di- 
rection. When  Hannibal  saw  Ihe  Romans  in  this  situation,  he  also 
advanced  nearer  to  them,  descending  the  left  bank  of  the  Aufidus, 
and  encamped  over  against  the  main  army  of  the  enemy,  with  his 
right  resting  on  the  river. 

The  next  day,  which,  according  to  the  Roman  calendar,  was  the 
last  of  the  month  Quinctilis,  or  July,  the  Roman  reckoning  being  six 
or  seven  weeks  in  advance  of  the  true  season,  Hannibal  was  making 
his  preparations  for  battle,  and  did  not  stir  from  his  camp  ;  so  that 
Varro,  whose  command  it  was,  could  not  bring  on  an  action.  But  on  the 
1st  of  Sextilis,  or  August,  Hannibal,  being  now  quite  ready,  drew  out 
his  army  in  front  of  his  camp,  and  offered  battle.  ^Emilius,  however, 
remained  quiet,  resolved  not  to  right  on  such  ground,  and  hoping  that 
Hannibal  would  soon  be  obliged  to  fall  back  nearer  the  hills,  when  he 
found  that  he  could  no  longer  forage  freely  in  the  country  near  the 
nea.  Hannibal,  seeing  that  the  enemy  did'not  move,  marched  back 


LIFE   OF   HAXXIBAL.  39 

his  infantry  into  his  camp,  but  sent  his  Numidian  cavalry  across  the 
river  to  attack  the  Romans  on  that  side,  as  they  were  coming  down 
in  straggling  parties  to  the  bank  to  get  water.  For  the  Aufidus, 
though  its  bed  is  deep  and  wide  to  hold  its  winter  floods,  is  a  shallow 
or  a  narrow  stream  in  summer,  with  many  points  easily  fordable, 
not  by  horse  only,  but  by  infantry.  Tii3  watering  parties  were  driven 
iu  with  some  loss,  and  t!ie  Numidiaus  followed  them  to  the  very 
gates  of  the  camp,  aad  obliged  the  Romans,  on  the  right  bank,  to 
pass  the  summer  night  in  the  burning  Apulian  plain  without  water. 

At  daybreak  on  the  next  miming,  the  red  ensign,  which  was  the 
well-known  signal  for  battle,  was  seen  flying  over  Varro's  head- 
quarters ;  and  he  issued  orders,  it  being  his  day  of  command,  for 
the  main  army  to  cross  the  river,  and  form  in  order  of  battle  on  the 
right  bank.  Whether  he  had  any  further  object  in  crossing  to  the 
right  bank,  than  to  enable  the  soldiers  on  that  side  to  get  water  in 
security,  we  do  not  know  ;  but  Hannibal,  it  seems,  thought  that  the 
ground  on  either  bank  suited  him  equally  ;  and  he,  too,  forded  the 
stream  at  two  separate  points,  and  drew  out  his  army  opposite  to  the 
enemy.  The  strong  town  of  Canusium  was  scarcely  three  miles  olf 
in  his  rear  ;  he  had  left  his  camp  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  ;  if  he 
were  defeated,  escape  seemed  hopeless.  But  when  he  saw  thy  wide 
open  plain  around  him,  and  looked  at  his  numerous  and  irresistible 
cavalry,  and  knew  that  his  infantry,  however  inferior  iu  numbers, 
were  far  better  and  older  soldiers  than  the  great  mass  of  their  oppo- 
nents, he  felt  that  defeat  was  impossible.  In  this  confidence  his 
spirits  were  not  cheerful  merely,  but  even  mirthful  ;  he  rallied  one  of 
his  officers  jestingly,  who  noticed  the  overwhelming  numbers  of  the 
Romans  ;  those  near  him  laughed  ;  and  as  any  feeling  at  such  a  mo- 
ment is  contagious,  the  li'igh  was  echoed  by  others  ;  and  the  sol- 
diers, seeing  their  great  general  in  such  a  mood,  were  satisfied  that 
lie  was  sure  of  victory. 

The  Carthaginian  army  faced  the  north,  so  that  the  early  sun  shone 
on  their  right  flank,  while  the  wind,  which  blew  strong  from  the 
•south,  but  without  a  drop  of  rain,  swept  its  clouds  of  dust  over  their 
backs,  and  carried  them  full  into  the  faces  of  the  enemy.  On  their 
left,  resting  on  the  river,  were  the  Spanish  and  Gaulish  horse  ;  next 
in  the  line,  but  thrown  back  a  little,  were  half  of  the  African  infantry 
armed  like  the  Unmans  ;  on  their  right,  somewhat  in  advance,  were 
the  Gauls  and  Spaniards,  with  their  companies  intermixed  ;  then 
caine  the  rest  of  the  African  foot,  again  thrown  Iwck  like  their  com- 
rades ;  and  on  the  right  of  the  whole  line  were  the  Xumidian  light 
horsemen.  The  right  of  the  army  rested,  so  far  as  appears,  on  noth- 
ing ;  the  ground  was  open  and  level  ;  but  at  some  distance  were  hiUs 
overgrown  -with  copsewood,  and  furrowed  with  deep  ravines,  in 
which,  according  to  one  account  of  the  battle,  a  body  of  horsemen 
and  of  light  infantry  lay  in  ambush.  The  rest  of  the  light  troops,  and 
the  Balearian  slingers,  skirmished  as  usual  in  front  of  the  whole  line 


40  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

Meanwhile  the  masses  of  the  Roman  infantry  were  forming  their 
line  opposite.  The  sun  on  their  left  flashed  obliquely  en  their  brazen 
helmets,  now  uncovered  for  battle,  and  lit  up  the  waving  forest  of 
their  red  and  black  plumes,  which  rose  upright  from  their  helmets  a 
foot  and  a  half  high. 

They  stood  brandishing  their  formidable  pila,  covered  with  their 
long  shields,  and  bearing  on  their  right  thigh  their  peculiar  and  fatal 
weapon,  the  heavy  sword,  fitted  alike  to  cut  and  to  stab.  On  the 
right  of  the  line  were  the  Roman  legions  ;  on  the  left  the  infantry  of 
the  allies  ;  whilst  between  the  Roman  right  and  the  river  were  the 
Roman  horsemen,  all  of  them  of  wealthy  or  noble  families  ;  and  on 
the  left,  opposed  to  the  Numidians,  were  the  horsemen  of  the  Ital- 
ians and  of  the  Latin  name.  The  velites  or  light  infantry  covered 
the  front,  and  were  ready  to  skirmish  with  the  light  troops  andsling- 
ers  of  the  enemy. 

For  some  reason  or  other,  which  is  not  explained  in  any  account  of 
the  battle,  the  Roman  infantry  were  formed  in  columns  rather  than  in 
line,  the  files  of  the  maniples  containing  many  more  than  thc'ir 
ranks.  This  seems  an  extraordinary  tactic  to  be  adopted  in  a  plain 
by  an  army  inferior  in  cavalry,  but  very  superior  in  infantry. 
Whether  the  Romans  relied  on  the  river  as  a  protection  to  their  right 
flank,  and  their  left  was  covered  in  some  manner  which  is  not  men- 
tioned— one  account  would  lead  us  to  suppose  that  it  reached  nearly 
to  the  sea — or  whether  the  great  proportion  of  new  levies  obliged  the 
Romans  to  adopt  the  system  of  the  phalanx,  and  to  place  their  raw 
soldiers  in  the  rear,  as  incapable  of  fighting  in  the  front  ranks  with 
Hannibal's  veterans — it  appears  at  any  rate  that  the  Roman  infantry, 
though  nearly  double  the  number  of  the  enemy,  yet  formed  a  line  of 
anly  equal  length  with  Hannibal's. 

The  skirmishing  of  the  light-armed  troops  preluded  as  usual  to  the 
battle  ;  the  Balearian  slingers  slung  their  stones  like  hail  into  the 
ranks  of  the  Roman  line,  and  severely  wounded  the  consul  ^Emilius 
himself.  Then  the  Spanish  and  Gaulish  horse  charged  the  Romans 
front  to  front,  and  maintained  a  standing  fight  with  tlu-m,  many  leap- 
ing off  their  horses  and  fighting  on  foot,  till  the  Romans,  outnum- 
bered and  badly  armed,  without  cuirasses,  with  light  and  brittle 
spears,  and  with  shields  made  only  of  ox-hide,  weie  totally  routed, 
and  driven  off  the  field.  Hasdrubal,  who  commanded  the  Gauls 
and  Spaniards,  followed  up  his  work  effectually  ;  he  chased  the  Ro- 
mans along  the  river  till  he  had  almost  destroyed  them  ;  and  then, 
riding  off  to  the  right,  he  came  up  to  aid  the  Numidians,  who,  after 
their  manner,  had  been  skirmishing  indecisively  with  the  cavalry  of 
the  Italian  allies.  These,  on  seeing  the  Gauls  and  Spaniards  advanc- 
ing, broke  away  and  fled  ;  the  Numidians,  most  effective  in  pursuing 
a  flying  enemy,  chased  them  with  unweariablc  speed,  and  slaughtered 
them  unsparingly  ;  while  Hasdrubal,  to  complete  his  signal  services 
on  this  day,  charged  fiercely  upon  the  rear  of  the  Roman  infantry, 


LIFE    OF   HANNIBAL.  41 

He  found  its  huge  masses  already  weltering  in  helpless  confusion, 
crowded  upon  one  another,  totally  disorganized,  and  fighting  each 
man  as  he  best  could,  but  struggling  on  against  all  hope  by  mere  in- 
d^omitable  courage.  For  the  Roman  columns  on  the  riglft  and  left, 
finding  the  Gaulish  and  Spanish  foot  advancing  in  a  convex  line  or 
wedge,  pressed  forward  to  assail  what  seemed  the  flanks  of  the  ene- 
my's column  ;  so  that,  being  already  drawn  up  with  too  narrow  a 
front  by  their  original  formation,  they  now  became  compressed  still 
more  by  their  own  movements,  the  right  and  left  converging  towards 
the  centre,  till  the  whole  army  became  one  dense  column,  which 
forced  its  way  onward  by  the  weight  of  its  charge,  and  drove  back 
the  Gauls  and  Spaniards  into  the  rear  of  their  own  line.  Meanwhile 
its  victorious  advance  had  carried  it,  like  the  English  column  at 
Fontenoy,  into  the  midst  of  Hannibal's  army  ;  it  had  passed  between 
the  African  infantry  on  its  right  and  left  ;  and  now,  whilst  its  head 
was  struggling  against  the  Gauls  and  Spaniards,  its  long  flanks  were 
fiercely  assailed  by  the  Africans,  who,  facing  about  to  the  right  and 
left,  charged  it  home,  and  threw  it  into  utter  disorder.  In  this  state, 
when  they  were  forced  together  into  one  unwieldy  crowd,  and 
already  falling  by  thousands,  whilst  the  Gauls  and  Spaniards,  now 
advancing  in  their  turn,  were  barring  further  progress  in  front,  and 
whilst  the  Africans  were  tearing  their  mass  to  pieces  oil  both  flanks, 
Hasdrubal  with  his  victorious  Gaulish  and  Spanish  horsemen  broke 
with  thundering  fury  upon  their  rear.  Then  followed  a  butchery 
such  as  has  no  recorded  equal,  except  the  slaughter  of  the  Persians 
in  their  camp,  when  the  Greeks  forced  it,  after  the  battle  of  Plat  sea. 
Unable  to  fight  or  fly,  with  no  quarter  asked  or  given,  the  Romans 
and  Italians  fell  before  the  swords  of  their  enemies,  till,  when  the 
sun  set  upon  the  field,  there  were  left  out  of  that  vast  multitude  no 
more  than  three  thousand  men  alive  and  un wounded  ;  and  these  tied 
in  straggling  parties,  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  and  found  a  refuge 
in  the  neighboring  towns.  The  consul,  ^Eniilius,  the  proconsul,  Cn. 
Serviliuj,  the  late  master  of  the  -horse,  M.  Minucius,  two  quu-stors, 
twenty-one  military  tribunes,  and  eighty  senators,  lay  dead  amidst  the 
carnage  :  Varro  with  seventy  horsemen  had  escaped  from  the  rout  of 
the  allied  cavalry  on  the  right  of  the  army,  and  made  his  way  safely 
to  Venusia. 

But  the  Roman  loss  was  not  yet  completed.  A  large  force  had 
been  left  in  the  camp  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Aufidus,  to  attack  Han- 
nibal's camp  during  the  action,  which  it  was  supposed  that,  with  his 
inferior  numbers,  he  could  not  leave  adequately  guarded.  But  it  was 
defended  so  obstinately,  that  the  Romans  were  still  besieging  it  in 
vain,  when  Hannibal,  now  completely  victorious  in  the  battle,  crossed 
the  river  to  its  relief.  Then  the  besiegers  fled  in  their  turn  to  their 
own  camp,  and  there,  cut  off  from  all  succor,  they  presently  surren- 
dered. A  few  resolute  men  had  forced  their  way  out  of  the  smaller 
camp  on  the  right  bank,  and  had  escaped  to  Camisium  :  the  rest  whe 


42  LIFE   OF 

were  in  it  followed  the  example  of  their  comrade*  on  the  left  bank, 
and  surrendered  to  the  conqueror. 

Less  than  six  thousand  men  of  Hannibal's  army  had  fallen  :  no 
greater  price  had  he  paid  for  the  total  destruction  of  more  than  eighty 
tnousund  of  the  enemy,  for  the  capture  of  their  two  camps,  for  the 
•utter  annihilation,  as  it  seemed,  of  all  their  means  for  offensive  war- 
fare. It  is  no  wonder  that  the  spirits  of  the  Carthaginian  officers 
were  elated  by  this  unequalled  victory.  Maharbal,  seeing  what  his 
cavalry  had  done,  said  to  Hannibal,  "  Let  me  advance  instantly  with 
the  horse,  and  do  thou  follow  to  support  me  ;  in  four  days  from  this 
time  thou  shalt  sup  in  the  capitol."  There  are  moments  when  rash- 
ness is  wisdom  ;  and  it  may  be  that  this  was  one  of  them.  The 
statue  of  the  goddess  Victory  in  the  capitol  may  well  have  trembled 
in  every  limb  on  that  day,  and  have  drooped  her  wings,  as  if  for- 
ever ;  but  Hannibal  came  not  ;  and  if  panic  had  for  one  moment  un- 
nerved the  iron  courage  of  the  Roman  aristocracy,  on  the  next  their 
inborn  spirit  revived  ;  and  their  resolute  will,  striving  beyond  its  pres- 
ent power,  created,  as  is  the  law  of  our  nature,  the  power  which  it 
required. 

The  Romans,  knowing  that  their  army  was  in  presence  of  the  enemy, 
and  that  the  consuls  had  been  ordered  no  longer  to  decline  a  battle, 
were  for  some  days  iu  the  most  intense  anxiety.  Every  tongue  was 
repeating  some  line  of  old  prophecy,  or  relating  some  new  wonder 
or  portent  ;  every  temple  was  crowded  with  supplicants  ;  and  in- 
cense and  sacrifices  were  offered  on  every  altar.  At  last  the  tidings 
arrived  of  the  utter  destruction  df  both  the  consular  armies,  and  of  a 
slaughter  such  as  Rome  had  never  before  known.  Even  Livy  felt 
himself  unable  adequately  to  paint  the  grief  and  consternation  of  that 
day  ;  and  the  experience  of  the  bloodiest  and  most  embittered  war- 
fare of  modern  times  would  not  help  us  to  conceive  it  worthily.  But 
one  simple  fact  speaks  eloquently  ;  the  whole  number  of  Roman  citi- 
zens able  to  bear  arms  had  amounted  at  the  last  census  to  270,000  ; 
and  supposing,  as  we  fairly  may,  that  the  loss  of  the  Romaift  in  the 
late  battle  had  been  equal  to  that  of  their  allies,  there  must  have  been 
killed  or  taken,  within  the  last  eighteen  months,  no  fewer  than 
(50,000,  or  more  than  a  fifth  part  of  the  whole  population  of  citizens 
above  seventeen  years  of  age.  It  must  have  been  true,  without  exag- 
geration, that  every  house  in  Rome  .was  in  mourning. 

The  two  home  prffitors  summoned  the  senate  to  consult  for  the  de- 
fence of  the  city.  Fabius  was  no  longer  dictator  ;  yet  the  supreme 
government  at  this  moment  was  effectually  in  his  hands  ;  for  the  res- 
olutions which  he  moved  were  instantly  and  unanimously  adopted. 
Light  horsemen  were  to  be  sent  out  to  gather  tidings  of  the  enemy's 
movements  ;  the  members  of  the  senate,  acting  as  magistrates,  were 
to  keep  order  in  the  city,  to  stop  all  loud  or  public  lamentations,  and 
to  take  care  that  all  intelligence  was  conveyed  in  the  first  instance  to 
the  pra'tors  :  above  all,  the  city  gates  were  to  be  strictly  guarded 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  43 

that  110  one  might  attempt  to  fly  from  Rome,  but  all  abide  the  com- 
mon danger  together.  Then  the  forum  was  cleared,  and  the  assem- 
blies of  the  people  suspended  ;  for  at  such  a  moment,  had  any  one 
tribune  uttered  the  word  "peace,"  the  tribes  would  have  caught  it 
up  with  eagerness,  and  obliged  the  senate  to  negotiate. 

Thus  the  first  moments  of  panic  passed  ;  and  Varro's  dispatches 
arrived,  informing  the  senate  that  he  had  rallied  the  wrecks  of  the 
army  at  Canusium,  and  that  Hannibal  was  not  advancing  upon 
Home.  Hope  then  began  to  revive  ;  the  meetings  of  the  senate  were 
resumed,  and  measures  taken  for  maintaining  the  war. 

M.  Marcellus,  one  of  the  praetors  for  the  year,  was  at  this  moment 
at  Ostia,  preparing  to  sail  to  Sicily.  It  was  resolved  to  transfer  him 
at  once  to  the  great  scene  of  action  in  Apulia  ;  and  he  was  ordered  to 
give  up  the  fleet  to  his  colleague,  P.  Furius  Philu»,  and  to  march 
with  the  single  legion,  which  he  had  under  his  command,  into  Apu- 
lia, there  to  collect  the  remains  of  Varro's  army,  and  to  fall  back,  as 
he  best  could,  into  Campania,  whilst  the  consul  returned  immediately 
to  Rome. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  scene  at  Canusium  was  like  the  disorder  of  a 
ship  going  to  pieces,  when  fear  makes  men  desperate,  and  the  in- 
stinct of  self -preservation  swallows  up  every  other  feeling.  Some 
young  men  of  the  noblest  families,  a  Metullus  being  at  the  head  of 
them,  looking  upon  Rome  as  lost,  were  planning  to  escape  from  the 
ruin,  and  to  fly  be3rond  sea,  in  the  hope  of  entering  into  somo 
foreign  service,  riuch  an  example,  at  such  a  moment,  would  have 
led  the  way  to  a  general  panic  :  if  the  noblest  citizens  of  Rome  de- 
spaired of  their  country,  what  allied  state,  or  what  colony,  could  l>f 
expected  to  sacrifice  themselves  in  defence  of  a  hopeless  cause  ?  The 
consul  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  to  check  this  spirit,  and,  aided 
by  some  firmer  spirits  amongst,.the  officers  themselves,  he  succeeded 
in  repressing  it.  He  kept  his  men  together,  gave  them  over  to  the 
praetor,  Marcellus,  on  his  arrival  at  Canusium,  and  prepared  instantly 
to  obey  the  orders  of  the  senate,  by  returning  to  Rome.  The  fate  of 
P.  Claudius  and  L.  Junius,  in  the  last  war,  might  have  warned  him 
of  the  dangers  which  threatened  a  defeated  general  ;  he  himself  was 
personally  hateful  to  the  prevailing  party  at  Rome  ;  and  if  the  mem- 
ory  of  Flaminius  was  persecuted,  notwithstanding  his  glorious  death, 
what  could  he  look  for,  a  fugitive  general  from  that  field,  where  his 
colleague  and  all  his  soldiers  had  perished  ?  Demosthenes  dared  not 
trust  himself  to  the  Athenian  people  after  his  defeat  in  ^Etolia  ;  but 
Varro,  with  a  manlier  spirit,  returned  to  bear  the  obloquy  and  the 
punishment  which  the  popular  feeling,  excited  by  party  animosity, 
was  so  likely  to  heap  on  him.  lie  stopped,  as  usual,  without  tho 
city  walls,  and  summoned  the  senate  to  meet  him  in  the  Campui 
Martins. 

The  senate  felt  his  confidence  in  them,  and  answered  it  nobly.  ATI 
party  feeling  wove  suspended ;  all  popular  irritation  was  subdued ; 


i4  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

the  butcher's  son,  the  turbxilent  demagogue,  the  defeated  general, 
were  all  forgotten  ;  only  Varro's  latest  conduct  was  remembered, 
that  he  had  resisted  the  panic  of  his  officers,  and,  instead  of  seeking 
shelter  at  the  court  of  a  foreign  king,  had  submitted  himself  to  the 
judgment  of  his  countrymen.  The  senate  voted  him  their  thanks, 
"  because  he  had  not  despaired  of  the  commonwealth." 

It  was  resolved  to  name  a  dictator  ;  and  some  writers  related  that 
]he  general  voice  of  the  senate  and  people  offered  the  dictatorship  to 
Varro  himself,  but  that  he  positively  refused  to  accept  it.  This  story 
is  extremely  doubtful  ;  but  the  dictator  actually  named  was  31. 
Junius  Pisa,  a  member  of  a  popular  family,  and  who  had  himself 
been  consul  and  censor.  His  master  of  the  horse  was  T.  Sempro- 
nius  Gracchus,  the  first  of  that  noble,  but  ill  fated,  name  who  ap- 
pears in  the  Roman  annals. 

Already,  before  the  appointment  of  the  dictator,  the  Roman  gov- 
ernment had  shown  that  its  resolution  was  fixed  to  carry  on  the  war 
to  the  death.  Hannibal  had  allowed  his  Roman  prisoners  to  send  ten 
of  their  number  to  Rome,  to  petition  that  the  senate  would  permit  the 
whole  body  to  be  ransomed  by  their  friends  at  the  sum  of  thrc-fc 
minae,  or  8000  ases,  for  each  prisoner.  But  the  senate  absolutely  for 
bade  the  money  -to  be  paid,  neither  choosing  to  furnish  Hannibal 
with  so  large  a  sum,  nor  to  show  any  compassion  to  men  who  had 
allowed  themselves  to  fall  alive  into  the  enemy's  hands.  The  prison- 
ers, therefore,  were  left  in  hopeless  captivity  ;  and  the  armies,  which 
the  state  required,  were  to  be  formed  out  of  other  materials.  The 
expedients  adopted  showed  the  urgency  of  the  clanger. 

When  the  consuls  took  the  field  at  the  beginning  of  the  campaign, 
two  legions  had  been  left,  as  usual,  to  cover  the  capital.  These  were 
now  to  be  employed  in  active  service,  and  with  them  was  a  small  de- 
tachment of  troops  which  had  been«drawn  from  Picenum  and  the 
neighborhood  of  Ariminum,  where  their  services  were  become  of 
less  importance.  The  contingents  from  the  allies  were  not  ready, 
and  there  was  no  time  to  wait  for  them.  In  order,  therefore,  to  en- 
able the  dictator  to  take  the  field  immediately,  eight  thousand  slaws 
were  enlisted,  having  expressed  their  willingness  to  serve,  and  arms 
were  provided,  by-  taking  down  from  the  temple  the  spoils  won  in 
former  wars.  The  dictator  went  still  further  :  he  offered  pardon  to 
criminals,  and  release  to  debtors,  if  they  were  willing  to  take  up 
arms  ;  and  amongst  the  former  class  were  some  bands  of  robbers, 
who  then,  as  in  later  times,  infested  the  mountains,  and  who  con- 
sented to  serve  the  state,  on  receiving  an  indemnity  for  their  past 
offences.  With  this  strange  force,  amounting,  it  is  said,  to  about 
25,000  men,  M.  Junius.  marched  into  Campania,  whilst  a  new  levy  of 
the  oldest  and  youngest  citizens  supplied  two  new  legions  for  the  de- 
fence of  the  capital,  in  the  place  of  those  which  followed  the  dictator 
into  the  field.  M.  Junius  fixed  his  headquarters  at  Teanum,  on 
hjgh  ground,  upon  the  edge  of  the  Falernian  plain,  with  the  Latin 


tIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  45 

colony  of  Cales  in  his  front,  and  communicating  by  the  Latin  road 
with  Rome. 

The  dictator  was  at  Teanum,  and  M.  Marcellus,  with  the  army  of 
Cannae,  whom  we  left  in  Apulia,  is  described  as  now  lying  encamped 
above  Suessula — that  is,  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Vulturnus,  on  the 
hills  which  bound  the  Campanian  plain,  ten  or  twelve  miles  to  the 
east  of  Capua,  on  the  right  of  the  Appian  road  as  it  ascends  the  pass 
of  Caudium  towards  Beneventum.  Thus  we  find  the  seat  of  war  re- 
moved from  Apulia  to  Campania  ;  but  the  detail  of  the  intermediate 
movements  is  lost ;  and  we  must  restore  the  broken  story  as  well  as 
we  can,  by  tracing  Hannibal's  operations  after  the  battle  of  Cannae, 
which  are  undoubtedly  the  key  to  those  of  his  enemies. 

The  fidelity  of  the  allies  of  Rome,  which  had  not  been  shaken  by 
the  defeat  of  Thrasymenus,  could  not  resist  the  fiery  trial  of  Canme. 
The  Apulians  joined  the  conqueror  immediately,  and  Arpi  and  Sala- 
pia  opened  their  gates  to  him.  Brultium.  Lucania  and  Samnium 
were  ready  to  follow  the  example,  and  Hannibal  was  obliged  to 
divide  his  army,  and  send  officers  into  different  parts  of  the  country, 
to  receive  and  protect  those  who  wished  to  join  him,  and  to  orgaai/.e 
their  forces  for  effective  co-operation  in  the  field.  Mean  while  he 
himself  remained  in  Apulia,  not,  perhaps,  without  hope  that  this  last 
blow  had  broken  the  spirit  as  well  as  the  power  of  the  enemy,  and 
that  they  would  listen  readily  to  proposals  of  peace.  With  this  view, 
he  sent  a  Carthaginian  officer  to  accompany  the  deputation  of  the 
Roman  prisoners  to  Rome,  and  ordered  him  to  encourage  any  dispo- 
sition on  the  part  of  the  Romans  to  open  a  negotiation.  When  he 
found,  therefore,  on  the  return  of  the  deputies,  that  his  officers  had 
not  been  allowed  to  enter  the  city,  and  that  the  Romans  had  refused 
to  ransom  their  prisoners,  his  disappointment  betrayed  him  into  acts 
of  the  most  inhuman  cruelty.  The  mass  of  the  prisoners  left  in  his 
hands,  he  sold  for  slaves  ;  and,  so  far,  he  did  not  overstep  the  recog- 
nized laws  of  warfare  ;  but  many  of  the  more  distinguished  among 
them  he  put  to  death  ;  aiivl  those  who  were  senators,  he  obliged  to 
fight  as  gladiators  with  each  other,  in  the  presence  of  his  whole 
army.  It  is  added  that  brothers  were  in  some  instances  brought  out 
to  fight  with  their  brothers,  and  sons  with  their  fathers  ;  but  that  the 
prisoners  refused  so  to  sin  against  nature,  and  chose  rather  to  suffer 
the  worst  torments  than  to  draw  their  swords  in  such  horrible  corn- 
oats.*  Hannibal's  vow  may  have  justified  all  these  cruelties  in  his 

*  Diodorus,  XXVI.  Exc.  de  Virtut.  et  Vitiis.  Appian,  VII.  28.  Zonara*,  IX.  2. 
Valerius  Maxiiuus,  IX.  2,  Ext.  2.  But  as  even  Livy  doc*  not  mention  these  stories, 
though  they  would  have  afforded  such  a  topic  for  his  rhetoric— nor  does  Polyblus, 
either  in  IX.  24,  when  speaking  of  Hannibal's  alleged  cruelty,  or  iu  VI.  58,  where 
he  gives  the  account  of  the  mission  of  the  captives,  there  must,  doubtless,  be  a 
great  deal  of  exaggeration  in  them,  even  if  they  had  any  foundation  at  all.  The 
story  in  Pliny,  Vill.  7,  that  the  last  survivor  of  these  gjadiatorial  combats  had  to 
light  against  an  elephant,  and  killed  him,  and  was  then  treacherously  waylaid  and 
murdered  by  Hannibal's  orders,  was  prebubly  invented  with  reference  to  this  very 


46  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

eyes  ;  but  his  passions  deceived  him,  and  he  was  prcvoKed  to  fury  by 
the  resolute  spirit  which  ought  to  have  excited  his  admiration.  T& 
admire  the  virtue  which  thwarts  our  dearest  purposes,  however  natu, 
rsil  it  may  seem  to  indifferent  spectators,  is  one  of  the  hardest  trials  of 
humanity. 

Finding  the  Romans  immovable,  Hannibal  broke  up  from  his  posi- 
tion in  Apulia,  and  moved  into  Samnium.  The  populai  party  in 
Compsa  opened  their  gates  to  him,  and  he  made  the  place  serve  as  a 
depot  for  his  plunder,  and  for  the  heavy  baggage  of  his  army.  His 
brother  Mago  was  then  ordered  to  march  into  Bruttium  with  a  divi- 
sion of  the  army,  and  after  having  received  the  submission  of  the 
Hirpinians  on  his  way  to  embark  at  One  of  the  Eruttian  porta  and 
carry  the  tidings  of  his  success  to  Carthage.  Hanno,  with  another 
division,  was  sent  into  Lucania  to  protect  the  revolt  of  the  Luca- 
nians,  whilst  Hannibal  himself,  in  pursuit  of  a  still  greater  prize,  de- 
scended once  more  into  the  plains  of  Campania.  The  Pentrian  Sam- 
nites,  partly  restrained  by  the  Latin  colony  of  (Esernia,  and  partly 
by  the  influence  of  their  own  countryman,  Num.  Decimius,  of 
Boviauum,  a  zealous  supporter  of  the  Roman  alliance,  remained  firm 
in  their  adherence  to  Rome  ;  but  the  Hirpinians  and  the  Caudiniuii 
Hanmites  all  joined  the  Carthaginians,  and  their  soldiers,  no  doubt, 
formed  part  of  the  army  with  which  Hannibal  invaded  Campania. 
There,  all  was  ready  for  his  reception.  The  popular  party  in  Capua 
were  headed  by  Pacuvius  Calavius,  a  man  of  the  highest  nobility, 
and  married  to  a  daughter  of  Appius  Claudius,  but  whose  ambition 
led  him  to  aspire  to  the  sovereignty,  not  of  his  own  country  only, 
but,  through  Hannibal's  aid, 'of  the  whole  of  Italy,  Capua  succeed- 
ing, as  he  hoped,  to  the  supremacy  now  enjoyed  by  Rome.  The 
aristocratical  party  were  weak  and^unpopular,  and  could  otter  no  op- 
position to  him,  whilst  the  people,  wholly  subject  to  his  influence, 
concluded  a  treaty  with  Hannibal,  and  admitted  the  Carthaginian 
general  and  his  army  into  the  city.  Thus  the  second  city  in  Italy, 
capable,  it  is  said,  of  raising  an  army  of  30,000  foot  and  4000  horse, 
connected  with  Rome  by  the  closest  ties,  and  which  for  nearly  a  cen- 
tury had  remained  true  to  its  alliance  under  all  dangers,  threw  itself 
into  the  arms  of. Hannibal,  and  took  its  place  at  the  head  of  the  new 
coalition  of  southern  Italy,  to  try  the  old  quarrel  of  the  Samnite  wars 
once  again. 

Tliis  revolt  of  Capua,  the  greatest  result,  short  of  the  submission 
of  Rome  itself,  which  could  have  followed  from  the  battle  of  Cannae, 
drew  the  Roman  armies  towards  Campania.  Marcellus  had  probably 
fallen  back  from  Cauusium  by  the  Appian  road  through  Beneven- 
tum,  moving  by  an  interior  and  shorter  line  ;  whilst  Hannibal  ad- 

oc(  union.  Tin-  remark*  of  Polybius  should  make  ns  slow  to  believe  the  stories  of 
HannlhaTe  cruelties,  which  HO  soon  became  a  theme  for  the  invention  of  poets  and 
rhetoricians. 


LIFE  OF   HANNIBAL.  4? 

vanced  by  Compsa  upon  Abellinum,  descending  into  the  plain  of 
Campania  by  what  is  now  the  pass  of  Monteforte.  Hannibal's  cav- 
alry gave  him  the  whole  command  of  the  country  ;  and  Marcellus 
could  do  no  more  than  watch  his  movements  from  his  camp  above 
Suessula,  and  wait  for  some  opportunity  of  impeding  his  operations 
in  detail. 

At  this  point  in  the  story  of  the  war,  the  question  arises,  how  was 
it  possible  for  Rome  to  escape  destruction?  Nor  is  this  question 
merely  prompted  by  the  thought  of  Hannibal's  great  victories  in  the 
field,  and  the  enormous  slaughter  of  Roman  citizens  at  Thrasymenua 
and  Cannae  ;  it  appears  even  more  perplexing  to  those  who  have  at- 
tentively studied  the  preceding  history  of  Rome.  A  single  battle, 
evenly  contested  and  hardly  won,  had  enabled  Pyrrhus  to  advance 
into  the  heart  of  Latium  ;  the  Hernican  cities  and  the  impregnable 
Prseneste  had  opened  their  gates  to  him  ;  yet  Capua  was  then 
faithful  to  Rome  ;  and  Samuium  and  Lucania,  exhausted  by  long 
years  of  unsuccessful  warfare,  could  have  yielded  him  no  such 
succor  as  now,  after  fifty  years  of  peace,  they  were  able  to 
afford  to  Hannibal.  But  now,  when  Hannibal  was  received  into 
Capua,  the  state  of  Italy  seemed  to  have  gone  backward  a  hun- 
dred years,  and  to  have  returned  to  what  it  had  been  after  the 
battle  of  Lautuloe,  in  the  second  Samnite  war,  with  the  immense  ad- 
dition of  the  genius  of  Hannibal  and  the  power  of  Carthage  thrown 
into  the  scale  of  the  enemies  of  Rome.  Then,  as  now,  Capua  had 
revolted,  and  Campania,  Samnium  and  Lucania,  were  banded  to- 
gether against  Rome  ;  but  this  same  confederacy  was  now  supported 
by  all  the  resources  of  Carthage  :  and  at  its  head  in  the  field  of  bat- 
tle was  an  army  of  thirty  thousand  veterans  and  victorious  soldiers, 
led  by  one  cf  the  grestest  generals  whom  tire  world  has  ever  seen. 
How  could  it  happen  that  a  confederacy  so  formidable  was  only 
formed  to  be  defeated  V — that  the  revolt  of  Capua  was  the  term  of 
Hannibal's  progress '? — that  from  this  day  forward  his  great  powers 
were  shown  rather  in  repelling  defeat  than  in  commanding  victory  ? 
— that,  instead  of  besieging  Rome,  he  was  soon  employed  in  protect- 
ing and  relieving  Capua '! — and  that  his  protection  and  succors  were 
alike  unavailing '! 

No  single  cause  will  explain  a  result  so  extraordinary.  Rome 
owed  her  deliverance  principally  to  the  strength  of  the  aristocratical 
interest  throughout  Italy — to  her  numerous  colonies  of  the  Latin 
name— to  the  scanty  numbers  of  Hannibal's  Africa»s  and  Spaniards, 
and  to  his  want  of  an  efficient  artillery.  The  material  of  a  good  artil- 
lery must  surely  have  existed  in  Capua  ;  but  there  seem  to  have  been 
no  officers  capable  of  directing  it  ;  and  no  great  general's  operations 
exhibits  so  striking  a  contrast  of  strength  and  weakness  as  may  l>e 
seen  in  Hannibal's  battles  and  sieges.  And  when  Cannre  had  taught 
the  Romans  to  avoid  pitched  battles  in  the  open  field,  the  war  became 
necessarily  a  series  of  sieges,  where  Hannibal's  strongest  arm,  his 


«tf  HFE  OF  HAKKIBAt. 

cavalry,  could  render  little  service,  while  his  infantry  was  in  quality 
not  more  than  equal  to  the  enemy,  and  his  artillery  was  decidedly 
inferior. 

With  two  divisions  of  his  army  absent  in  Lucania  and  Brut- 
tiuin,  and  whilst  anxiously  waiting  for  the  reinforcements  which 
Mago  was  to  procure  from  Carthage,  Hannibal  could  not  undertake 
any  great  offensive  operation  after  his  arrival  in  Campania.  He  at- 
tempted only  to  reduce  the  remaining  cities  of  the  Campanian  plain 
and  sea-coast,  and  especially  to  dislodge  tho  Romans  from  Casilinum, 
fcrhich,  lying  within  three  miles  of  Capua,  and  commanding  the  pas- 
sage of  the  Vulturnus,  not  onlji  restrained  all  his  movements,  but  was 
a  serious  annoyance  to  Capua,  and  threatened  its  territory  with  con- 
tinual incursions.  Atilla  and  Calatia  had  revolted  to  him  already 
with  Capua  ;  and  he  took  Nuceria,  Alfaterna,  and  Acerrae.  The 
Greek  cities  on  the  coast,  Neopolis  and  Cumse,  were  firmly  attached 
to  Rome,  and  were  too  strong  to  be  besieged  with  success  ;  but  Nola 
lay  in  the  midst  of  the  plain  nearly  midway  between  Capiiu  and 
Nuceria  ;  and  the  popular  party  there,  as  elsewhere,  were  ready 
to  open  their  gates  to  Hannibal.  He  was  preparing  to  appear  before 
the  town  ;  but  the  aristocracy  had  time  to  apprise  the  Romans  of 
their  danger  ;  and  Marcellus,  who  was  then  at  Casilinum,  marched 
round  behind  the  mountains  to  escape  the  enemy's  notice,  and  de- 
scended suddenly  upon  Nola  from  the  hills  which  rise  directly  above 
it.  He  secured  the  place,  repressed  the  popular  party  by  some 
bloody  executions,  and  when  Hannibal  advanced  to  the  walls,  made 
a  sudden  sally,  and  repulsed  him  with  some  loss.  Having  done  this 
service,  and  left  the  aristocratical  party  in  absolute  possession  of  the 
government,  he  returned  again  to  the  hills,  and  lay  encamped  on  the 
edge  of  the  mountain  boundary  of  the  Campanian  plain,  just  above 
the  entrance  of  the  famous  pass  of  Caudium.  His  place  at  Casili- 
num was  to  be  supplied  by  the  dictator's  army  from  Tearmm  ;  but 
Hannibal  watched  his  opportunity,  and  anticipating  his  enemies  this 
time,  laid  regular  siege  to  Casilinum,  which  was  defended  by  a  gar- 
rison of  about  1000  men. 

This  garrison  had  acted  the  very  same  part  towards  the  citizens  of 
Casilinum  which  the  Campanians  had  acted  at  Rhegium  in  the  war 
with  Pyrrhus.  About  500  Latins  of  Prameste,  and  450  Etruscans  of 
Perusia,  having  been  levied  too  late  to  join  the  consular  armies  when 
they  took  the  field,  were  marching  after  them  into  Apulia,  by  the 
Appian  road,  when  they  heard  tidings  of  the  defeat  of  Cannae. 
They  immediately  turned  about,  and  fell  back  upon  Casilinum,  where 
they  established  themselves,  and  for  their  better  security  massacred 
the  Campanian  inhabitants,  and,  abandoning  the  quarter  of  the  town 
which  was  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Vulturnus,  occupied  the  quarter. 
on  the  right  bank.  Marcellus,  when  he  retreated  from  Apulia  with 
the  wreck  of  V arm's  army,  had  fixed  his  headquarters  for  a  time  at 
Caailiuuin ,  the  position  being  one  of  great  importance,  and  there  being 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  49 

some  danger  lest  the  garrison,  whilst  they  kept  off  Hannibal,  should 
resolve  to  hold  the  town  for  themselves 'rat her  than  for  the  Romans. 
They  were  now  left  to  themselves  ;  and  dreading  Hannibal's  ven- 
geance for  the  massacre  of  the  old  inhabitants,  they  resisted  his  assault* 
desperately,  and  obliged  him  to  turn  the  siege  into  a  blockade.  This 
was  the  last  active  operation  of  the  campaign  :  all  the  armies  now 
went  into  winter  quarters.  The  dictator  remained  at  Teanum  ;  Mar- 
cellus  lay  in  his  mountain  camp  above  Nola  ;  and  Hannibal's  army 
was  at  Capua.  Being  quartered  in  the  houses  of  the  city,  instead  of 
being  encamped  by  themselves,  their  discipline,  it  is  likely,  was 
somewhat  impaired  by  the  various  temptations  thrown  in  their  way  : 
and  as  the  wealth  and  enjoyments  of  Capua  at  that  time  were  noto- 
rious, the  writers  who  adopted  the  vulgar  declamations  against  lux- 
ury pretended  that  Hannibal's  army  was  ruined  by  the  indulgences 
of  this  winter,  and  that  Capua  was  the  Cannae  of  Carthage. 

Meantime  the  news  of  the  battle  of  Cannae  had  been  carried  to 
Carthage,  as  we  have  seen,  by  Hannibal's  brother  Mago,  accompa- 
nied with  a  request  for  reinforcements.  Nearly  two  years  before, 
when  he  first  descended  from  the  Alps  into  Cisalpine  Gaid,  his  Afri- 
cans and  Spaniards  were  reduced  to  no  more  than  20,000  foot  and 
GOOD  horse.  The  Gauls,  who  had  joined  him  since,  had  indeed  more 
than  doubled  this  number  at  first ;  but  three  great  battles,  and  many 
partial  actions,  besides  the  unavoidable  losses  from  sickness  during 
two  years  of  active  service,  must  have  again  greatly  diminished  it  ; 
and  this  force  was  now  to  be  divided*  a  part  of  it  was  employed  in 
Bruttium,  a  part  in  Lucania,  leaving  an  inconsiderable  body  under 
Hannibal's  own  command.  Oa  the  other  hand,  the  accession  of  the 
Campanians,  Samnites,  Lucanians,  and  Bruttians  supplied  him  with 
auxiliary  troops  in  abundance,  and  of  excellent  quality  ;  so  that  largo 
reinforcements  from  home  were  not  required,  but  only  enough  for 
the  Africans  to  form  a  substantial  part  of  every  army  employed  in 
the  field,  and,  above  all,  to  maintain  his  superiority  in  cavalry.  It  is 
said  that  some  of  the  reinforcements  which  were  voted  on  .Mago's  de- 
mand were  afterwards  diverted  to  other  services  ;  and  we  do  ir>t 
know  what  was  the  amount  of  force  actually  sent  over  to  Italy,  nor 
when  it  arrived.*  It  consisted  chiefly,  if  not  entirely,  of  cavalry  and 
eleplumts  ;  for  all  the  elephants  which  Hannibal  had  brought  with 
him  into  Italy  had  long  siuce  perished;  and  his  anxiety  to  obtain 
others,  troublesome  and  hazardous  as  it  must  have  been  to  transport, 
them  from  Africa  by  sea,  speaks  strongly  in  favor  of  their  use  in 
war,  which  modern  writers  are  perhaps  too  much  inclined  to  depre- 
ciate. 

We  have  no  information  as  to  the  feelings  entertained  by  I  Cannibal 
and  the  Campanians  towards  each  other,  whilst  the  Carthaginians 

*  He  is  represented  as  having  elephants  at  the  siege  of  Casijinum.  Livy,  XXIIL 
18.  If  this  be  correct,  the  reinforcements  must  already  have  joined  hin»t 


50  LIFE  OF   HANNIBAL. 

were  wintering  in  Capua.  The  treaty  of  alliance  had  provided  care- 
fully for  the  independence  of  the  Campanians,  that  they  might  not 
be  treated  as  Pyrrhus  had  treated  the  Tarentines.  Capua  was  to 
have  its  own  laws  and  magistrates  ;  no  Campauian  was  to  be  com- 
pelled to  any  duty,  civil  or  military,  nor  to  be  in  any  way  subject  to 
the  authority  of  the  Carthaginian  officers.  There  must  have  been 
something  of  a  Roman  party  opposed  to  the  alliance  with  Carthage 
altogether  ;  though  the  Roman  writers  mention  one  man  ouly,  Pecius 
jMagius,  who  was  said  to  have  resisted  Hannibal  to  his  face  with  such 
vehemence  that  Hannibal  sent  him  prisoner  to  Carthage.  But  three 
hundred  Campanian  horsemen  of  the  richer  classes,  who  were  serv- 
ing in  the  Roman  army  in  Sicily  when  Capua  revolted,  wont  to 
Rome  as  soon  as  their  service  was  over,  and  were  there  received  as 
Roman  citizens  ;  and  others,  though  unable  to  resist  the  general  voice 
of  their  countrymen,  must  have  longed  in  their  hearts  to  return  to  the 
Roman  alliance.  Of  the  leaders  of  the  Campanian  people,  we  know 
little  :  Pacuvius  Calavius,  the  principal  author  of  the  revolt,  is  never 
mentioned  afterwards  ;  nor  do  we  know  the  fate  of  his  son  Pcrolla, 
who,  in  his  zeal  for  Rome,  wished  to  assassinate  Hannibal  at  his  own 
father's  table,  when  he  made  his  public  entrance  into  Capua.  Yibius 
Virrius  is  also  named  as  a  leading  partisan  of  the  Carthaginians  ;  and 
amidst  the  pictures  of  the  luxury  and  feebleness  of  the  Campanians, 
their  cavalry,  which  was  formed  entirely  out  of  the  wealthiest 
classes,  is  allowed  to  have  been  excellent ;  and  one  brave  and  piac- 
tised  soldier,  Jubellius  Taurea,  had  acquired  a  high  reputation 
amongst  the  Romans  when  he  served  with  them,  and  had  attracted 
the  notice  and  respect  of  Hannibal. 

During  tUo  interval  from  active  warfare  afforded  by  the  winter, 
the  Romans  took  measures  for  filling  up  the  numerous  vacancies 
which  the  lapse  of  five  years,  and  so  many  disastrous  battles,  had 
made  in  the  numbers  of  the  senate.  The  natural  course  would  have 
been  to  elect  censors,  to  whom  the  duty  of  making  out  the  roll  of  the 
senate  properly  belonged  ;  but  the  vacancies  were  so  many,  find  the 
censor's  power  in  admitting  new  citizens,  and  degrading  old  ones, 
Avas  so  enormous,  that  the  senate  feared,  it  seems,  to  trust  to  the  re- 
sult of  an  ordinary  election  ;  and  resolved  that  the  censor's  business 
should  be  performed  by  the  oldest  man  in  point  of  standing,  of  all 
those  who  had  already  been  ccnsois,  and  that  he  should  be  appointed 
dictator  for  this  especial  duly,  although  there  was  one  dictator 
already  for  the  conduct  of  the  war.  The  person  thus  selected  was 
M.  Fabius  Buteo,  who  had  been  censor  six-and-twenty  years  before. 
at  the  end  of  the  first  Punic  war,  and  who  had  more  recently  been 
Ute  chief  of  the  embassy  sent  to  declare  war  on  Carthage  after  the 
destruction  of  Saguntum.  That  his  appointment  might  want  no 
legal  formality,  C.  Varro,  the  only  surviving  consul,  was  sent  for 
home  from  Apulia 'to  nominate  him,  the  senate  intending  to  detain 
Varro  in  Rome  till  he  should  have  presided  at  the  comitia  for  the 


LIFE    OF    H.VNNIBAL.  51 

election  of  the  next  year's  magistrates.  The  nomination  as  usual 
t'iok  place  at  midnight  ;  and  on  the  following  morning  M.  Fabius 
appeared  in  tin;  forum  with  his  four-and-tweuty  lie-tors,  and  ascended 
the  rostra  to  address  tlie  people.  Invested  with  absolute  power  for 
six  months,  and  especially  charged  with  no  les*  a  task  than  the  for- 
mation, at  his  discretion,  of  that  great  council  which  possessed  the 
supreme  government  of  the  commonwealth,  the  noble  old  man 
neither  shrunk  weakly  from  so  heavy  a  burden,  nor  ambitiously 
abused  so  vast  an  authority.  He  told  the  people  that  he  would  n  i 
strike  off  the  name  of  a  single  senator  from  the  list  of  the  senate,  and 
that,  in  filling  up  the  vacancies,  he  would  proceed  by  a  de-lined  rule  ; 
tliat  he  would  first  a  Id  all  those  who  had  held  curule  offices  within 
the  last  five  years,  without  having  been  admitted  as  yet  into  the  sen- 
ate ;  that,  in  the  second  place,  he  would  take  all  who  within  the  sunn: 
period  had  been  tribunes,  aedilcs,  or  quaestors  ;  and,  thirdly,  all  those 
who  could  show  in  their  houses  spoils  won  in  battle  from  an  enemy, 
or  who  had  received  the  wreath  of  oak  for  saving  the  life  of  a  dti/.eu 
in  battle.  In  this  manner  177  new  senators  were  placed  on  the  roll  ; 
the  new  members  thus  forming  a  large  majority  of  the  whole  number 
of  the  senate,  which  amounted  to  only  three  hundred.  This  being 
done  forthwith,  the  dictator,  as  he  stood  in  the  rostra,  resigned  bis 
office,  dismissed  his  lictors,  anel  went  down  into  the  forum  a  private 
man.  There  he  purposely  lingered  amidst  the  crowd,  lest  the  people 
should  leave  their  business  to  follow  him  home  ;  but  their  admiration 
was  not  cooled  by  this  delay  ;  and  when  he  withdrew  at,  the  usual 
hour,  the  whole  people  attended  him  to  his  house.  Such  was  Fabius 
Jiuteo's  dictatorship,  so  wrisely  fulfilled,  so  simply  and  nobly  re- 
signed, that  the  dictatorship  of  Fabius  Maximus  himself  has  earned 
no  purer  glory. 

Varro,  it  is  said,  not  wishing  to  be  detained  in  Rome,  returned  t  > 
his  army  the  next  night,  without  giving  the  senate  notice  of  his  de- 
parture. The  dictator,  M.  Junjus.  was  therefore  requested  to  repair 
to  Rome  to  hold  the  comitia  ;  and  Ti.  Gracchus  and  M.  Marcellus 
were  to  come  with  him  to  report  on  the  state  of  their  several  armies, 
and  concert  measures  for  the  ensuing  campaign.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  the  senate  determined  on  the  persons  to  be  proposed  at  the  ensu- 
ing elections,  and  that,  if  any  one  else  had  come  forward  as  a  candi- 
date, the  dictator  who  presided  would  have  refused  to  receive  votes 
for  him.  Accordingly  the  consuls  and  praetors  chosen  were  all  men 
of  the  highest  reputation  for  ability  and  experience  :  the  consuls  werw 
L.  Postumius,  whose  defeat  and  death  in  Cisalpine  Gau!  were  not  yet 
known  in  Rome,  and  Ti.  Gracchus,  now  master  of  the  horse.  The 
praetors  were  M.  Valerius  La-viuus,  Ap.  Claudius  Pulcher,  a  grand- 
son of  the  famous  censor,  Appius  the  blind,  Q.  Fulvius  Flaccus,  old 
in  years,  but  vigorous  in  mrnd  and  body,  who  had  already  been  cen- 
sor, and  twice  consul,  and  Q.  Mucius  iSaevola.  When  the  death  of 
L.  Postumius  was  known,  his  place  was  finally  filled  by  no  less  iv 


62  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL. 

person  than  Q.  Fabius  Maximus  :  whilst  Marcellus  was  still  to  retain 
his  command  with  proconsular  power,  as  his  activity  and  energy 
could  ill  be  spared  at  a  time  so  critical. 

The  officers  for  the  year  being  thus  appointed,  it  remained  to  de- 
termine their  several  provinces,  and  to  provide  them  with  sufficient 
forces.  Fabius  was  to  succeed  to  the  army  of  the  dictator,  M.  Juni- 
us  ;  and  his  headquarters  were  advanced  from  Teanum  to  Cales,  at 
the  northern  extremity  of  the  Falernian  plain,  about  seven  English 
miles  from  Casilinum  and  the  Vultiirnus,  and  less  than  ten  from 
Capua.  The  other  consul,  Ti  Sempronius,  was  to  have  no  other 
Roman  army  than  two  legions  of  volunteer  slaves,  who  were  to  be 
raised  for  the  occasion  ;  but  both  he  and  his  colleague  had  the  usual 
contingent  of  L\tin  and  Italian  allies.  Gracchus  named  Sinuessa  on 
the  Appian  road,  at  the  point  where  the  Massic  hills  run  out  with 
a  bold  headland  into  the  sea,  as  the  place  of  meeting  for  his  soldiers  ; 
and  his  business  was  to  protect  the  towns  on  the  coast,  which  were 
still  faithful  to  Rome,  such  as  Cuma  and  Neapolis.  Marcellus  was 
to  command  two  new  Roman  legions,  and  to  lie  as  before  in  his  camp 
above  Nola  ;  whilst  his  old  army  was  sent  into  Sicily  to  relieve  the 
legions  there,  and  enable  them  to  return  to  Italy,  where  they  fonncd 
a  fourth  army  under  the  command  of  M.  Valerius  Laevinus,  the  pne- 
tor  peregrinus,  in  Apulia.  The  small  force  which  Vano  had  com- 
manded in  Apulia  was  ordered  to  Tareutum,  to  add  to  the  strength 
of  that  important  place  ;  whilst  ^arro  himself  was  sefit  with  procon- 
sular power  into  Picenum,  to  raise  soldiers,  and  to  watch  the  road 
along  the  Adriatic  by  which  the  Gauls  might  have  sent  reinforce- 
ments to  Hannibal.  Q.  Fulvius  Flaccus,  the  praetor  urhanus,  re- 
mained at  Rome  to  conduct  the  government,  and  had  no  other  mili- 
tary command  than  that  of  a  small  fleet  for  the  defence  of  the  coast 
on  both  sides  of  the  Tiber.  Of  the  other  two  praetors,  Ap.  Claudius 
was  to  command  in  Sicily,  and  Q.  Mucius  in  Sardinia  ;  and  P.  Scipio 
as  proconsul  still  commanded  his  old  army  of  two  legions  in  Spain. 
On  the  whole,  including  the  volunteer  slaves,  there  appeared  to  have 
been  fourteen  Roman  legions  in  active  service  at  the  beginning  of 
the  year  589,  without  reckoning  the  soldiers  who  served  in  the  fleets  ; 
and  of  these  fourteen  legions,  nine  were  employed  in  Italy.  If  we 
suppose  that  the  Latin  and  Italian  allies  bore  their  usual  proportion 
to  the  number  of  Roman  soldiers  in  each  army,  we  shall  have  a  total 
of  140,000  men,  thus  divided  :  20,000  in  Spain,  and  the  same  number 
in  Sicily  ;  10,000  in  Sardinia  ;  20,000  under  each  of  the  consuls  ; 
20,000  with  Marcellus  ;  20,000  under  Laevinus  in  Apulia  ;  and  10,000 
in  Tarentum. 

Seventy  thousand  men  were  thus  in  arms,  besides  the  seamen,  out 
of  a  population  of  citizens  which  at  the  last  census  before  the  war 
had  amounted  only  to  270,213,  and  which  had  since  been  thinned  by 
so  many  disastrous  battles.  Nor  was  the  drain  on  the  finances  of 
Borne  less  extraordinary.  The  legions  in  the  provinces  had  indeed 


LIFE    OF   HAK-JTIBAL.  5g 

been  left  to  their  own  resources  as  to  money  ;  but  the  nine  legions 
serving  in  Italy  must  have  been  paid  regularly  ;  for  war  could  not 
there  be  made  to  support  war  ;  and  if  the  Romans  had  been  left  to 
live  at  free  quarters  upon  their  Italian  allies,  they  would  have  driven 
them  to  join  Hannibal  in  mere  self-defence.  Yet  the  legions  in  Italy 
cost  the  government  in  pay,  food,  and  clothing,  at  the  rate  of  541,800 
denarii  a  month  ;  and  as  they  were  kept  on  service  throughout  the 
year,  the  annual  expense  was  6,501,600  denarii,  or  in  Greek  money, 
reckoning  the  denarius  as  equal  to  the  drachma,  1083  Euboic  talents. 
To  meet  these  enormous  demands  on  the  treasury,  the  government 
resorted  to  the  simple  expedient  of  doubling  the  year's  taxes,  and 
calling  at  once  for  the  payment  of  one  half  of  this  amount,  leaving 
the  other  to  be  paid  at  the  end  of  the  year.  It  was  a  struggle  for  life 
and  death  ;  and  the  people  were  in  a  mood  to  refuse  no  sacrifices, 
however  costly  :  but  the  war  must  have  cut  off  so  many  sources  of 
wealth,  and  agriculture  itself  must  have  so  suffered  from  the  calling 
away  of  so  many  hands  from  the  cultivation  of  the  land,  that  we 
wonder  how  the  money  could  be  found,  and  how  many  of  the  poorer 
citizens'  families  could  be  provided  with  daily  bread. 

In  addition  to  the  five  regular  armies  which  the  Romans  brought 
into  the  field  in  Italy,  an  irregular  warfare  was  also  going  on,  we 
know  not  to  what  extent  ;  and  bands  of  peasants  and  slaves  were 
armed  in  many  parts  of  the  country  to  act  against  the  revolted  Ital- 
ians, and  to  ravage  their  territory.  For  instance,  a  great  tract  of  for- 
est in  Bruttium,  as  we  have  seen,  was  the  domain  of  the  Roman  peo- 
ple ;  this  would  be  farmed  like  all  the  other  revenues  ;  and  the  pub- 
licani  who  farmed  it,  or  the  wealthy  citizens  who  turned  out  cattle  to 
pasture  in  it,  would  have  large  bodies  of  slaves  employed  as  shep- 
herds, herdsmen,  and  woodsmen,  who,  when  the  Bruttian  towns  on 
the  coast  revolted,  would  at  once  foim  a  guerilla  force  capable  of  do- 
ing them  great  mischief.  And  lastly,  besides  all  these  forces,  regular 
and  irregular,  the  Romans  still  held  most  of  the  principal  towns  m 
the  south  of  Italy  ;  because  they  had  long  since  converted  them  into 
Latin  colonies.  Brundisium  on  the  Ionian  sea,  Faestum  on  the  eoa-t 
of  Lucuuia,  Luceria,  Venusia,  and  Veneventum  in  the  interior,  \\eie 
all  so  many  strong  fortresses,  garrisoned  by  soldiers  of  the  Latin 
name,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  revolted  districts;  whilst  the  Greek 
cities  of  Cumfc  and  Neapolis  in  Campania,  and  Rhegium  on  Hie 
Straits  of  Messina,  were  held  for  Rome  by  their  own  citi/ens  with  a 
devotion  no  way  inferior  to  that  of  the  Latin  colonies  themselves. 

Against  this  mass  of  enemies,  the  moment  that  they  had  learned  to 
use  their  strength,  Hannibal,  even  within  six  months  after  the  bat- 
tle of  Cannae,  was  already  contending  at  a  disadvantage.  We  havu 
seen  that  he  detached  two  officers  with  two  divisions  of  his  army, 
one  into  Lucania,  the  other  into  Bruttium,  to  encourage  the  revolt  of 
those  countries,  and  then  to  orgaui/o  their  resources  in  men  and 
money  for  the  advancement  of  the  common  cause.  Most  of  the 


£4  LIFE    01'    ifANNili.vL 

Bruttiaus  took  up  arms  immediately  as  Hannibal's  allies,  aud  put 
themselves  under  the  command  of  his  officer,  Himilcon  ;  but  Petelia, 
one  of  their  cities,  was  for  some  reason  or  other  inflexible  in  its  de- 
votion to  Rome,  and  endured  a  siege  of  eleven  months,  suffering  all 
extremities  of  famine  before  it  surrendered.  Thus  Himilc-on  must 
have  been  still  engaged  in  besieging  it  long  after  the  campaign  was 
opened  in  the  neighborhood  of  Capua.  The  Sarnuites  also  had  taken 
up  arms,  and  apparently  were  attached  to  Hannibal's  own  army  : 
the  return  of  their  whole  population  of  the  military  age,  made  ten 
years  before  during  the  Gaulish  invasion,  had  stated  it  at  70,000 
foot,  and  7000  horse  ;  but  the  Pentrians,  the  most  powerful  tribe  of 
their  nation,  were  still  faithful  to  Rome  ;  and  the  Samnites,  like  the 
Romans  themselves,  had  been  thinned  by  the  slaughter  of  Thrasy- 
menus  and  Cannae,  which  they  had  ehared^as  their  allies.  It  is  vexa- 
tious that  we  have  no  statement  of  the'amount  of  Hannibal's  old 
army,  any  more  than  of  the  allies  who  joined  him,  at  any  period  of 
the  war  later  than  the  battle  of  Cannse'.  His  reinforcements  from 
home,  as  we  have  seen,  were  very  trifling  ;  while  his  two  divisions 
in  Lueania  and  Bruttium,  and  the  garrisons  which  he  had  been 
obliged  to  leave  in  some  of  the  revolted  towns,  as,  for  example,  at 
Arpi  in  Apulia,  must  have  considerably  lessened  the  force  under  his 
own  personal  command.  Yet,  with  the  accession  of  the  Samnites 
and  Campanians,  it  was  probably  much  stronger  than  any  one  of  the 
Roman  armies  opposed  to  him  ;  quite  as  strong  indeed,  in  all  likeli- 
hood, as  was  consistent  with  the  possibility  of  feeding  it. 

Before  the  winter  was  over,  Casilinum  fell.  The  garrison  had 
made  a  valiant  defence,  and  yielded  at  last  to  famine  :  they  were  al- 
lowed to  ransom  themselves  by  paying  each  man  seven  ounces  of 
gold  for  his  life  and  liberty.  The  plunder  which  they  had  won  from 
the  old  inhabitants  enabled  them  to  discharge  this  large;  sum  ;  and 
they  were  then  allowed  to  march  out  unhurt,  and  retire  to  Cuma1. 
Casilinum  again  became  a  Campanian  town  ;  but  its  important  posi- 
tion, at  once  covering  Capua,  and  securing  a  passage  over  the  Vul- 
turous, induced  Hannibal  to  garrison  it  with  seven  hundred  soldiers 
of  his  own  army. 

The  season  for  active  operations  was  now  arrived.  The  three 
Roman  armies  of  Fabius,  Gracchus,  and  Marcellus,  had  taken  up 
their  positions  round  Campania  ;  and  Hannibal  marched  out  of 
Capua,  and  encamped  his  army  on  the  mountain  above  it,  on  that 
same  Tifata  where  the  Samnites  had  so  often  taken  post  in  old  times 
when  they  were  preparing  to  invade  the  Campanian  plain.  Tifata  did 
not  then  exhibit  that  bare  and  parched  appearance  which  it  lias  now  ; 
the  soil,  which  has  accumulated  in  the  plain  below,  so  as  to  have 
risen  several  feet  above  its  ancient  level,  has  been  washed  down  in 
the  course  of  centuries,  and  after  the  destruction  of  its  protecting 
woods,  from  the  neighboring  mountains  ;  and  Tifata  in  Hannibal's 
time  furnished  grass  in  abundance  for  his  cattle  in  its  numerous 


lil?E   OF   HAXXIBAL.  55 

glades,  and  offered  cool  and  healthy  summer  quarters  for  his  men. 
There  he  lay  waiting-  for  some  opportunity  of  striking  a  blow  against 
his  enemies  around  him,  and  eagerly  watching  the'progress  of  his 
intrigues -with  the  Tarentines,  and  his  negotiations  with  the  king  of 
Mactidon.  A  party  at  Tarentum  began  to  open  a  correspondence 
with  him  immediately  after  the  battle  of  Cauna'  ;  and  since  lie  had 
been  in  Campaniajie  had  received  an  embassy  from  Philip,  king  of 
Macedon,  and  had  concluded  an  alliance,  offensive  and  defensive, 
with  the  ambassadors,  who  acted  witli  full  powers  in  their  master's 
name.  Such  were  his  prospects  on  one  side,  whilst,  if  he  looked  west- 
ward and  southwest,  he  saw  Sardinia  in  open  revolt  against  Rome  ; 
and  in  Sicily  the  death  of  Hiero  at  the  age  of  ninety,^and  the  succcs  -ion 
of  his  grandson  llieronymus,  an  ambitious  and  inexperienced  youth, 
were  detaching  Syracuse  also  from  the  Roman  alliance.  Hannibal 
had  already  received  an  embassy  from  Hieronymus,  to  which  he  h;id 
replied  by  sending  a  Carthaginian  officer  of  his  own  name  to  Sicily, 
and  two  Syracuwin  brothers,  Hippocrates  and  Epicydes,  who  had 
long  served  with  him  in  Italy  and  in  Spain,  being  in  fact  Cartha- 
ginians by  their  toother's  side,  and  having  become  iiatnrali/ed  at 
Carthage,  since  Agathocles  had  banished  their  grandfather,  and  their 
father  had  married  and  settled  in  his  place  of  exile.  Thus  the  cllcct 
of  the  battle  of  Cannae  seemed  to  be  shaking  the  whole  fabric  of  the 
Roman  dominion  ;  their  provinces  were  revolting  ;  their  firmest  allies 
were  deserting  them  ;  whilst  the  king  of  Macedon  himself,  the  suc- 
cessor of  Alexander,  was  throwing  the  weight  of  his  power,  and  of 
all  his  acquired  and  inherited  glory,  into  the  scale  of  their  enemies. 
Seeing  the  fruit  of  his  work  thus  fast  ripening,  Hannibal  sat  quietly 
on  the  summit  of  Tifata,  to  break  forth  like  the  lightning  flash  when 
the  storm  should  be  fully  gathered. 

Thus  the  summer  of  539  was  like  a  breathing-time,  in  which  both 
parties  were  looking  at  each  other,  and  considering  each  other's  re- 
sources, whilst  they  were  recovering  strength  after  their  past  efforts, 
and  preparing  for  a  renewal  of  the  struggle.  Fahius,  with  the 
authority  of  the  senate,  issued  an  order,  calling  on  the  inhabitants  of 
all  the  country  which  either  actually  was,  or  was  likely  to  become, 
the  seat  of  war,  to  clear  their  corn  off  the  ground,  and  carry  it  into 
the  fortified  cities,  before  the  first  of  June,  threatening  to  lay  waste 
the  land,  to  sell  the  slaves,  and  burn  the  farm  buildings,  of  any  one 
who  should  disobey  the  order.  In  the  utter  confusion  of  the  Roman 
calendar  at  this  period,  it  is  difficult  to  know  whether  in  any  given 
year  it  was  in  advance  of  the  true  time  or  behind  it  ;  so  that  \ve 
can  scarcely  tell  whether  the  corn  was  only  to  begot  in  when  ri|u- 
without  needless  delay,  or  whether  it  was  to  be  cut  when  green,  lest 
Hannibal  should  use  it  as  forage  for  his  cavalry.  But  at  any  rate 
Fabius  was  now  repeating  the  system  which  he  bad  laid  down  in  his 
dictatorship,  and  hoped  by  wasting  the  country  to  oblige  Hannibal  to 
retreat ;  for  his  means  of  transport  were  not  sufficient  for  him  to  feed 


5ft  LIFE   OF  HAKNIBAL. 

his  army  from  a  distance  :  lience,  when  the  resources  ia  his  imme- 
diate neighborhood  were  exhausted,  he  was  obliged  1o  move  else- 
where. 

Meanwhile  Gracchus  had  crossed  the  Vulturnus  near  its  mouth, 
and  was  now  at  Liternum,  busily  employed  in  exercising  and  train- 
ing his  heterogeneous  army.  The  several  Campanian  cities  were  ac- 
customed to  hold  a  joint  festival  every  year  at  a  place  called  Hamae, 
only  three  miles  from  Cumae.  These  festivals  were  seasons  of  gen- 
eral truce,  so  that  the  citizens  even  of  hostile  nations  met  at  them 
safely  :  the  government  of  Capua  announced  to  the  Cumaeans,  that 
their  chief  magistrate  and  all  their  senators  would  appear  at  Hameu 
as  usual  on  the  day  of  the  solemnity  ;  and  they  invited  the  senate  of 
Cumae  to  meet  them.  At  the  same  time  they  said  that  an  armed  force 
would  be  present  to  repel  any  interruption  from  the  Romans.  The 
Cumaeans  informed  Gracchus  of  this  ;  and  he  attacked  the  Capuaus 
in  the  night,  when  they  were  in  such  perfect  security  that  they  had 
not  even  fortified  a  camp,  but  were  sleeping  in  the  open  country,  and 
massacred  about  2000  of  them,  among  whom  was  Marius  Alfius,  the 
supreme  magistrate  of  Capua.  The  Romans  charge  the  Capuans 
with  having  meditated  treachery  against  the  Cumaeans,  and  say  that 
they  were  caught  in  their  own  snare  ;  but  this  could  only  be  a  sus- 
picion, whilst  the  o^ert  acts  of  violence  were  their  own.  Hannibal  no 
sooner  heard  of  this  disaster,  then  he  descended  from  Tifata,  and 
hastened  to  Hamae,  in  the  hope  of  provoking  the  enemy  to  battle  in 
the  confidence  of  their  late  success.  But  Gracchus  was  too  wary  to 
be  so  tempted,  and  had  retreated  in  good  time  to  Cumae,  where  he  lay 
safe  within  the  walls  of  the  town.  It  is  said  that  Hannibal,  having 
supplied  himself  with  all  things  necessary  for  a  siege,  attacked  the 
place  iu  form,  and  was  repulsed  with  loss,  so  that  he  returned  de- 
feated to  his  camp  at  Tifata.  A  consular  army  defending  the  walls  of  a 
fortified  town  was  not  indeed  likely  to  be  beaten  in  an  assault ;  and 
neither  could  a  maritime  town,  with  the  sea  open,  be  easily  starved  ; 
nor  could  Hannibal  linger  before  it  safely,  as  Fabius,  with  a  second 
consular  army,  was  preparing  to  cross  the  Vulturnus. 

Casilinum  being  held  by  the  enemy,  Fabius  was  obliged  to  cross  at  a 
higher  point  behind  the  mountains,  nearly  opposite  to  Ailifae  ;  and  he 
then  descended  the  left  bank  to  the  confluence  of  the  Calor  with  the 
Vulturnus,  crossed  the  Calor,  and  passing  between  Taburnus  and  the 
mountains  above  Caserta  and  Maddaloni,  stormed  the  town  of  Suti- 
cula,  and  joined  Marcellus  in  his  camp  above  Suessula.  He  was 
again  anxious  for  Kola,  where  the  popular  party  were  said  to  be  still 
plotting  the  surrender  of  the  lown  to  Hannibal  :  to  stop  this  mischief , 
he  sent  Marcellus  with  his  whole  army  to  garrison  Nola,  whilst  he 
himself  took  his  place  in  the  camp  above  Suessula.  Gracchus  on  his 
side  advanced  from  Cumae  towards  Capua;  so  that  three  Roman 
armies,  amounting  in  all  to  about  sixty  thousand  men,  were  on  the 
left  bank  of  the  Vulturnus  together  ;"and  all,  so  far  as  appears,  in 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  57 

free  communication  with  each  other.  They  availed  themselves  of 
their  numbers  and  of  their  position,  to  send  plundering  parties  out  on 
their  rear  to  overrun  the  lands  of  the  revolted  Samnites  and  Hirpi- 
nians  ;  and  as  the  best  troops  of  both  these  nations  were  with  Hanni- 
bal on  Tifata,  no  force  was  left  at  home  sufficient  to  check  the  en- 
emy's incursions.  Accordingly  the  complaints  of  the  sufferers  were 
loud,  and  a  deputation  was  sent  to  Hannibal  imploring  him  to  protect 
his  allies. 

Already  Hannibal  felt  that  the  Roman  generals  understood  their 
business,  and  had  learned  to  use  their  numbers  wisely.  On  ground 
where  his  cavalry  could  act,  he  would  not  have  feared  to  engage 
their  three  armies  together  ;  but  when  they  were  amongst  mountains, 
or  behind  walls,  his  cavalry  were  useless,  and  he  could  not  venture  to 
attack  them  ;  besides,  he  did  not  wish  to  expose  the  territory  of 
Capua  to  their  ravages  ;  and,  therefore,  he  did  not  choose  lightly  to 
move  from  Tifata.  But  the  prayers  of  the  Samnites  were  urgent : 
his  partisans  in  ISTola  might  require  his  aid,  or  might  be  able  to  admit 
him  into  the  town  ;  and  his  expected  reinforcement  of  cavalry  and 
elephants  from  Carthage  had  landed  safely  in  Bruttium,  and  was  on 
its  way  to  join  him,  which  the  position  of  Fabius  and  Marcellus  might 
render  difficult,  if  he  made  no  movement  to  favor  it.  He  therefore 
left  Tifata,  advanced  upon  Nola,  and  timed  his  operation  so  well 
that  his  reinforcements  arrived  at  the  moment  when  he  was  before 
Nola  ;  and  neither  Fabius  nor  Marcellus  attempted  to  prevent  their 
junction. 

Thus  encouraged,  and  perhaps  not  aware  of  the  strength  of  the 
garrison,  Hannibal  not  only  overran  the  territory  of  Nola,  but  sur- 
rounded the  town  with  his  soldiers,  in  the  hope  of  taking  it  by 
escalade.  Marcellus  was  alike  watchful  and  bold  ;  he  threw  open 
the  gates  and  made  a  sudden  sally,  by  which  he  drove  back  the  en- 
emy within  their  camp  ;  and  this  success,  together  with  his  frank 
and  popular  bearing,  won  him,  it  is  said,  the  affections  of  all  parties  at 
Nola,  and  put  a  stop  to  all  intrigues  within  the  walls.  A  more  im- 
portant consequence  of  this  action  was  the  desertion  of  above  twelve 
hundred  men— Spanish  foot  and  Numidiau  horse— from  Hannibal's 
army  to  the  Romans  ;  as  we  do  not  find  that  their  example  was  fol- 
loved  by  others,  it  is  probable  that  they  were  not  Hannibal's  old  sol- 
diers, but  some  of  the  troops  which  had  just  joined  him,  and  which 
could  not  as  yet  have  felt  the  spell  of  his  personal  ascendency.  Still 
their  treason  naturally  made  him  uneasy,  and  would  for  the  moment 
•xcite  a  general  suspicion  in  the  army  ;  the  summer  too  was  drawing 
to  a  close  ;  and  wishing  to  relieve  Capua  from  the  burden  of  feeding 
his  troops,  he  marched  away  into  Apulia,  and  fixed  his  quarters  for 
the  winter  near  Arpi.  Gracchus,  with  one  consular  army,  followed 
him  ;  whilst  Fabius,  after  having  ravaged  the  country  round  Capua, 
and  carried  off  the  green  corn,  as  soon  as  it  was  high  enough  out  of 
the  ground,  to  his  camp  above  Suessula,  to  furnish  winter  food  for 


58  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

his  cavalry,  quartered  his  own  army  there  for  the  winter,  and  ordered 
Marcellus  to  retain  a  sufficient  force  to  secure  Nola,  and  to  send  the 
rest  of  his  men  home  to  be  disbanded. 

Thus  the  campaign  was  ended,  and  Hannibal  had  not  marked  it 
with  a  victory.  The  Romans  had  employed  their  forces  so  wisely, 
that  they  had  forced  him  to  remain  mostly  on  the  defensive  ;  and  his 
two  offensive  operations  against  Cumaj  and  agamst  Nola  had  both 
been  baffled.  In  Sardinia,  their  success  had  been  brilliant  and  de- 
cisive. Fortune  in  another  quarter  served  the  Romans  no  less  effectu- 
tlly.  The  Macedonian  ambassadors,  after  having  concluded  their 
treaty  with  Hannibal  at  Tifata,  made  their  way  back  into  Bruttium 
in  safety,  and  embarked  to  return  to  Greece.  But  their  ship  was 
taken  off  the  Calabrian  coast  by  the  Roman  squadron  on  that  station  ; 
and  the  ambassadors,  with  all  their  papers,  were  sent  prisoners  to 
Rome.  A  vessel  which  had  been  of  their  company  escaped  the 
Romans,  and  informed  the  king  what  had  happened.  He  was 
obliged,  therefore,  to  send  a  second  embassy  to  Hannibal,  as  the 
former  treaty  had  never  reached  him  ;  and,  although  this  second  mis- 
sion went  and  returned  safely,  yet  the  loss  of  time  was  irreparable, 
and  nothing  could  be  done  till  another  year.  Meanwhile  the 
Romans,  thus  timely  made  aware  of  the  king's  intentions,  resolved 
to  find  such  employment  for  him  at  home  as  should  prevent  his  in- 
vading Italy.  M.  Valerius  Laevinus  was  to  take  the  command  of  the 
fleet  at  Tarentum  and  Brundisium,  and  to  cross  the  Ionian  Gulf  in 
order  to  rouse  the  ./Etolians  and  the  barbarian  chiefs  whose  tribes 
bordered  on  Philip's  western  frontier,  and,  with  such  other  allies  as 
could  be  engaged  in  the  cause,  to  form  a  Greek  coalition  against 
Macedon. 

These  events,  and  the  continued  successes  of  the  ir  army  in  Spain, 
revived  the  spirits  of  the  Romans,  and  encouraged  them  to  make  still 
greater  sacrifices,  in  the  hope  that  they  would  not  be  made  in  vain. 
Whilst  the  commonwealth  was  making  extraordinaiy  efforts,  it  was 
of  (he  last  importance  that  they  should  not  be  wasted  by  incompetent 
leaders,  either  at  home  or  abroad.  Gracchus  was  watching  Hannibal 
in  Apulia,  so  that  Fabius  went  to  Rome  to  hold  the  comitia.  It  was 
not  by  accident,  doubtless,  that  he  had  previously  sent  home  to  fix 
the  day  of  the  meeting,  or  that  his  own  arrival  was  so  nicely  timed, 
that  he  reached  Rome  when  the  tribes  were  actually  met  in  the  Cam- 
pus Martins  ;  thus,  without  entering  the  city,  he  passed  along  under 
the  walls,  and  took  his  place  as  presiding  magistrate,  at  the  comitia, 
while  his  lictors  still  bore  the  naked  axe  in  the  midst  of  their  faces, 
the  well-known  sign  of  that  absolute  power  which  the  consul  enjoyed 
everywhere  out  of  Rome.  Fabius,  in  concert  no  doubt  with  Q.  Ful- 
vius  and  T.  Manlius,  and  other  leading  senators,  had  already  deter- 
mined who  were  to  be  consuls  :  when  the  first  century,  in  the  free 
exercise  of  its  choice,  gave  its  vote  in  favor  of  T.  Otacilius  and  M. 
^Emilius  Regillus,  he  at  once  stopped  the  election,  and  told  the 


LIFE    OF   IIAXNIBAL.  59 

people  that  this  was  no  time  to  choose  ordinary  consuls  ;  that  they 
were  electing  generals  to  oppose  Hannibal,  and  should  fix  upon  tlios^ 
men  under  whom  they  would  most  gladly  risk  their  sons'  lives  and 
their  own,  if  they  stood  at  that  moment  on  the  eve  of  battle.  "  Where- 
fore, crier,"  he  concluded,  "  call  back  the  century  to  give  its  voles 
over  again." 

Otacilius,  who  was  present,  although  he  had  married  Fabius' 
niece,  protested  loudly  against  this  interference  with  the  votes  of  the 
people,  and  charged  Fabius  with,,  trying  to  procure  his  own  re- 
election. The  old  man  had  always  been  so  famous  for  the  gentleness 
of  his  nature,  that  he  was  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  "  the 
Lamb  ;"  but  now  he  acted  with  the  decision  of  Q.  Fulvius  or  T. 
Manilas  ;  he  peremptorily  ordered  Otacilius  to  be  silent,  and  badu 
him  remember  that  his  lictors  carried  the  naked  axo  :  the  cent  my 
was  called  back,  and  noiv  gave  its  voice  for  Q.  Fabius  and  M.  Mar- 
cellus.  All  the  centuries  of  all  the  tribes  unanimously  confirmed 
this  choice.  Q.  Fulvius  was  also  re-elected  pnetor  ;  and  the  senate 
by  a  special  vote  continued  him  in  the  praetorship  of  the  city,  an 
office  which  put  him  at  the  head  of  the  home  government. 

The  election  of  the  other  three  pnvtors,  it  seems,  was  left  free  ;  no 
the  people,  as  they  could  not  have  Otacilius  for  their  consul,  gave  him 
one  of  the  remaining  praetorships,  and  bestowed  the  other  two  on 
Q.  Fabius,  the  consul's  sou,  who  was  then  curule  aidile,  and  on 
P.  Cornelius  Leutulus. 

Great  as  the  exertions  of  the  commonwealth  had  been  in  the  pre- 
ceding year,  they  were  still  greater  this  year.  Ten  legions  were  to  be 
employed  in  different  parts  of  Italy,  disposed  as  follows  :  ('ales,  and 
the  camp  above  Suessula  and  Nola,  were  again  to  be  the  head 
quarters  of  the  two  consuls,  each  of  whom  was  to  command  a  regular 
consular  army  of  two  legions.  Gracchus, with  proconsular  power,  was 
to  keep  his  own  two  legions,  and  was  at  present  wintering  near 
Hannibal  in  the  north  of  Apulia.  Q.  Fabius,  one  of  the  new  pnetors. 
was  to  be  ready  to  enter  Apulia  with  an  army  of  equal  strength,  so 
soon  as  Gracchus  should  be  called  into  Lucania  and  Samnium,  to 
take  part  in  yie  active  operations  of  the  campaign.  C.  Varro,  with 
his  single  legion,  was  still  to  hold  Picenum  ;  and  M.  Lrevinus,  also 
with  proconsular  power,  was  to  remain  at  Brundisium  with  another 
single  legion.  The  two  city  legions  served  as  a  sort  of  depot,  to  re- 
cruit the  armies  in  the  field  in  case  of  need  ;  and  there  was  a  large 
armed  population,  serving  as  garrisons  in  the  Latin  colonies,  and  it: 
other  important  posts  in  various  parts  of  the  country,  the  amount  o' 
which  it  is  not  possible  to  estimate.  Nor  can  we  calculate  the  num- 
bers of  the  guerilla  bands,  which  were  on  foot  in  Lucania,  Bruttium, 
and  possibly  in  Samnium,  and  which  hindered  Hannibal  from  having 
the  whole  resources  of  those  countries  at  his  disposal.  The  Roman 
party  was  nowhere  probably  altogether  extinct.  Wealthy  Lucanians, 
who  we're  attached  to  Rome,  would  muster  their  slaves  and  peas- 


60  LIFE    OF   HANNIBAL. 

antry,  and  either  by  themselves,  or  getting  some  Roman  officer  to 
Lead  them,  would  ravage  the  lands  of  the  Carthaginian  party,  and 
carry  on  a  continued  harassing  warfare  against  the  towns  or  districts 
which  had  joined  Hannibal.  Thus  the  whole  south  of  Italy  was  one 
wide  flood  of  war,  the  waters  were  everywhere  dashing  and  eddying, 
and  running  *in  cross  currents  innumerable  ;  whilst  the  regular 
armies,  like  the  channels  of  the  rivers,  held  on  their  way,  distinguish- 
able amidst  the  chaos  by  their  greater  rapidity  and  power. 

Hannibal  watched  this  mass  of^war  with  the  closest  attention.  To 
make  head  against  it  directly  being  impossible,  his  business  was  to 
mark  his  opportunities,  to  strike  whei  ever  there  was  an  opening  ;  and 
being  sure  that  the  enemy  would  not  dare  to  attack  him  on  his  own 
ground,  he  might  maintain  his  army  in  Italy  for  an  indefinite  time, 
whilst  Carthage,  availing  herself  of  the  distraction  of  her  enemy's 
power,  renewed  her  efforts  to  conquer  Spain,  and  recover  Sicily. 
lie  hoped  ere  long  to  win  Tarentum  ;  and,  if  left  to  his  own  choice, 
he  would  probably  have  moved  thither  at  once,  when  he  broke  up 
from  his  winter  quarters  ;  but  the  weakness  or  fears  of  the  Campa- 
nians  hung  with  encumbering  weight  upon  him  ;  and  an  earnest 
request  was  sent  to  him  from  C'apua,  calling  on  him  to  hasten  to  its 
defence,  lest  the  two  consular  armies  should  besiege  it.  Accordingly 
lie  broke  up  from  his  winter  quarters  at  Arpi,  and  marched  once  more 
into  Campania,  where  he  established  his  army  as  before  on  the  sum- 
mit of  Tifata. 

The  perpetual  carelessness  and  omissions  in  Livy's  narrative,  drawn 
as  it  is  from  various  sources,  with  no  pains  to  make  one  part  corre- 
spond with  another,  render  it  a  work  of  extreme  difficulty  to  present 
an  account  of  these  operations,  which  shall  be  at  once  minute  and 
intelligible.  We  also  miss  that  notice  of  chronological  details  which 
is  essential  to  the  history  of  a  complicated  campaign.  Even  the  year 
in  which  important  events  happened  is  sometimes  doubtful  ;  yet  we 
want  not  to  fix  the  year  only,  but  the  month,  that  we  may  arrange 
each  action  in  its  proper  order.  When  Hannibal  set  out  on  his  march 
into  Campania,  Fabius  was  still  at  Rome  ;  but  the  two  new  legions 
which  were  to  form  his  army  were  already  assembled  at  Calcs  ;  and 
Fabius,  on  hearing  of  Hannibal's  approach,  set  out  instantly  to  take 
the  command.  His  old  army,  which  had  wintered  in  the  camp  above 
Suessula,  had  apparently  been  transferred  to  his  colleague,  Marcel- 
lus  ;  and  a  considerable  force  had  been  left  at  the  close  of  the  last 
campaign  to  garrison  Nola.  Fabius,  however,  wished  to  have  three 
Roman  armies  co-operating  with  each  other,  as  had  been  the  case  the 
year  before  ;  and  he  sent  orders  to  Gracchus  to  move  forward  from 
Apulia,  and  to  occupy  Beneventum  ;  whilst  his  son,  Q.  Fabius,  the 
prater,  with  a  fourth  army,  was  to  supply  the  place  of  Gracchus,  at 
Luceria.  It  seemed  as  if  Hannibal,  having  once  entered  Campania, 
w  a.s  to  be  hemmed  in  on  every  side,  and  not  permitted  to  escape ; 
movements  of  the  Roman  armies  induced  him  to  call  Hanno 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  61 

io  his  aid,  the  officer  who  commanded  inLucania  and  Bruttium,  and 
who,  with  a  small  force  of  JS  umidian  cavalry,  had  an  auxiliary  army 
under  his  orders,  consisting  chiefly  of  Italian  allies,  llanno  advanced 
accordingly  in  the  direction  of  Beneventurn,  to  watch  the  army  of 
Gracchus,  and,  if  an  opportunity  offered,  to  bring  it  to  action. 

Meanwhile,  Hannibal,  having  left  some  of  his  best  troops  to  main- 
tain his  camp  at  Tifata,  and  probably  tQ protect  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood of  Capua,  descended  into  the  plain  towards  the  coast,  partly 
in  the  hope  of  surprising  a  fortified  post  which  the  Romans  had  lately 
established  at  Puteoli,  and  partly  to  ravage  the  territory  of  Cum;«  and 
Neapolis.  But  the  avowed  object  of  his  expedition  was  to  offer  sac- 
rifice to  the  powers  of  the  unseen  world,  on  the  banks  of  the  dreaded 
lake  of  Avernus.  That  crater  of  an  old  volcano,  where  the  very 
soil  still  seemed  to  breathe  out  fire,  while  the  unbroken  rim  of  its  basin 
was  covered  with  the  uncleared  masses  of  the  native  woods,  was  tke 
subject  of  a  thousand  mysterious  stories,  and  was  regarded  as  one  of 
those  spots  where  the  lower  world  approached  most  nearly  to  the 
light  of  day,  and  where  offerings,  paid  to  the  gods  of  the  dead,  were 
most  surely  acceptable.  Such  worship  was  a  main  part  of  the  na- 
tional religion  of  the  Carthaginians  ;  and  Hannibal,  whose  latest  act 
before  he  set  out  on  his  great  expedition,  had  been  a  journey  to 
Gades,  to  sacrifice  to  the  god  of  his  fathers,  the  Hercules  of  Tyre, 
visited  the  lake  of  Avernus,  it  is  probable,  quite  as  much  in  sincere 
devotion  as  in  order  to  mask  his  design  of  attacking  Puteoli. 
Whilst  he  was  engaged  in  his  sacrifice,  five  noble  citizens  of  Tarentum 
came  to  him,  entreating  him  to  lead  his  army  into  their  country,  and 
engaging  that  the  city  should  be  surrendered  as  soon  as  his  standard 
should  be  visible  from  the  walls.  He  listened  to  their  invitation  gladly  ; 
they  offered  him  one  of  the  richest  cities  in  Italy,  with  an  excellent 
harbor,  equally  convenient  for  his  own  communication  with  Carthage, 
and  for  the  reception  of  the  fleet  of  his  Macedonian  allies,  whom  he 
was  constantly  expecting  to  welcome  in  Italy.  He  promised  that  he 
would  soon  be  at  Tarentum;  and  the  Tarentines  returned  home  t<» 
prepare  their  plans  against  his  arrival. 

With  this  prospect  before  him,  it  is  not  likely  that  he  would  en 
in  any  serious  enterprise  in  Campania.  Finding  that  he  could  not 
surprise  Puteoli,  he  ravaged  the  lands  of  the  Cuma'uns  and  Neapoli- 
tans. According  to  the  ever-suspicious  stories  of  the  exploits  of 
Marcellus,  he  made  a  third  attempt  upon  Nola,  and  was  a  third  time 
repulsed,  Marcellus  having  called  down  the  army  from  the  camp 
above  Suessula  to  assist  him  in  defending  the  town.  Then,  says  (lie 
writer  whom  Livy  copied,  despairing  of  taking  a  place  which  he  had 
so  often  attacked  in  vain,  he  marched  off  at  once  towards  Tarentum. 
The  truth  probably  is,  that,  finding  a  complete  consular  army  in 
Kola,  and  having  left  his  light  cavalry  and  some  of  the  flower  of  his 
infantry  in  the  camp  on  Tifata,  he  had  no  thought  of  attacking  i!if 
town,  but  returned  to  Tifata  to  take  the  troops  from  thence;  an  •) 


62  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL. 

having  done  this,  and  stayed  long  enougli  in  Campania  for  the  N  <m- 
ans  to  get  in  their  harvest  safely,  he  set  off  on  his  inarch  for  Ti./'ea- 
tum.  None  of  the  Roman  armies  attempted  to  stop  him,  or  so  much 
as  ventured  to  follow  him.  Fabius  and  Marcellus  took  advantage  of 
his  absence  to  besiege  Casilinum  with  their  united  forces  ;  Gracchus 
kept  wisely  out  of  his  reach,  whilst  he  swept  on  like  a  fiery  flood, 
laying  waste  all  before  him  from  Tifata  to  the  shores  of  the  Ionian 
Sea.  "lie  certainly  did  not  burn  or  plunder  the  lands  of  his  own 
allies,  either  in  Saiimium  or  Lucania  ;  but  his  march  lay  near  the 
Latin  colony  of  Venusia,  and  the  Lucanians  and  Samuites  in  his 
army  would  carefully  point  out  those  districts  which  belonged  to  their 
countrymen  of  the  Roman  party  ;  above  all,  those  ample  tracts 
which  the  Romans  hud  wrested  from  their  fathers,  and  which  were 
now  farmed  by  the  Roman  publicani,  or  occupied  by  Roman  citi- 
zens. Over  all  these,  no  doubl,  the  African  and  Numidian  horse 
poured  far  and  wide,  and  the  fire  and  sword  did  their  work. 

Yet,  after  all,  Hannibal  missed  his  prey.  Three  days  before  he 
reached  Tarentum,  a  Roman  officer  arrived  in  the  city,  whom  M. 
Valerius  Lsevinus  had  sent  in  haste  from  Brundisium  to  provide  for 
its  defence.  There  was  probably  a  small  Roman  garrison  in  the 
citadel  to  support  him  in  case  of  need  ;  but  the  aristocrat ical  party 
in  Tarentum  itself,  as  elsewhere,  was  attached  to  Rome  ;  and  with 
their  aid,  Livius,  the  officer  whom  Lsevinus  had  sent,  effectually 
repressed  the  opposite  party,  embodied  the  population  of  the  town, 
and  made  them  keep  guard  on  the  walls,  and  selecting  a  certain 
number  of  persons,  whose  fidelity  he  most  suspected,  sent  them  off  as 
hostages  to  Rome.  When  the  Carthaginian  army,  therefore,  ap- 
peared before  the  walls,  no  movement  was  made  in  their  favor,  and 
after  waiting  a  few  days  in  vain,  Hannibal  was  obliged  to  retreat. 
His  disappointment,  however,  did  not  make  him  lose  his  temper  ;  he 
spared  the  Tarentine  territory,  no  less  when  leaving  it  than  when  he 
first  entered  it,  in  the  hope  of  winning  the  city,  a  moderation  which 
doubtless  produced  its  effect,  and  confirmed  the  Tarentines  in  the 
belief  that  his  professions  of  friendship  had  been  made  in  honesty. 
But  lie  carried  off  all  the  corn  which  he  could  find  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Metapontum  and  Heraclea,  and  then  returned  to  Apulia,  and  fixed 
his  quarters  for  the  winter  at  Salapia.  His  cavalry  overran  all  the 
forest  country  above  Brui.disium,  and  drove  off  such  numbers  of 
horses  which  were  kept  there  to  pasture,  that  he  was  enabled  to  have 
four  thousand  broken  in  for  the  service  of  his  army. 

Meanwhile  the  Roman  consuls  in  Campania  were  availing  them- 
selves of  his  absence  to  press  the  siege  of  Casilinum.  The  place  was 
so  close  to  Capua,  that  it  was  feared  the  Capuans  would  attempt  to 
relieve  it  ;  Marcellus,  therefore,  with  a  second  consular  army,  ad- 
vanced from  Nola  to  cover  the  siege.  The  defence  was  very  obsti- 
nate, for  there  were  seven  hundred  of  Hannibal's  soldiers  in  .the 
place,  and  two  thousand  Capuans,  and  Fabius,  it  is  said,  was  dis- 


LIFE   OF   HAISTNTBAL.  63 

posed  to  raise  the  siege,  but  his  colleague  reminded  him  of  the  loss 
of  reputation,  if  so  small  a  town  were  allowed  to  baffle  two  consular 
armies,  and  the  siege  was  continued.  At  last  the  Capuans  offered  to 
Fabius  to  surrender  the  town,  on  condition  of  being  allowed  to  retire 
to  Capua  ;  and  it  appears  that  he  accepted  the  terms,  and  that  the 
garrison  had  begun  to  march  out,  when  IVJarcellus  broke  in  upon 
them,  seized  the  open  gate  from  which  they  were  issuing,  cut  them 
down  right  and  left,  and  forced  his  way  into-  the  city  Fabius,  it  ia 
said,  was  able  to  keep  his  faith  to  no  more  than  fifty  of  the  garrison, 
who  had  reached  his  quarters  before  Marcellus  arrived,  and  whom 
he  sent  unharmed  to  Capua.  The  rest  of  the  Capuans  and  of  Han- 
nibal's soldiers  were  sent  prisoners  to  Rome,  and  the  inhabitants  wer« 
divided  amongst  the  neighboring  cities,  to  be  kept  in  custody  till  the 
senate  should  determine  their  fate. 

After  this  scandalous  act  of  treachery,  Marcellus  returned  to  Nola, 
and  there  remained  inactive,  being  confined,  it  was  said,  by  illin'^, 
till  the  senate,  before  the  end  of  the  summer,  sent  him  over  to  Sicily 
to  meet  the  danger  that  was  gathering  there.  Fabius  advanced  into 
Samnium.  combining  his  operations,  it  seems,  with  his  son,  who 
commanded  a  praetorian  army  in  Apulia,  and  with  Gracchus,  who 
was  in  Lucania,  and  whose  army  formed  the  link  between  the  praetor 
in  Apulia  and  his  father  in  Samnium.  These  three  armies  were  so 
formidable,  that  Hauuo,  the  Carthaginian  commander  in  Lucania, 
could  not  maintain  his  ground,  but  fell  back  towards  Bruttium,  leav- 
ing his  allies  to  their  own  inadequate  means  of  defence.  Accord- 
ingly the  Komans  ravaged  the  country  far  and  wide,  and  took  so 
many  towns  that  they  boasted  of  having  killed  or  captured  25,000  of 
the  enemy.  After  these  expeditions,  Fabius,  it  seems,  led  back  his 
army  to  winter  quarters  in  the  camp  above  Suessula  ;  Gracchus  re- 
mained in  Lucania,  add  Fabius,  the  prtetor,  wintered  at  Luceria. 

I  have  endeavored  to  follow  the  operations  of  the  main  armies  on 
both  sides  throughout  the  campaign,  without  noticing  those  of 
Gracchus  and  llanno  in  Lucania.  But  the  most  important  action  of 
the  year,  if  we  believe  the  Roman  accounts,  was  the  victory  obtained 
by  Gracchus,  near  Beneveutum,  when  he  moved  thither  out  of 
Apulia  to  co-operate  with  the  consuls  in  Campania,  and  Ilaniio  was 
ordered  by  Hannibal  to  march  to  the  same  point  out  of  Lucania. 
Hanno,  it  is  said,  had  about  17,000  foot,  mostly  Bruttians  and 
Lucanians,  and  1200  Numidian  and  Moorish  horse  ;  and  Gracchus, 
encountering  him  near  Beneventum,  defeated  him,  with  the  loss  of 
almost  all  his  infantry  ;  he  himself  and  his  cavalry  being  the  only 
part  of  the  army  that  escaped.  The  numbers,  as  usual,  are  probably 
exaggerated  immensely  ;  but  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  Gracchus 
gained  an  important  Victory  ;  and  it  was  rendered  famous  by  his 
giving  liberty  to  the  volunteer  slaves,  by  whose  valor  it  had  mainly 
been  won.  Some  of  these  had  behaved  ill  in  the  action,  and  were 
Afraid  that  they  should  be  punished,  rather  than  rewarded  ;  but 


64  LIFE    OF   HANNIBAL. 

Gracchus  first  set  them  all  free  without  distinction,  and  then,  sending 
for  those  who  had  misbehaved,  made  them  severally  swear  that  they 
would  eat  and  drink  standing,  so  long  as  their  military  service  should 
last,  In-  way  of  penance  for  their  fault.  Such  a  sentence,  so  different 
from  the  usual  merciless  severity  of  the  Roman  discipline,  added  to 
the  general  joy  of  the  army  ;  the  soldiers  marched  hack  to  Beneven- 
tum  in  triumph  ;  and  the  people  poured  out  to  meet  them,  and  en- 
treated Gracchus  that  they  might  invite  them  all  to  a  public  enter- 
tainment. Tables  were  set  out  in  the  streets  ;  and  the  freed  slaves 
attracted  every  one's  notice  by  their  white  caps,  the  well-known  sign 
of  their  enfranchisement,  and  by  the  strange  sight  of  those  who,  in 
fulfilment  of  their  penance,  ate  standing,  and  waited  upon  theii 
worthier  comrades.  The  Avholc  scene  delighted  the  generous  and 
kind  natuie  of  Gracchus  :  to  set  free  the  slave,  and  to  relieve  the 
poor,  appear  to  have  been  hereditary  virtues  in  his  family  :  to  him, 
no  less  than  to  his  unfortunate  descendants,  beneficence  seemed  the 
highest  glory.  He  caused  a  picture  to  be  painted,  not  of  his  victory 
over  Hanno,  but  of  the  feasting  of  the  enfranchised  slaves  in  the 
streets  of  Beneventum,  and  placed  it  in  the  temple  of  Liberty  on  the 
Aventine,  which  his  father  had  built  and  dedicated. 

The  battle  of  Beneventum  obliged  Hanno  to  fall  back  into 
Lucania,  and  perhaps  as  far  as  the  confines  of  Bruttium.  But  he 
soon  recruited  his  army,  the  Lucanians  and  Bruttians,  as  well  as  the 
Picentines,  who  lived  on  the  shores  of  the  Gulf  of  Salerno,  being  very 
zealous  in  the  cause  ;  and  ere  Ions:  he  revenged  his  defeat  by  a  signal 
victory  over  an  army  of  Lucanians  of  the  Roman  party,  whom 
Gracchus  had  ei  listed  to  act  as  an  irregular  force  against  their  coun- 
trymen of  the  opposite  faction.  Still  Hanno  was  not  tempted  to  ritk 
another  battle  with  a  Roman  consular  army  ;  and  when  Gracchus 
advanced  from  Beneventum  into  Lucania,  he  retired  again  into 
Bruttium. 

There  seems  to  have  been  DO  further  dispute  with  regard  to  the 
appointment  of  consols.  Fabius  and  the  leading  members  of  the 
senate  appear  to  have  nominated  such  men  as  they  thought  most 
equal  to  the  emergency  ;  and  no  other  candidates  came  forward. 
Fabius  again  held  the  comitia  ;  and  his  sou,  Q.  Fabius,  who  was 
praetor  at  the  time,  was  elected  consul  together  with  Gracchus.  The 
prae  ors  were  entirely  changed.  Q.  Fiilvius  was  succeeded  in  the 
city  prsetorship  by  M.  Atilius  Regulus,  who  .had  just  resigned  the 
censorship,  and  who  had  already  been  twice  consul  ;  the  other  three 
praetors  were  M.  ^Emilius  Lepidus,  On.  Fulvius  Centumalus,  and  P. 
Sempronius  Tuditanus.  The  two  former  were  men  of  noble  families  : 
Sempronius  appears  to  have  owed  his  appointment  to  his  resolute 
conduct  at  Cannae,  when  he  cut  his  way  from  the  camp  through  the 
surrounding  enemies,  and  escaped  in  safety  to  Canusium. 

Thus  another  year  passed  over  ;  and  although  the  state  of  affairs 
was  still  dark,  the  tide  seemed  to  be  on  the  turn.  Hannibal  had 


LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL.  <;.'> 

gained  no  new  victory  ;  Tarentum  had  been  saved  from  his  hands  ; 
and  Casilinum  had  been  wrested  from  him. 

The  forces  to  be  employed  in  Italy  in  the  approaching  campaign 
were  to  consist  of  nine  legions,  three  fewer  than  in  the  year  before. 
The  consuls  were  each  to  have  their  two  legions,  Gracchus  So 
Lucania,  and  Fabius  in  Apulia.  M.  ^Emilius  was  to  command  two 
legions  also  in  Apulia,  having  his  headquarters  at  Luceria  ;  Cu. 
Fulvius  with  two  more  was  to  occupy  the  camp  above  Suessula  ;  and 
Varro  was  to  remain  with  his  one  legion  in  Picenum.  Two  consular 
armies  of  two  legions  each  were  required  in  Sicily  ;  one  commanded 
by  Marcellus  as  proconsul,  the  other  by  P.  Lentulus  as  propraetor  : 
two  legions  were  employed  in  Cisalpine  Gaul  under  P.  Semprouius, 
ami  two  in  Sardinia  under  their  old  commander,  Q.  Mucius.  M. 
Valerius  Lajvinus  retained  his  single  legion  and  his  fleet,  to  act 
against  Philip  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  Ionian  sea  ;  and  P.  Scipio 
and  his  brother  were  still  continued  in  their  command  in  Spain. 

Hannibal  passed  the  winter  at  Salapia,  where,  the  Romans  said, 
was  a  lady  whom  he  loved,  and  who  became  famous  from  her  influ- 
ence over  him.  Whether  his  passion  for  her  made  him  careless  of 
everything  else,  or  whether  he  was  really  taken  by  surprise,  we 
know  not  ;  but  the  neighboring  town  of  Arpi  was  attacked  by  the 
consul  Fabius,  and  given  up  to  him  by  the  inhabitants  ;  and  some 
Spaniards,  who  formed  part  of  the  garrison,  entered  into  the  Roman 
service.  Gracchus  obtained  some  slight  successes  in  Lucania  ;  and 
some  of  the  Bruttian  towns  returned  to  their  old  alliance  with  Rome  ; 
but  a  Roman  contractor,  T.  Pbinponius  Veientauus,  who  had  been 
empowered  by  the  government  to  raise  soldiers  in  Bruttium,  and  to 
employ  them  in  plundering  the  enemies'  lands,  was  rash  enough  to 
venture  a  regular  action  with  Hanno,  in  which  he  was  defeated  and 
made  prisoner.  This  disaster  checked  the  reaction  in  Bruttium  for 
the  present. 

Meanwhile  Hannibal's  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  Tarentum  ;  and 
thither  he  marched  again  as  soon  as  he  took  the  field,  leaving  Fabius 
behind  him  in  Apulia.  He  passed  the  whole  summer  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Tarentum,  and  reduced  several  small  towns  in  the  sur- 
rounding country  :  but  his  friends  in  Tarentum  made  no  movement  ; 
for  they  dared  not  compromise  the  safety  of  their  countrymen  and 
relations,  who  had  been  carried  off  as  hostages  to  Rome.  Accord- 
ingly the  season  wore  away  unmarked  by  any  memorable  action. 
Hannibal  still  lingered  in  the  country  of  the  Sallentines,  unwilling  to 
give  up  all  hope  of  winning  the  prize  he  had  so  long  sought  ;  and  to 
lull  the  suspicions  of  the  Romans,  he  gave  out  that  he  was  confined 
to  his  camp  by  illness,  and  that  this  had  prevented  his  army  from  re- 
turning to  its  usual  winter  quarters  in  Apulia. 

Matters  were  in  this  state  when  letters  arrived  at  Tarentum  that 
the  hostages,  for  whose  safety  their  friends  ha:l  been  so  anxious,  had 
been  all  cruelly  put  to  death  at  Rome  for  having  attempted  to  escapa 


HO  LIFE    OF   HAXXIBAL. 

from  their  captivity.  Released  in  so  shocking  a  manner  from  their 
former  hesitation,  and  burning  to  revenge  the  blood  of  their  friends, 
Hannibal's  partisans  no  longer  delayed.  They  communicated 
secretly  with  him,  arranged  the  details  of  their  attempt,  and  signed  a 
treaty  of  alliance,  by  which  he  bound  himself  to  respect  the  indepen- 
dence and  liberty  of  the  Tarentines,  and  only  stipulated  for  the  plun- 
der of  such  houses  as  were  occupied  by  Roman  citizens.  Two  young 
men,  Philemenus  and  Nicon,  were  the  leaders  of  the  enterprise. 
Philemenus,  under  the  pretence  of  hunting,  had  persuaded  the  officer 
at  one  of  the  gates  to  allow  him  to  pass  in  and  out  of  the  town  by 
night  without  interruption.  He  was  known  to  be  devoted  to  his 
sport ;  he  scarcely  ever  returned  without  having  caught  or  killed 
some  game  or  other  ;  and  by  liberally  giving  away  what  he  had 
caught,  he  won  the  favor  and  confidence,  not  only  of  the  officer  of 
the  gate,  but  also  of  the  Roman  governor  himself,  M.  Livius  Maca- 
tus,  a  relation  of  M.  Livius  Salinator,  who,  afterwards  defeated  Has- 
drubal,  but  a  man  too  indolent  and  fond  of  good  cheer  to  be  the  gov- 
ernor of  a  town  threatened  by  Hannibal.  So  little  did  Livius  suspect 
any  danger,  that  on  the  very  day  which  the  conspirators  had  fixed 
for  their  attempt,  and  when  Hannibal  with  ten  thousand  men  was 
advancing  upon  the  town,  he  had  invited  a  large  party  to  meet  him 
at  the  Temple  of  the  Muses  near  the  market-place,  ami  was  engaged 
from  an  early  hour  in  festivity. 

The  city  of  Tarentum  formed  a  triangle,  two  sides  of  which  were 
washed  by  the  water;  the  outer,  or  ^western  side,  by  the  Mediter- 
ranean ;  the  inner,  or  northeastern  side,  by  that  remarkable  land- 
locked basin,  now  called  the  Little  Sea,  which  has  a  mouth  narrower 
than  the  entrance  into  the  Norwegian  Fiords,  but  runs  deep  into  the 
land,  and  spreads  out  into  a  wide  surface  of  the  calmest  water, 
scarcely  ruffled  by  the  hardest  gales.  Exactly  at  the  mouth  of  this 
basin  was  a  little  rocky  knoll,  forming  Hie  apex  of  the  triangle  of  tlie 
city,  and  occupied  by  the  citadel :  the,  city  itself  stood  on  low  and 
mostly  level  ground  ;  and  its  south-eastern  wall,  the  base  of  the  tri- 
angle, stretched  across  from  the  Little  Sea  to  the  Mediterranean. 
Thus  the  citadel  commanded  the  entrance  into  the  basin,  which  was 
the  port  of  the  Tarentines  ;  and  it  was  garrisoned  by  the  Romans, 
although  many  of  the  officers  and  soldiers  were  allowed  to  lodge  in 
the  city.  All  attempts  upon  the  town  by  land  must  be  made  then 
against  the  south-eastern  side,  which  was  separated  from  the  citadel 
by  the  whole  length  of  the  city  :  and  there  was  another  circumstance 
which  was  likely  to  favor  a  surprise  ;  for  the  Tarentines,  following 
the  direction  of  an  oracle,  as  they  said,  buried  their  dead  within  the 
city  walls  ;  and  the  street  of  the  tombs  was  interposed  between  the 
gates  and  the  inhabited  parts  of  the  town.  This  the  conspirators 
turned  to  their  own  purposes:  in  this  lonely  quaiter  two^of  their 
number,  Nicon  and  Tragiscus,  were  waiting  for  Hannibal's  anival 
without  the  gates.  As  soon  as  they  perceived  the  signal  w4iic.li  \s  :is 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  67 

to  announce  hig  presence,  they,  wuh  a  party  of  their  friends,  were  to 
surprise  the  gates  from  within,  and  put  the  guards  to  the  sword  ; 
while  others  had  been  left  in  the  city  to  keep  watch  near  the  museum, 
and  prevent  auy  communication  from  being  made  to  the  Roman 
governor. 

The  evening  wore  away  ;  the  governor's  party  broke  up  ;  and  his 
friends  attended  him  to  his  house.  On  their  way  home  they  met 
tome  of , the  conspirators,  who,  to  lull  all  suspicion,  began  to  jest  with 
them,  as  though  themselves  going  home  from  a  revel,  and  joining  the 
party  amidst  riotous  shouts  and  loud  laughter,  accompanied  the 
governor  to  his  own  door.  He  went  to  rest  in  joyous  and  careless- 
mood  ;  his  friends  were  all  gone  to  their  quarters  ;  the  noise  «f  rev- 
ellers returning  from  their  festivities  died  away  through  the  city  ;. 
and  when  midnight  was  come,  the  conspirators  alone  were  abroad. 
They  now  divided  into  three  parties  :  one  was  posted  near  the  gov- 
ernor's house,  a  second  secured  the  approaches  to  the  market-place, 
and  the  third  hastened  to  the  quarter  of  the  tombs,  to  watcli  for 
Hannibal's  signal. 

They  did  not  watch  long  in  vain  ;  a  fire  in  a  particular  spot  with- 
out the  walls  assured  them  that  Hannibal  was  at  hand.  They  lit  a 
fire  in  answer  ;  and  presently,  as  had  been  agreed  upon,  the  rire  with- 
out the  walls  disappeared.  Then  the  conspirators  rushed  to  the  gate 
of  the  city,  surprised  it  with  ease,  put  the  guards  to  the  sword,  and 
began  to  hew  asunder  the  bar  by  which  the  gates  were  fastened.  No 
sooner  was  it  forced,  and  the  gates  opened,  than  Hannibal's  soldiers 
were  seen  ready  to  enter  ;  so  exactly  had  the  time  of  the  operations 
been  calculated.  The  cavalry  were  left  without  the  walls  as  a  re- 
serve ;  but  the  infantry,  marching  in  regular  column,  advanced 
through  the  quarter  of  the  tombs  to  the  inhabited  part  of  the  city. 

Meantime  Phiiemenus  with  a  thousand  Africans  had  been  sent  to 
secure  another  gate  by  stratagem.  The  guards  were  accustomed  to 
let  him  in  at  all  hours,  Avhenever  he  returned  from  his  hunting  ex- 
peditions ;  and  now,  when  they  heard  his  usual  whistle,  one  of  them 
went  to  the  gate  to  admit  him.  Philemenus  called  to  the  guard  from 
without  to  open  the  wicket  quickly  ;  for  that  he  and  his  friends  had 
killed  a  huge  wild  boar,  and  could  scarcely  bear  the  weight  any 
longer.  The  guard,  accustomed  to  have  a  share  in  the  spoil,  opened 
the  wicket  ;  and  Philemenus,  and  three  other  conspirators,  disguised 
as  countrymen,  stepped  in,  carrying  the  boar  between  them.  They 
instantly  killed  the  poor  guard,  as  he  was  admiring  and  feeling  their 
prize  ;  and  then  let  in  about  thirty  Africans,  who  were  following 
close  behind  With  this  force  they  mastered  the  gate-house  and 
towers,  killed  all  the  guards,  and  hewed  asunder  the  bars  of  the  main 
gates  to  admit  the  whole  column  of  Africans,  who  marched  in  on  this 
side  also  in  regular  order,  and  advanced  towards  the  market-place. 

No  sooner  had  both  Hannibal's  columns  reached  their  destination, 
and  as  it  seems  without  exciting  any  genenil  alarm,  than  he  detached 

A.B  -11 


68  LIFE    OF   HANNIBAL. 

three  bodies  of  Gaulish  soldiers  to  occupy  the  principal  streets  which 
led  to  the  market-place.  The  officers  in  command  of  these  troopa 
had  orders  to  kill  every  Roman  who  fell  in  their  waj-  ;  hut  some 
Tarentine  conspirators  were  sent  with  each  party  to  warn  their  coun- 
trymen to  go  home  and  remain  quiet,  assuring  them  th:it  no  mischief 
was  intended  to  them.  The  toils  being  thus  spread,  the  prey  was 
now  to  be  enticed  into  them.  Philemenus  and  his  friends  had  pro- 
vided some  Roman  trumpets  ;  and  these  were  loudly  blo\vn,  sound- 
'ing  the  well-known  call  to  arms  to  the  Roman  soldier.  Roused  at  this 
summons,  the  Romans  quartered  about  the  town  armed  themselves 
in  haste,  and  poured  into  the  streets  to  make  their  way  to  the  citadel. 
Butthey  fell  in  scattered  parties  into  the  midst  of  Hannibal's  Gauls, 
and  were  cut  down  one  after  another.  The  governor  alone  had  been 
more  fortunate  :  the  alarm  had  reached  him  in  time  ;  and  being  in 
no  condition  to  offer  any  resistance — for  he  felt,  says  Polybius,  that 
the  fumes  of  wine  were  still  overpowering  him — he  hastened  to  the 
harbor,  and  .getting  on  board  a  boat,  was  carried  safe  to  the  citadel. 

Day  at  last  dawned,  but  did  not  quite  clear  up  the  mystery  of  the 
night's  alarm  to  the  mass  of  the  inhabitants  of  Tarentum.  They 
were  safe  in  their  houses,  unmassacred,  unplundered  ;  the  only  blast 
of  war  had  been  blown  by  a  Roman  trumpet  ;  yet  Roman  soldiers 
were  lying  dead  in  the  streets,  and  Gauls  were  spoiling  their  bodies. 
Suspense  at  length  was  ended  by  the  voice  of  the  public  crier  .sum- 
moning the  citizens  of  Tarenturn,  in  Hannibal's  naine,  to  appear 
without  their  arms  in  the  market-place  ;  and  by  repeated  shouts  of 
"  Liberty  !  Liberty  !''  uttered  by  some  of  their  own  countrymen, 
who  ran  round  the  town  calling  the  Carthaginians  their  deliverers. 
The  firm  partisans  of  Rome  made  haste  to  escape  into  the  citadel, 
while  the  multitude  crowded  to  the  market-place.  They  found  it 
regularly  occupied  by  Carthaginian  troops  ;  and  the  great  general,  of 
whom  they  had  heard  so  much,  was  preparing  to  address  them.  He 
spoke  to  them,  in  Greek  apparently,  declaring  as  usual  that  he  had 
come  to  free  the  inhabitants  of  Italy  from  the  dominion  of  Rome. 
"'  The  Tarentines  therefore  had  nothing  to  fear  ;  they  should  go  home 
and  write  each  over  his  door,  a  Tarentine's  7iouse  ;  these  words  would 
be  a  sufficient  security  ;  no  door  so  marked  should  be  violated.  But 
the  mark  must  not  be  set  falsely  upon  any  Roman's  quarters  ;  a  Taren- 
tine  guilty  of  such  treason  would  be  put  to  death  as  an  enemy  ;  for 
all  Roman  property  was  the  lawful  prize  of  the  soldiers. "  Accord- 
ingly, all  houses  where  Romans  had  been  quartered  were  given  up 
to  be  plundered  ;  and  the  Carthaginian  soldiers  gained  a  harvest,  says 
Polybius,  which  fully  answered  "their  hopes.  This  can  only  be  ex- 
plained by  supposing  that  the  Romans  were  quartered  generally  in 
the  houses  of  the  wealthier  Tarentines,  who  were  attached  to' the 
Roman  alliance  ;  and  that  I  he  plunder  was  not  the  scanty  baggage  of 
the  legionary  soldiers,  but  the  costly  furniture  of  the  richest  citizens 
in  the  greatest  city  of  southern  Italy. 


LIFE    OF    HANNIBAL.  69 

Thus  Tan-mum  was  won  ;  but  the  citadel  oil  its  rocky  knoll  wa* 
still  held  by  the  Romans  ;  and  its  position  at  once  threatened  the 
town,  and  shut  up  the  Tarentine  fleet  useless  in  the  harbor.  Hanni- 
bal proceeded  to  sink  a  ditch,  and  throw  up  a  wall  along  the  side  of 
the  town  towards  the  citadel,  in  order  to  repress  the  sallies  of  the  gar- 
rison. While  engaged  in  these  works  he  purposely  tempted  the  Ro- 
mans to  a  sally,  and  having  lured  them  on  to  some  distance  from 
their  cover,  turned  fiercely  upon  them,  and  drove  them  back  witlj 
such  slaughter  that  their  effective  strength  was  greatly  reduced.  He 
then  hoped  to  take  the  citadel  ;  but  the  garrison  was  reinforced  by 
sea  from  Metapontum,  the, Romans  withdrawing  their  troops  from 
thence  for  this  more  important  service  ;  and  a  successful  night  sally 
destroyed  the  besiegers'  works,  and  obliged  them  to  trust  to  a  block- 
ade. But  as  this  was  hopeless,  whilst  the  Romans  were  masters  of 
the  sea,  Hannibal  instructed  the  Tarentiu.es  to  drag  their  ships  over- 
land, through  the  streets  of  the  city,  from  the  harbor  to  the  outer  sea  ; 
and  this  being  effected  without  difficulty,  as  the  ground  was  quite 
level,  the  Tarentine  fleet  became  at  once  effective,  and  the  sea  com- 
munications of  the  enemy  were  cut  off.  Having  thus,  as  he  hoped, 
enabled  the  Tarentines  to  deal  by  themselves  with  the  Roman  garri- 
son, he  left  a  small  force  in  the  town,  and  returned  with  the  mass  of 
his  troops  to  his  winter  quarters  in  the  country  of  the  Sallentines,  or 
on  the  edge  of  Apulia. 

Hannibal  was  far  away  in  the  farthest  corner  of  Italy  ;  and  as  long 
as  the  citadel  of  Tarentum  held  out,  he  would  be  unwilling  to  move 
towards  Campania.  Even  if  he  should  move,  four  armies  were  ready 
to  oppose  him  ;  those  of  the  two  consuls,  of  the  consul's  brother,  Cn. 
Fulvius,  who  was  praetor  in  Apulia,  aud  of  another  praetor,  C.  Clau- 
dius Nero,  who  commanded  two  legions  in  the  camp  above  Suessula. 
Besides  this  mass  of  forces,  Ti.  Gracchus,  the  consul  of  the  preceding 
year,  still  retained  his  army  as  proconsul  in  Lucania,  ami  might  be 
supposed  capable  of  keeping  Hanuo  and  the  army  of  Bruttium  in 
check. 

It  was  late  in  the  spring  before  the  consuls  took  the  field.  One  of 
them  succeeded  to  the  army  of  the  late  consul,  Fabius  ;  the  other 
took  the  two  legions  with  which  Cn.  Fulvius  Ceutumulas  ha i  held  th* 
camp  above  Suessula.  These  armies  marching,  the  one  from  Apulia, 
the  other  from  Campania,  met  at  Bovianum :  there,  at  the  back  of 
the  Matese,  in  the  country  of  the  Pentrian  Samnites,  the  faithful  allies 
of  Rome,  the  consuls  were  making  preparations  for  the  siege  of  Ca 
pua,  and  perhaps  were  at  the  same  time  watching  the  state  of  affairs 
,in  the  south,  and  the  movements  of  Hannibal.  The  Campanians  sus- 
pected that  mischief  was  coming  upon  them,  and  sent  a  deputation 
to  Hannibal  praying  him  to  aid  them.  If  they  were  to  stand  a  siege, 
it  was  important  that  the  city  should  be  well  supplied  with  provi- 
sions ;  and  their  own  harvest  had  been  so  insufficient,  owing  to  thf 
devastation  caused  by  the  war,  that  they  had  scarcely  enough  fo) 


70  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

their  present  consumption.  Hannibal  would  therefore  be  pleased  to 
order  that  supplies  should  be  sent  to  them  from  the  country  of  his 
Samnite  and  Lucanian  allies,  before  their  communications  were  cut 
off  by  the  presence  of  the  Roman  armies. 

Hannibal  was  still  near  Tarentum,  whether  hoping  to  win  the  town 
or  the  citadel,  the  doubtful  chronology  of  this  period  will  not  allow 
Us  to  decide.  He  ordered  Hanno,  w'ith  the  army  of  Brutiium,  to 
move  forward  into  Samnium  ;  a  most  delicate  operation,  if  the  two 
consuls  were  with  their  armies  at  Bovianum,  and  Gracchus  in  Luca- 
nia  itself,  in  the  very  line  of  Hanno's  march,  and  if  C.  Nero  with 
two  legions  more  was  lying  in  the  camp  above  Suessula.  But  the 
army  from  Suessula  had  been  given  to  one  of  the  consuls  :  and  the 
legions  which  were  to  take  its  place  were  to  be  marched  from  the 
coast  of  Picenum,  and  perhaps  had  hardly  reached  their  destination. 
The  Lucanians  themselves  seem  to  have  found  sufficient  employment 
for  Gracchus  ;  and  Hanno  moved  with  a  mpidity  which  friends  and 
enemies  were  alike  unprepared  for.  He  arrived  safely  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Beneventum,  encamped  his  army  in  a  strong  position 
about  three  miles  from  the  town,  and  dispatched  word  to  the  Capu- 
ans  that  they  should  instantly  send  off  every  carriage  and  beast  of 
burden  in  their  city,  to  carry  home  the  corn  which  he  was  going  to 
provide  for  them.  The  towns  of  the  Claudine  Samnitcs  emptied 
their  magazines  for  the  purpose,  and  forwarded  all  their  corn  to 
Hanno's  camp.  Thus  far  all  prospered  ;  but  the  negligence  of  the 
Capuans  ruined  everything  ;  they  had  not  carriages  enough  ready  ; 
and  Hanno  was  obliged  to  wait  in  his  perilous  situation,  where  every 
hour's  delay  was  exposing  him  to  destruction.  Beneveutum  was  a 
Latin  colony — in  other  words,  a  strong  Roman  garrison,  watching  all 
his  proceedings  :  from  thence  information  was  sent  to  the  consuls  at 
Bovianum  :  and  Fulvius  with  his  army  instantly  set  out,  and  entered 
Beneventum  by  night.  There  he  found  that  the  Capuans,  with  their 
means  of  transport,  were  at  length  arrived  ;  and  all  disposable  hands 
had  been  pressed  into  the  service  ;  that  Hanno's  camp  was  crowded 
with  cattle  and  carriages,  and  a  mixed  multitude  of  unarmed  men, 
and  even  of  women  and  children  ;  and  that  a  vigorous  blow  might 
win  it  with  all  its  spoil  :  the  indefatigable  general  was  absent,  scour- 
ing the  country  for  additional  supplies  of  corn.  Fulvius  sallied  from 
Beneventum  a  little  before  daybreak,  and  led  his  soldiers  to  assault 
Hanno's  position.  Under  all  disadvantages  of  surprise  and  disorder, 
the  Carthaginians  resisted  so  vigorously  that  Fulvius  was  on  the 
point  of  calling  off  his  men,  when  a  brave  Pelignian  officer  threw  the 
standard  of  his  cohort  over  the  enemy's  wall,  and  desperately  climbed 
the  rampart  and  scaled  the  wall  to  recover  it.  His  cohort  rushed  after 
him  :  and  a  Roman  centurion  then  set  the  same  example,  which  was 
followed  with  ecj'jal  alacrity.  Then  the  Romans  broke  into  the  camp 
on  every  side,  even  the  wounded  men  strup-giin^  on  with  the  mass, 
that  they  might  die  within  the  enemy's  ramparts.  The  slaughter 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  7. 

was  great,  and  the  prisoners  many  ;  but,  above  all,  the  whole  of  tin- 
corn  which  Hanno  had  collected  for  the  relief  of  Capua  was  bst,  and 
the  object  of  his  expedition  totally  frustrated.  He  himself,  hearing  of 
the  wreck  of  his  army,  retreated  with  speed  into  Bruttium. 

Again  the  Capuans  sent  to  Hannibal  requesting  him  to  aid  them 
ere  it  was  too  late.  Their  negligence  had  just  cost  him  an  army,  and 
had  frustrated  all  his  plans  for  their  relief  :  but  with  unmoved  tem- 
per he  assured  them  that  he  would  not  forget  them,  and  sent  back 
2000  of  his  invincible  cavalry  with  the  deputation,  to  protect  their 
lands  from  the  enemy's  ravages.  It  was  important  to  him  not  to 
leave  the  south  of  Italy  till  the  very  last  moment  ;  for  since  he  had 
taken  Tarentum,  the  neighboring  Greek  cities  of  Metapontum,  Her- 
aclea,  and  Thurii,  had  joined  him  ;  and  as  he  had  before  won  Croton 
and  Locri,  he  was  now  master  of  the  whole  coast  from  the  Straits  of 
Messana  to  the  mouth  of  the  Adriatic,  with  the  exception  of  Rhe- 
gium  and  the  citadel  of  Tarentum.  Into  the  latter  the  Romans  had 
lately  thrown  supplies  of  provisions  ;  and  the  gairison  was  so  strong 
that  Hannibal  was  unwilling  to  march  into  Campania  whilst  such  a 
powerful  force  of  the  enemy  was  left  behind  in  so  favorable  a 
position. 

The  consuls,  meanwhile,  not  content  with  their  own  two  armies, 
and  with  the  two  legions  expected,  if  not  yet  arrived,  in  the  camp 
above  Sucssula,  sent  to  Gracchus  in  Lucania,  desiring  him  to  bring  up 
his  cavalry  and  light  troops  to  Beneventum,  to  strengthen  them  in 
that  kind  of  force  in  which  they  fully  felt  their  inferiority.  But  be- 
fore he  could  leave  his  own  province,  he  was  drawn  into  an  ambus- 
cade by  the  treachery  of  a  Lucanian  in  the  Roman  interest,  and  per- 
ished. His  quaestor,  Cn.  Cornelius,  marched  with  his  cavalry  towards 
Beneventum,  according  to  tho  consuls'  orders  ;  but  the  infantry  .con- 
sisting of  the  slaves  whom  he  had  enfranchised,  thought  lhat  their  ser- 
vices were  ended  by  the  death  of  their  deliverer,  and  immediately  dis- 
persed to  their  homes.  Thus  Lucania  was  left  without  cither  a  Ro- 
man army  or  general  ;  but  M.  Centenius,  an  old  centurion,  distin- 
guished for  his  strength  and  courage,  undertook  the  command  there, 
if  the  senate  would  intrust  him  with  a  force  equal  to  a  single  legion. 
Perhaps,  likeT.  Pomponius  Veieutanus,  he  was  connected  with  some 
of  the  contractors  and  moneyed  men,  and  owed  his  appointment  as 
much  to  their  interest  as  to  his  own  reputation.  But  lie  was  a  brave 
and  popular  soldier  ;  and  so  many  volunteers  joined  him  on  his 
march,  hoping  to  be  enriched  by  the  plunder  of  Lucania,  that  he  ar- 
rived there  with  a  force,  it  is  said,  amounting  to  near  sixteen  thousand 
men.  His  confidence  and  that  of  his  followers  was  doomed  to  bo 
wofully  disappointed. 

The  consuls  knew  that  Hannibal  was  far  away  ;  and  they  did  not 
know  that  any  of  his  cavalry  were  in  Capua.  They  issued  boldly 
therefore  from  the  Caudine  Forks  on  the  great  Campa"i;ui  plain,  and 
Scattered  their  forces  far  and  wide  to  destroy  the  st'll  green  corn. 


72  LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL. 

To  their  astonishment  the  gates  of  Capua  were  thrown  open  ;  and 
with  the  Campanian  infantry  they  recognized  the  dreaded  cavalry  of 
Hannibal.  In  a  moment  their  foragers  were  driven  in  ;  and  as  they 
hastily  formed  their  legions  in  order  of  battle  to  cover  them,  the 
horsemen  broke  upon  them  like  a  whirlwind,  and  drove  them  with 
great  loss  and  confusion  to  their  camp.  This  sharp  lesson  taught 
them  caution  ;  but  their  numbers  were  overwhelming  ;  and  their 
two  armies,  encamped  before  Capua,  cut  off  the  communications  of 
the  city,  and  had  the  harvest  of  the  whole  country  in  their  power. 

But  ere  many  days  had  elapsed,  an  unwelcome  sight  was  seen  on 
the  summit  of  Tifata  ;  Hannibal  was  there  once  more  with  his  army. 
He  descended  into  Capua  ;  two  days  afterwards  he  marched  out  to 
battle  ;  again  his  invincible  Numidians  struck  terror  into  the  Roman 
line,  when  the  sudden  arrival  of  Cn.  Cornelius  with  the  cavalry  of 
Gracchus'  army  broke  off  tlte  action  ;  and  neither  side,  it  is  said, 
knowing  what  this  new  force  might  be,  both  as  if  by  common  con- 
sent retreated.  How  Hannibal  so  outstripped  Cornelius  as  to  arrive 
from  Tarentum  on  the  scene  of  action  two  or  three  days  before  him, 
who  was  coming  from  Lucania,  we  are  not  told,  and  can  only  con- 
jecture. But  the  arrival  of  this  reinforcement,  though  it  had  saved 
the  consuls  from  defeat,  did  not  embolden  them  to  hold  their  ground  : 
they  left  their  camps  as  soon  as  night  came  on  ;  Fulvius  fell  down 
upon  the  coast,  near  Cuma?  ;  Appius  Claudius  retreated  in  the  di- 
rection of  Lucania. 

Pew  passages  in  history  can  offer  a  parallel  to  Hannibal's  cam- 
paigns ;  but  this  confident  gathering  of  the  enemies'  overflowing 
numbers  round  the  city  of  his  nearest  allies,  his  sudden  march,  the 
unlooked-for  appearance  of  his  dreaded  veterans,  and  the  instant  scat- 
tering of  the  besieging  armies  before  him,  remind  us  of  the  deliver- 
ance of  Dresden  in  1813,  when  Napoleon  broke  in  upon  the  allies' 
confident  expectations  of  victory,  and  drove  them  away  in  signal  de- 
feat. And,  like  the  allies  in  that  great  campaign,  the  Roman  gen- 
erals knew  their  own  strength  ;  and  though  yielding  to  the  shock  of 
their  adversary's  surpassing  energy  and  genius,  they  did  not  allow 
themselves  to  be  scared  from  their  purpose,  but  began  again  steadily 
to  draw  the  toils  which  he  had  once  broke  through.  Great  was  the 
joy  in  Capua,  when  the  people  rose  in  the  morning  and  saw  the  Ro- 
man camps  abandoned  :  there  needs  no  witness  to  tell  us  with  what 
sincere  and  deep  admiration  they  followed  and  gazed  on  their  de. 
liverer  ;  how  confident  they  felt  that,  with  him  for  a  shield,  no  harm 
could  roach  them.  But  almost  within  sight  and  hearing  of  their  joy, 
the  stern  old  Fulvius  was  crouching  as  it  were  in  his  thicket,  watch- 
ing the  moment  for  a  second  spring  upon  his  prey  ;  and  when  Han- 
nibal left  that  rejoicing  and  admiring  multitude  to  follow  the  traces 
of  Appius,  he  passed  through  the  gates  of  Capua,  to  enter  them  again 
no  more. 
Appius  retreated  in  the  direction  of  Lucama  :  this  is  all  that  is  re- 


LIFE   OP   3AKKIBAL.  t«J 

ported  of  his  march  ;  and  then,  after  a  while,  having  led  his  enemy 
in  the  direction  which  suited  his  purposes,  he  turned  off  by  another 
road,  and  made  his  way  back  to  Campania.  With  such  a  total  ab- 
sence of  details,  it  is  impossible  to  fix  the  Hue  of  his  march  exactly. 
It  was  easy  for  Appius  to  take  the  round  of  the  Matese  ;  retiring  first  by 
the  great  road  to  Beneventum,  then  turning  to  his  left  and  retraining 
his  old  quarters  at  Bovianum,  from  whence,  the  instant  that  Hannibal 
ceased  to  follow  him,  he  would  move  along  under  the  north  side  of  the 
Matese  to  ^Esernia,  and  descend  again  upon  Campania  by  the  valley  of 
the  Vulturous.  Hannibal's  pursuit  was  necessarily  stopped  as  soon  as 
Appius  moved  northward  from  Beneventum  :  he  could  not  support  his 
army  in  the  country  of  the  Pentaian  Samnites,  where  everything  was 
hostile  to  him  ;  nor  did  he  like  to  abandon  his  line  of  direct  communi- 
cation with  southern  Italy.  He  had  gained  a  respite  for  Capua,  and  had 
left  an  auxiliary  force  to  aid  in  its  defence  ;  meanwhile  other  objects 
must  not  be  neglected  ;  and  the  fall  of  the  citadel  of  Tarentiim  might, 
of  itself,  prevent  or  raise  the  siege'of  Capua.  So  he  turned  off  1'roin 
following  Appius,  and  was  marching  back  to  the  south,  when  he  was 
told  thatf  a  Roman  army  was  attempting  to  bar  his  passage  in  Lu- 
cania.  This  was  the  motley  multitude  commanded  by  Centenius, 
which  had  succeeded,  as  we  have  seen,  to  the  army  of  (Jrarchus. 
With  what  mad  hope,  or  under  what  false  impression,  Centenius 
could  have  been  tempted  to  rush  upon  certain  destruction,  we  know 
not  ;  but,  in  the  number,  no  less  than  in  the  quality  of  his  troops,  he 
must  have  been  far  inferior  to  his  adversary.  His  men  fought 
bravely  ;  and  he  did  a  centurion's  duty  well,  however  ho  may  have 
failed  as  a  general  :  but  he  was  killed,  and  nearly  lifteen  thousand 
men  are  said  to  have  perished  with  him. 

Thus  Lucauia  was  cleared  of  the  Romans  ;  and  as  the  firmest  par- 
tisan of  the  Roman  interest  among  the  Lucanians  had  been  the  very 
man  who  had  betrayed  Gracchus  to  his  fate,  it  is  likely  that  the  Car- 
thaginian party  was  triumphant  through  the  whole  country.  Only 
one  Roman  army  was  left  in  the  south  of  Italy,  the  two  legions  com- 
manded by  Cn.  Fulvius  Flaccus,  the  consul's  brother,  in  Apulia. 
But  Cn.  Fulvius  had  nothing  of  his  brother's  ability  ;  he  was  a  man 
grown  old  in  profligacy  ;  and  the  discipline  of  his  army  was  said  to 
be  in  the  worst  condition.  Hannibal,  hoping  to  complete;  his  work, 
moved  at  once  inlo  Apulia,  and  found  Fulvius  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Herdouea.  The  Roman  general  met  him  in  the  open  field,  with- 
out hesitation,  and  was  presently  defeated  :  he  himself  escaped  from 
the  action,  but  Hannibal  had  occupied  the  principal  roads  in  the  rear 
of  the  enemy  with  his  cavalry  ;  and  the  greatest  part  of  the  Roman 
army  was  cut  to  pieces. 

We  naturally  ask,  What  result  followed  from  these  two  great  vic- 
tories? ami  to  this  question  we  find  no  recorded  answer.  Hannibal, 
we  are  told,  returned  to  Tarentum  ;  but  finding  that  the  citadel  still 
held  out,  and  could  neither  be  forced  nor  surprised,  anil  that  provi- 


74  LIFE   OF   IIAXXIBAL. 

sions  were  still  introduced  by  sea,  a  naval  blockade,  in  r.ncient  war 
fare,  being  always  inefficient,  he  marched  off  towards  Brundisimn, 
on  some  prospect  that  the  town  would  be  betrayed  into  his  hands. 
This  hope  also  failed  him  ;  and  he  remained  inactive  in  Apulia,  or  in 
Ihe  country  of  the  Sallentines,  during  the  rest  of  the  year.  Mean- 
time, the  'consuls  received  orders  from  the  senate  to  collect  the 
wrecks  of  the  two  beaten  armies,  and  to  search  for  the  soldiers  of 
Gracchus'  army,  who  had  dispersed,  as  we  have  seen,  after  his  death. 
The  city  praetor,  P.  Cornelius,  Carried  on  the  same  search  nearer 
Rome  ;  and  these  duties,  says  Livy,were  all  performed  most  carefully 
and  vigorously.  This  is  all  the  information  which  exists  for  us  in 
the  remains  of  the  ancient  writers  ;  but,  assuredly,  this  is  no  military 
history  of  a  campaign. 

It  is  always  to  be  understood  that  Hannibal  cculd,  not  remain 
long  in  an  enemy's  country,  firm  the  difficulty  of  feeding  his 
men,  especially  his  cavalry.  But  the  country  round  Capua  was 
not  all  hostile  ;  Atella  and  Calatia,  in  the  plain  of  Campania  it- 
self, were  still  his  allies :  so  were  many  of  the  Caudine  Sam- 
uites,  from  whose  cities  Hanno  had  collected  the  corn  early  in  this 
year  foi  the  relief  of  Capua.  Again,  we  can  conceive  how  the  num- 
ber of  the  Roman  armies  sometimes  oppressed  him:  how  he  darc'l 
not  stay  long  ki  one  quarter,  lest  a  greater  evil  should  befall  him  in 
another.  But  at  this  moment,  three  great  disasters,  the  dispersion  01 
the  army  of  Gracchus,  and  the  destruction  of  those  of  Centenius  and 
Fulvius,  had  cleared  the  south  of  Italy  of  the  Romans;  and  liis 
friends  in  Apulia,  in  Lucania,  at  Tarentum,  and  in  Bruttium,  could 
have  nothing  to  fear,  had  he  left  them,  for  the  time,  to  their  own  re- 
sources. Why,  after  defeating  Fulvius,  did  he  not  retrace  his  steps 
towards  Campania,  hold  the  field,  with  the  aid  of  his  Campanian  and 
Samnite  allies,  till  the  end  of  the  military  season,  and  then  winter, 
close  at  hand,  on  the  shores  of  the  Gulf  of  Salerno,  in  the  country  of 
his  allies,  so  ns  to  make  it  impossible  for  the  Romans  either  to  under- 
take or  to  maintain  the  siege  of  Capua  ? 

That  his  not  doing  this  was  not  his  own  fault,  his  extraordinary 
ability  and  energy  may  sufficiently  assure  us  ;  but,  where  the  hin- 
drance was,  we  cannot,  for  certain,  discover  :  his  army  must  have 
been  worn  by  its  long  and  rapid  march  to  and  from  Campania,  and 
by  two  battles  fought  with  so  t'hort  an  interval  :  his  wounded  must 
have  been  numerous  ;  nor  can  we  tell  how  such  hard  service,  in  the 
heat  of  summer,  may  have  tried  the  health  of  his  soldiers  :  his  horses, 
too,  must  have  needed  rest  ;  and  to  overstrain  the  main  arm  of  his 
strength  would  have  been  fatal  :  perhaps,  too,  great  as  was  Hanni- 
bal's ascendency  over  his  army,  there  was  a  point  beyond  which  it 
could  not  be  tried  with  safety  :  long  marches  and  hard-fought  battles 
gave  the  soldier,  especially  The  Gaul  and  the  Spaniard,  what,  in  his 
eyes,  was  a,  rightful  claim  to  a  season  of  rest  and  enjoyment:  the 
men  might  have  murmured  had  they  not  been  permitted  to  taste 


LIFE   OF  HANKIBAL.  75 

some  reward  of  their  victories  :  besides  all  these  reasons,  the  necessity 
of  a  second  march  into  Campania  may  not  have  seemed  urgent  :  the 
extent  of  Capua  was  great  ;  if  the  lioman  consuls  did  encamp  before 
it,  still  the  city  was  in  no  immediate  danger  ;  after  the  winter,  an- 
other advance  would  again  enable  him  to  throw  supplies  into  the 
town,  and  to  drive  off  the  Roman  armies  ;  so  Capua  was  left,  for  the 
present,  to  its  own  resources,  and  Hannibal  passed  the  autumn  and 
winter  in  Apulia. 

Immediately  the  liornan  armies  closed  again  upon  their  prey. 
Three  grand  magu/.ines  of  corn  were  established,  to  feed  the  besieg- 
ing army  during  the  winter,  one  at  Casilinum,  within  three  miles  of  • 
Capua  ;  another  at  a  fort  built  for  the  purpose  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Vulturous  ;  and  a  third  at  Puteolii  Into  these  two  last  magazines  tho 
corn  was  conveyed  by  sea  from  Ostia,  whither  it  had  already  lint 
collected  from  Sardinia  and  Etruria.  Then  the  consuls  summoned 
C.  Nero  from  his  camp  above  Suessula  ;  and  the  three  armies  begun 
the  great  work  of  surrounding  Capua  with  double  continuous  lines. 
strong  enough  to  repel  the  besieged  on  one  side,  and  Hannibal  on  the 
other,  when  he  should  again  appear  in  Campania.  The  inner  line 
was  carried  round  the  city,  at  a  distance  of  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  walls  ;  the  outer  line  was  concentric  with  it  ;  and  the  spaco 
between  the  two  served  for  the  cantonments  and  magaxines  of  the 
besiegers.  The  lines,  says  Appiari,  lonked  like  a  great  city,  inclosing 
a  smaller  city  in  the  middle  ;  like  the  famous  lines  of  the  Peloponne- 
sians  before  Platsea.  What  time  was  employed  in  completing  them, 
we  know  not  :  they  were  interrupted  by  continual  sallies  of  the  be- 
sieged ;  and  Jubellius  Taurea  and  the  Capuau  cavalry  were  gener- 
ally too  strong  for  the  Roman  horsemen.  But  their  infantry  could  do 
nothing  against  the  legions  ;  the  besieging  army  must  have 
amounted  nearly  to  sixty  thousand  men  ;  and  slowly  but  surely  the 
imprisoning  walls  were  raised  and  their  circle  completed,  shutting 
out  the  last  gleams  of  light  from  the  eyes  of  the  devoted  city. 

Before  the  works  were  closed  all  round,  the  consuls,  according  to 
the  senate's  directions  signified  to  them  by  the  city  praetor,  an- 
nounced to  the  Capuans,  that  whoever  chose  to  come  out  of  the  city 
with  his  family  and  property  before  the  ides  of  March,  might  do  so 
with  safety,  and  should  be  untouched  in  body  or  goods.  It  would 
seem,  then,  that  the  works  were  not  completed  till  late  in  the  winter  ; 
for  we  cannot  suppose  that  the  term  of  grace  would  have  been  pro- 
longed to  a  remote  day,  especially  as  the  ides  of  March  were  the  be- 
ginning of  the  new  consular  year  ;  and  it  could  not  be  known  long 
beforehand  whether  the  present  consuls  would  be  continued  in  their 
command  or  no.  The  offer  was  received  by  the  besieged,  it  is  said, 
with  open  scorn  ;  their  provisions  were  as  yet  abundant,  their  cav- 
alry excellent  ;  their  hope  of  aid  from  Hannibal,  as  soon  as  the  cam- 
paign should  open,  was  confident.  But  Fulvms  waited  his  time  ; 
nor  was  his  thirst  for  Capuan  blood  to  be  disappointed  by  his  remo- 


76  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL. 

Tul  from  the  siege  at  the  end  of  the  year  :  it  would  seem  as  if  the 
new  consuls  were  men  of  no  great  consideration,  appointed  probably 
for  that  very  reason,  that  their  claims  might  not  interfere  with  those 
of  their  predecessors.  One  of  them,  P.  Sulpicius  Galba,  had  fllled 
no  curule  office  previously  ;  the  other,  On.  Fulvius  Centumalus,  had 
been  praetor  two  years  before,  but  was  not  distinguished  by  any  re- 
markable action.  The  siege  of  Capua  was  still  to  be  conducted  by 
Appius  Claudius  and  Fulvius  ;  and  they  were  ordered  not  to  retire 
from  their  positions  till  they  should  have  taken  the  city. 

What  was  the  state  of  affairs  in  Capua  meantime,  we  know  not. 
The  Roman  stories  are  little  to  be  credited,  which  represent  all  the 
richer  and  nobler  citizens  as  abandoning  the  government,  and  leaving 
the  office  of  chief  magistrate,  Meddix  Tuticus,  to  be  filled  by  one  Sep- 
pius  Lesius,  a  man  of  obscure  condition,  who  offered  himself  as  a 
candidate.  Neither  Vibius  Virrius  nor  Jubellius  Taurea  wanted  res- 
olution to  abide  by  their  country  to  the  last ;  and  it  is  expressly  said 
that,  down  to  the  latest  period  of  the  siege,  there  was  no  Roman  party 
in  Capua  ;  no  voice  was  heard  to  speak  of  peace  or  surrender  ;  no 
citizen  had  embraced  the  consul's  offers  of  mercy.  Even  when  they 
had  failed  to  prevent  the  completion  of  the  Roman  lines,  they  con- 
tinued to  make  frequent  sallies  ;  and  the  proconsuls  could  only  with- 
stand their  cavalry  by  mixing  light-armed  foot  soldiers  amongst  the 
Roman  horsemen,  and  thus  strengthening  that  weakest  arm  in  the 
Roman  service.  Still,  as  the  blockade  was  not  fully  established,  fam- 
ine must  be  felt  sooner  or  later  ;  accordingly  aNumidianwas  sent  to 
implore  Hannibal's  aid,  and  succeeded  in  getting  through  the  Ro- 
man lines,  and  carrying  his  message  safely  to  Bruttium. 

Hannibal  listened  to  the  prayer,  and  leaving  his  heavy  baggage 
and  the  mass  of  his  army  behind,  set  out  with  his  cavalry  and  light 
infantry,  and  with  thirty-three  elephants.  Whether  his  Samnite  and 
Lucauian  allies  joined  him  on  the  march  is  not  stated  ;  if  they  did 
not,  and  if  secrecy  and  expedition  were  deemed  of  more  importance 
than  an  addition  of  force,  the  troops  which  he  led  with  him  must 
have  been  more  like  a  single  corps  than  a  complete  army.  Avoiding 
Beueveutum,  he  descended  the  valley  of  the  Calor  towards  the  Vul- 
turnus,  stormed  a  Roman  post,  which  had  been  built  apparently  to 
cut  off  the  communications  of  the  besieged  with  the  upper  valley 
of  the  Vulturnus,  and  encamped  immediately  behind  the  ridge 
of  Tifata.  From  thence  he  descended  once  more  into  the  plain  of 
Capua,  displayed  his  cavalry  before  the  Roman  lines  in  the  hope  of 
tempting  them  out  to  battle,  and  finding  that  this  did  not  succeed, 
commenced  a  general  assault  upon  their  works. 

Unprovided  with  any  artillery,  his  best  hope  was  that  the  Romans 
might,  be  allured  to  make  some  rash  sally  :  his  cavalry  advanced  by 
squadrons  up  to  the  edge  of  the  trench,  and  discharged  showers  of 
missiles  into  the  lines  ;  whilst  his  infantry  assailed  the  rampart,  and 
tried  to  force  their  way  through  the  palisade  which  surmounted  it 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  7? 

From  within  the  lines  were  attacked  by  the  Campanians  and  Hanni- 
bal's auxiliary  garrison  ;  but  the  Romans  were  numerous  enough  to 
defend  both  fronts  of  their  works  ;  they  held  their  ground  steadily, 
neither  yielding  nor  rashly  pursuing  ;  and  Hannibal,  rinding  his 
utmost  efforts  vain,  drew  off  his  army.  Some  resolution  must  be 
taken  promptly  ;  his  cavalry  could  not  be  fed  where  he  was,  for  the 
Romans  had  previously  destroyed  or  carried  away  everything  that 
might  serve  for  forage  ;  nor  could  he  venture  to  wait  till  the  new 
consuls  should  have  raised  their  legions,  and  be  ready  to  march  from 
Rome  and  threaten  his  rear.  One  only  hope  remained  ;  one  attempt 
might  yet  be  made,  which  should  either  raise  the  siege  of  Capua  or 
accomplish  a  still  greater  object :  Hannibal  resolved  to  march  upon 
Rome. 

A  Numidian  was  again  found,  who  undertook  to  pass  over  to  the 
Roman  lines  as  a  deserter,  and  from  thence  to  make  his  escape  into 
Capua,  bearing  a  letter  from  Hannibal,  which  explained  his  purpose 
and  conjured  the  Capuans  patiently  to  abide  the  issue  of  his  attempt 
for  a  little  while.  When  this  letter  reached  Capua,  Hannibal  was 
already  gone  ;  his  camp-fires  had  been  seen  burning  as  usual  all  night 
in  his  accustomed  position  on  Tifata  ;  but  he  had  begun  his  march 
the  preceding  evening,  immediately  after  dark,  while  the  Romans 
still  thought  that  his  army  was  hanging  over  their  heads,  and  were 
looking  for  a  second  assault. 

His  army  disappeared  from  the  eyes  of  the  Romans  behind  Tifata  ; 
and  they  knew  not  whither  he  was  gone.  Even  so  it  is  with  us  at 
this  day  ;  we  lose  him  from  Tifata  ;  we  find  him  before  Rome  ;  but 
we  know  nothing  of  his  course  between.  Conflicting  and  contradic- 
tory accounts  have  made  the  truth  undiscoverable  :  what  regions  of 
^Italy  looked  with  fear  or  hope  on  the  march  of  the  great  general  and 
*his  famous  soldiers,  it  is  impossible  from  our  existing  records  to  de- 
termine. All  accounts  say  that,  descending  nearly  by  the  old  route 
of  the  Gauls,  he  kept  the  Tiber  on  his  right  and  the  Anio  on  his 
left ;  and  that,  finally,  he  crossed  the  Anio,  and  encamped  at  a  dis- 
tance of  less  than  four  miles  from  the  walls  of  Rome. 

Before  the  sweeping  pursuit  of  his  Numidians,  crowds  of  fugitives 
were  seen  flying  towards  the  city,  whilst  the  saioke  of  burning  houses 
arose  far  and  wide  into  the  sky.  Within  the  walls  the  confusion  and 
terror  were  at  their  height ;  he  was  come  at  last,  this  Hannibal. 
whom  they  had  so  long  dreaded  ;  he  had  at  length  dared  what  even 
the  slaughter  of  Cannae  had  not  emboldened  him  to  venture  ;  some 
victory  greater  even  than  Cannae  must  have  given  him  this  confi- 
dence ;  the  three  armies  before  Capua  must  be  utterly  destroyed  ; 
last  year  he  had  destroyed  or  dispersed  three  other  armies,  and  had 
gained  possession  of  the  entire  south  of  Italy  ;  and  now  he  had 
stormed  the  lines  before  Capua,  had  cut  to  pieces  the  whole  remain- 
ing force  of  the  Roman  people,  and  was  come  to  Rome  to  finish  hin 
work.  So  ths  wives  and  mothers  of  Rome  lamented,  as  they  hur- 


?8        .  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL. 

ried  to  the  temples  ;  and  there,  prostrate  before  the  gods,  and  sweep 
ing  the  sacred  pavement  with  their  unbound  hair  in  the  agony  of 
their  fear,  Miey  remained  pouring  forth  their  prayers  for  deliverance. 
Their  sons  and  husbands  hastened  to  man  the  walls  and  the  citadel, 
and  to  secure  the  most  important  points  without  the  city  ;  whilst  the 
senate,  as  calm  as  their  fathers  of  old,  whom  the  Gauls  massacred 
when  sitting  at  their  own  doors,  but  with  the  energy  of  manly  resolu- 
tion, rather  than  the  resignation  of  despair,  met  in  the  forum,  and 
there  remained  assembled,  to  direct  every  magistrate  on  the  instant 
how  he  might  best  fulfil  his  duty. 

But  God's  care  watched  over  the  safety  of  a  people  whom  he  had 
chosen  to  work  out  the  purposes  of  his  providence  :  Rome  was  not 
to  perish.  Two  city  legions  were  to  be  raised,  as  usual,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  year  ;  and  it  so  happened  that  the  citizens  from  the 
country  tribes  were  to  meet  at  Rome  on  this  very  day  for  the  enlist- 
ment for  one  of  these  legions  ;  whilst  the  soldiers  of  the  other,  which 
had  been  enrolled  a  short  time  before,  were  to  appear  at  Rome  on 
this  same  day  in  arms,  having  been  allowed,  as  the  custom  was,  to 
return  home  for  a  few  days  after  their  enlistment,  to  prepare  for 
active  service.  Thus  it  happened  that  ten  thousand  men  were 
brought  together  at  the  very  moment  when  they  were  most  needed, 
and  were  ready  to  repel  any  assault  upon  the  walls.  The  allies,  it 
seems,  were  not  ordinarily  called  out  to  serve  with  the  two  city 
legions  ;  but  on  this  occasion  it  is  mentioned  that  the  Latin  colony  of 
Alba,  having  seen  Hannibal  pass  by  their  walls,  and  guessing  the  ob- 
ject of  his  march,  sent  its  whole  force  to  assist  in  the  defence  of 
Rome  ;  a  zeal  which  the  Greek  writers  compared  to  that  of  Plata3a, 
whose  citizens  fought  alone  by  the  side  of  the  Athenians  on  the  day 
of  Marathon. 

To  assault  the  walls  of  Rome  was  now  hopeless  ;  but  the  opftn 
country  was  at  Hannibal's  mercy,  a  country  which  had  seen  no  ene- 
my for  near  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  cultivated  and  inhabited  in 
the  full  security  of  peace.  Far  and  wide  it  was  overrun  by  Hanni- 
bal's soldiers  ;  and  the  army  appears  to  have  moved  about,  encamp- 
ing in  one  place  after  another,  and  sweeping  cattle  and  prisoners  and 
plunder  of  every  sort,  beyond  numbering,  within  the  enclosure  of  its 
camp. 

It  was  probably  in  the  course  of  these  excursions,  that  Hannibal, 
at  the  head  of  a  large  body  of  cavalry,  came  close  up  to  the  Colline 
gate,  rode  along  leisurely  under  the  walls  to  see  all  he  could  of  the 
city,  and  is  said  to  have  cast  his  javelin  into  it  as  in  defiance.  From 
farthest  Spain  he  had  come  into  Italy  ;  he  had  wasted  the  whole 
country  of  the  Romans  and  their  allies  with  fire  and  sword  for  more 
than  six  years,  had  slain  more  of  their  citizens  than  were  now  alive 
to  bear  arms  against  him  ;  and  at  last  he  was  shutting  them  up  with- 
in their  city,  and  riding  freely  under  their  walls,  while  none  dared 
meet  him  in  the  field.  If  anything  of  disappointment  depressed  hi* 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  79 

mind  at  that  instant ;  if  he  felt  that  Rome's  strength  was  not  broken, 
nor  the  spirit  of  her  people  quelled,  that  his  own  fortune  was  waver- 
ing, and  that  his  last  effort  had  been  made,  and  made  in  vain  ;  yet 
thinking-  where  he  was,  and  of  the  shame  and  loss  which  his  presence 
was  causing  to  his  enemies,  he  must  have  wished  that  his  father 
could  have  lived  to  see  that  day,  and  must  have  thanked  the  gods  of 
his  country  that  they  had  enabled  him  so  fully  to  perform  his  vow. 

For  some  time,  we  know  not  how  long,  this  devastation  of  the  Ro- 
man territory  lasted  without  opposition.  Meanwhile  the  siege  of 
Capua  was  not  raised  ;  and  Fabius,  in  earnestly  dissuading  such  a 
confession  of  fear,  showed  that  he  could  be  firm  no  less  Than  cau- 
tious, when  boldness  was  the  highest  prudence.  But  Fulvius,  with 
a  small  portion  of  the  besieging  army,  was  recalled  to  Rome  :  Fabius 
had  ever  acted  with  him,  and  was  glad  to  have  the  aid  of  his  courage 
and  ability  ;  and  when  he  arrived,  and  by  a  vote  of  the  senate  was 
united  with  the  consuls  in  the  command,  the  Roman  forces  were  led 
put  of  the  city,  and  encamped,  according  to  Fabius'  old  policy,  witn- 
in  ten  stadia  of  the  enemy,  to  check  his  free  license  of  plunder.  At 
the  same  time,  parties  acting  on  the  rear  of  Hannibal's  army  had 
broken  down  the  bridges  over  the  Anio,  his  lino  of  retreat,  like  his 
advance,  being  on  the  right  bank  of  that  river,  and  not  by  the  Latin 
road. 

Hannibal  had  purposely  waited  to  allow  time  for  his  movement  to 
produce  jts  intended  effect  in  the  raising  of  the  siege  of  Capua. 
That  time,  according  to  his  calculations,  was  now  come  :  the  news 
of  his  arrival  before  Rome  must  have  reached  the  Roman  lines  before 
Capua  ;  and  the  armies  from  that  quarter,  hastening  by  the  Latin 
road  to  the  defence  of  their  city,  must  have  left  the  communication 
with  Capua  free.  The  presence  of  Fulvius  with  his  army  in  Latium, 
which  Hannibal  would  instantly  discover,  by  the  thrice-repeated 
sounding  of  the  watch,  as  Hasdrubal  found  out  Nero's  arrival  in  the 
camp  of  Livius  near  Sena,  would  confirm  him  in  his  expectation  that 
the  other  proconsul  was  on  his  march  with  the  mass  of  the  army  ; 
and  he  accordingly  commenced  his  retreat  by  the  Tiburtiue  road, 
that  he  might  not  encounter  Appius  in  front,  while  the  consuls  and 
Fabius  were  pressing  on  his  rear. 

Accordingly,  as  the  bridges  were  destroyed,  he  proceeded  to  effect 
his  passage  through  the  river,  and  carried  over  his  army  under  the 
protection  of  his  cavalry,  although  the  Romans  attacked  him  during 
the  passage,  and  cut  off  a  large  part  of  the  plunder  which  he  hud  col- 
lected from  the  neighborhood  of  Rome.  He  then  continued  his 
retreat ;  and  the  Romans  followed  him,  but  at  a  careful  distance,  and 
keeping  steadily  on  the  higher  grounds,  to  be  safe  from  the  assaults 
of  his  dreaded  cavalry. 

In  this  manner  Hannibal  inarched  with  the  greatest  rapidity  for 
five  days,  which,  if  he  was  moving  by  the  Valerian  road,  must  have 
brought  him  at  least  as  far  as  the  country  of  the  Marsians,  and  the 


80  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL. 

Hhores  of  the  lake  Fuciuus.  From  thence,  he  would  again  have 
cfossed  by  the  Forca  Carrosa  to  the  plain  of  the  Pelignians,  and  so 
retraced  his  steps  through  Samnium,  towards  Capua.  But  at  this 
point,  he  received  intelligence  that  the  Roman  armies  were  still  in 
their  lines  ;  that  his  march  upon  Rome  had,  therefore,  failed  ;  anfl 
that  his  communications  with  Capua  were  as  hopeless  as  ever.  In- 
stantly, he  changed  all  his  plans  ;  and,  feeling  obliged  to  abandon 
Capua,  the  importance  of  his  operations  in  the  south  rose  upon  him 
in  proportion.  Hitherto,  he  had  not  thought  tit  to  delay  his  march 
for  the  sake  of  attacking  the  army  which  was  pursuing  him  ;  but 
now  he  fesolved  to  rid  himself  of  this  enemy  ;  so  he  turned  fiercely 
upon  them,  and  assaulted  their  camp  in  the  night.  The  Romans, 
surprised  and  confounded,  were  driven  from  it,  with  considerable 
loss,  and  took  refuge  in  a  strong  position  in  the  mountains.  Hanni- 
bal then  resumed  his  march  ;  but,  instead  of  turning  short  to  his 
right,  towards  Campania,  descended  towards  the  Adriatic  and  the 
plains  of  Apulia,  and  from  thence  returned  to  what  was  now  the 
stronghold  of  his  power  in  Italy,  the  country  of  the  Bruttians. 

The  citadel  of  Tarentum  still  held  out  against  him  :  but  Rhegium, 
confident  in  its  remoteness,  had  never  yet  seen  his  cavalry  in  its  terri- 
tory, and  was  now  luss  likely  than  ever  to  dread  his  presence,  as  he 
had  so  lately  been  heard  of  in  the  heart  of  Italy,  and  under  the  walls 
of  Rome.  With  a  rapid  march,  therefore,  he  hastened  to  surprise 
Rhegium.  Tidings  of  his  coming  reached  the  city  just-in  time  for 
the  Rhegians  to  shut  their  gates  against  him  ;  but  half  their  people 
were  in  the  country,  in  the  full  security  of  peace  ;  and  these  all  fell 
into  his  power.  We  know  not  whether  he  treated  them  kindly,  as 
hoping  through  their  means  to  win  Rhegium,  as  he  had  won  Taren- 
tum, or  whether  disappointment  was  now  stronger  than  hope  ;  and 
despairing  of  drawing  the  allies  of  Rome  to  his  side,  he  was  now  as 
inveterate  against  them  as  against  the  Romans.  He  retired  from  his 
fruitless  attempt  to  win  Rhegium  only  to  receive  the  tidings  of  the 
loss  of  Capua. 

The  Romans  had  patiently  waited  their  time,  and  were  now  to  reap 
their  reward.  The  consuls  were  both  to  command  in  Apulia  with 
two  consular  armies  ;  one  of  them  therefore  must  have  returned  to 
Rome,  to  raise  the  two  additional  legions  which  were  required. 
Fulvius  hastened  back  to  the  lines  before  Capua.  His  prey  was  now 
in  his  power  ;  the  straitness  of  the  blockade  could  no  longer  be  en- 
dured, and  aid  from  Hannibal  was  not  to  be  hoped.  It  is  said  that 
mercy  was  still  promised  to  any  Capuan  who  should  come  over  to  the 
Romans  before  a  certain  day,  but  that  none  availed  themselves  of  the 
offer,  feeling,  says  Livy,  that  their  offence  was  beyond  forgiveness. 
This  can  only  mean  that  they  believed  the  Romans  1o  be  as  faithless 
as  they  were  cruel,  and  felt  sure  that  every  promise  of  mercy  would 
be  evaded  or  openly  broken.  One  last  attempt  was  made  to  summon 
Hannibal  again  to  their  aid  ;  but  the  Nurnidians  employed  on  the 


LIFE    OF    HAXXIBAL.  81 

service  were  detected  this  time  in  the  Roman  lines,  and  were  sent 
back  torn  with  stripes,  and  with  their  hands  cut  off,  into  the  city. 

No  Capuan  writer  has  survived  to  record  the  last  struggle  of  his 
country  ;  and  never  were  any  people  less  to  be  believed  than  the  Ro- 
mans, when  speaking  of  their  enemies.  Yet  the  greatest  man  could 
not  have  supported  the  expiring  weakness  of  an  unheroic  people  ; 
and  we  hear  of  no  great  man  in  Capua.  Some  of  the  principal  men 
in  the  senate  met,  it  is  said,  at  the  house  of  one  of  their  number, 
Vibius  Virrius,  where  a  magnificent  banquet  had  been  prepared  foi 
them  ;  they  ate  and  drank,  and  when  the  feast  was  over,  they  al! 
swallowed  poison.  Then,  having  done  with  pleasure  and  with  life, 
they  took  a  last  leave  of  each  other  ;  they  embraced  each  other, 
lamenting  witli  many  tears  their  own  and  their  country's  calamity  ; 
and  some  remained  to  be  burned  together  on  the  same  funeral  pile, 
whilst  others  went  away  to  die  at  their  own  homes.  All  were  dead 
before  the  Romans  entered  the  city. 

In  the  mean  while  the  Capuau  government,  unable  to  restrain  their 
starving  people,  had  been  obliged  to  surrender  to  the  enemy.  In 
modern  warfare  the  surrender  of  a  besieged  town  involves  no  ex- 
treme suffering  ;  even  in  civil  wars,  justice  or  vengeance  only  de- 
mands a  certain  number  of  victims,  and  the  mass  of  the  population 
scarcely  feels  its  condition  affected.  But  surrender,  deditio,  accord- 
ing to  the  Roman  laws  of  war,  placed  the  property,  liberties,  and 
lives  of  the  whole  surrendered  people  at  the  absolute  disposal  of  the 
conquerors  ;  and  that  not  formally,  as  a  right,  the  enforcement  of 
which  were  monstrous,  but  as  one  to  abate  which  in  any  instance 
was  an  act  of  free  mercy. 

The  conquest  of  Capua  was  one  of  the  most  important  serviced 
ever  rendered  by  a  Roman  general  to  his  country.  It  did  not 
merely  deprive  Hannibal  of  the  greatest  fruit  of  his  greatest  victory, 
and  thus  seem  to  undo  the  work  of  Cannoe  ;  but  its  effect  was  felt  far 
and  wide,  encouraging  the  allies  of  Rome,  and  striking  terror  into 
her  enemies  ;  tempting  the  cities  which  had  revolted  to  return  with- 
out delay  to  their  allegiance,  and  filling  Hannibal  with  suspicion-*  <.f 
those  who  were  still  true  to  him,  as  if  they  only  waited  to  purchase 
their  pardon  by  some  act  of  treachery  towards  his  garrisons.  By 
the  recovery  of  Capua  his  great  experiment  seemed  decided  against 
him.  It  appeared  impossible,  under  any  circumstances,  to  rally  such 
a  coalition  of  the  Italian  states  against  the  Roman  power  in  Italy,  as 
might  be  able  to  overthrow  it.  We  almost  ask,  With  what  reason- 
able hopes  could  Hannibal  from  this  time  forward  continue  the  war* 
or,  Why  did  he  not  change  the  seat  of  it  from  Southern  Italy  tc 
Etruria  and  Cisalpine  Gaul  ? 

But  with  whatever  feelings  of  disappointment  and  grief  he  may 
have  heard  of  the  fall  of  Capua,  of  the  ruin  of  his  allies,  the  bloody 
death  of  so  many  of  the  Capuan  senators,  and  of  the  hrave  .lubcllius 
Taurea,  whom  he  had  personally  known  and  honored,  yet  the  lust 


82  LIFE    OF   HAKNIBAL. 

campaign  was  not  without  many  solid  grounds  of  encouragement. 
Never  had  the  invincible  force  of  his  army  been  more  fully  proved. 
He  had  overrun  half  Italy,  had  crossed  and  recrossed  the  passes  of 
the  Apennines,  had  plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  Roman  allies,  and 
had  laid  waste  the  territory  of  Rome  with  fire  and  sword.  Yet  no 
superiority  of  numbers,  no  advantage  of  ground,  no  knowledge  of 
the  country,  had  ever  emboldened  the  Romans  to  meet  him  in  the 
field,  or  even  to  beset  his  road,  or  to  obstruct  and  harass  his  march. 
Once  only,  when  he  was  thought  to  be  retreating,  had  they  ventured 
to  follow  him  at  a  cautious  distance  ;  but  he  had  turned  upon  them  in 
his  strength  ;  and  the  two  consuls,  and  Q.  Fulvius  with  them,  were 
driven  before  him  as  fugitives  to  the  mountains,  their  camp  stormed, 
and  their  legions  scattered.  It  was  plain,  then,  that  he  might  hold 
his  ground  in  Italy  as  long  as  he  pleased,  supporting  his  aim}'  at  its 
cost,  and  draining  the  resources  of  Rome  and  her  allies  year  after 
year,  till,  in  mere  exhaustion,  the  Roman  commons  would" probably 
join  the  Latin  colonies  and  the  allies,  in  forcing  the  senate  to  make 
peace. 

At  this  very  moment  Etruria  was  restless,  and  required  an  army 
of  two  legions  to  keep  it  quiet :  the  Roman  commons,  in  addition  to 
their  heavy  taxation  and  military  service,  had  seen  their  lands  laid 
waste,  and  yet  were  called  upon  to  bear  fresh  burdens  :  and  there 
was  a  spirit  of  discontent  working  in  the  Latin  colonies,  which  a  lit- 
tle more  provocation  might  excite  to  open  revolt.  Spain,  besides, 
seemed  at  last  to  be  freed  from  the  enemy  ;  and  the  recent  defeats 
and  deaths  of  the  two  Scipios  there  held  out  the  hope  to  Hannibal 
that  now  at  length  his  brother  Hasdrubal,  having  nothing  to  detain 
him  in  Spain,  might  lead  a  second  Carthaginian  army  into  Italy,  and 
^establish  himself  in  Etruria,  depriving  Rome  of  the  resources  of  the 
Etruscan  and  Umbrian  states,  as  she  had  already  lost  those  of  half 
Samnium,  of  Lucania,  Brutt  ium,  and  Apulia.  Then,  assailed,  at  once 
by  two  sons  of  Hamilcar,  on  the  north  and  the  south,  the  Roman  pow- 
er, which  one  of  them,  singly,  had  so  staggered,  must,  by  the  joint 
efforts  of  both,  be  beaten  to  the  ground  and  destroyed.  With  such 
hopes,  and  with  no  unreasonable  confidence,  Hannibal  consoled 
himself  for  the  loss  of  Capua,  and  allowed  his  army,  after  its  severe 
marching,  to  rest  for  the  remainder  of  the  year  in  Apulia. 
^  The  commencement  of  the  next  season  was  marked  by  the  fall  of 
Salapia,  which  was  betrayed  by  the  inhabitants  to  Marcellus  ;  but 
this  loss  was  soon  avenged  by  the  total  defeat  and  destruction  of  the 
army  of  the  proconsul  Cn.  Fulvius,  at  Herdonea.  Marcellus,  on  his 
part,  carefully  avoided  an  action  for  the  rest  of  the  campaign  ;  whilst 
he  harassed  his  opponent  by  every  possible  means.  Thus  the  rest  o! 
that  summer,  too,  wore  away  without  any  important  results.  But 
this  state  of  comparative  inactivity  was  necessarily  injurious  to  the 
cause  of  Hannibal :  the  nations  of  Italy  that  had  espoused  that  cause, 
when  triumphant,  now  began  to  waver  in  their  attachment ;  and,  in 


LIFE   OF   HAXXIBAL.  83 

the  course  of  the  following  summer,  the  Samnitcs  arid  Lucanians 
submitted  to  Rome,  and  were  admitted  to  favorable  terms.  A  siii! 
more  disastrous  blow  to  the  Carthaginian  cause  was  the  !•:- 
Tarentum,  which  was  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  Fabius,  as  it  had 
been  into  those  of  Hannibal.  In  vain  did  the  latter  seek  to  draw  the 
Roman  General  into  a  snare  ;  th  -  wary  Fabius  eluded  his  toils.  But 
Marcellus,  after  a  pretended  victory  over  Hannibal,  during  the  earlier 
part  of  the  campaign,  had  shut  himself  up  within  the  walls  of 
Venusia,  and  remained  there  in  utter  inactivity.  Hannibal,  mean- 
while, still  traversed  the  open  country  unopposed,  and  laid  waste  the 
territories  of  his  enemies.  Yet  we  cannot  suppose  that  he  any  longer 
looked  f<>r  ultimate  success  from  any  efforts  of  his  own  :  his  object 
was,  doubtless,  now  only  to  maintain  Ids  ground  in  the  south,  until 
his  brother  Ilasdrubal  should  appear  in  the  north  of  Italy,  an  event 
to  which  he  had  long  looked  forwatd  with  anxious  expectation. 

Yet  the  following  summer  was  not  unmarked  by  some  brilliant, 
achievements.  The  Romans  having  formed  the  siege  of  I/>cri,  a 
legion,  which  was  dispatched  to  their  support  from  Tareutum,  was 
intercepted  in  its  march,  and  utterly  destroyed  ;  and  not  long  after- 
wards, the  two  consuls,  Crispinus  and  Marcellus,  who,  with  their 
united  armies,  were  opposed  to  Hannibal  in  Lucauia,  allowed  them- 
selves to  be  led  into  an  ambush,  in  which  Marcellus  was  killed  and 
Crispinus  was  mortally  wounded.  After  this,  the  Roman  armies 
withdrew,  while  Hannibal  hastened  to  Locri,  and  not  only  raised  the 
siege,  but  utterly  destroyed,  the  besieging  army.  Thin  lie  ag'iin 
found  himself  undisputed  master  of  the  south  of  Italy  during  the  re- 
mainder of  this  campaign. 

Of  the  two  consuls  of  the  ensuing  year,  C.  Nero  was  opposed  to 
Hannibal,  while  M.  Livius  was  appointed  to  take  the  field  against 
Ilasdrubal,  who  ha  1  at  length  crossed  the  Alps,  and  descended  into 
Cisalpine  Gaul.  According  to  Livy,  Hannibal  was  apprised  of  his 
brother's  arrival  at  E'laccntia  before  he  had  himself  moved  from  his 
winter  quarters  ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that,  if  this  had  been  the 
case,  he  would  not  have  made  more  energetic  efforts  to  join  him.  If 
we  can  trust  the  narrative  transmitted  to  us,  which  is  certainly  in 
many  respects  unsatisfactory,  Hannibal  spent,  much  time  in  vari- 
ous unimportant  movements,  before  he  advanced  northward  into 
Apulia,  where  lie  was  met  by  the  Roman  consul,  and  not  only  held 
in  check,  but  so  effectually  deceived  that  he  knew  nothing  of  Nero's 
march  to  support  his  colleague  until  after  his  return  ;  and  the  lir< 
tidings  of  the  battle  of  Metaurus  were  conveyed  to  him  by  the  sigh", 
of  the  head  of  Hasdrubal. 

But,  whatever  exaggeration  we  may  justly  suspect  in  this  relation, 
it  is  not  the  less  certain  that  the  defeat  and  death  of  Hasdrubal  was 
decisive  of  the  fate  of  the  war  in  Italy  ;  and  the  conduct  of  Hannibal 
shows  that  he  felt  it  to  be  such.  From  this  time  he  abandons  all 
thoughts  of  offensive  operations,  and.  withdrawing  his  garrisons  from 


84  LIFE   OF   HAXXIBAL. 

Mctapontum  and  other  towns  that  he  still  held  in  Lucania,  collected 
together  his  forces  within  the  peninsula  of  Bruttium.  In  the  fast- 
nesses of  that  wild  and  mountainous  region,  he  maintained  his  ground 
for  nearly  four  years  ;  whilst,  the  towns  that  he  still  possessed  on  the 
coast  gave  him  the  command  of  the  sea.  Of  the  events  of  these  four 
years,  we  know  but  little.  It  appears  that  the  Romans  at  lirst  con- 
tented themselves  with  shutting  him  up  within  the  peninsula,  hut 
gradually  began  to  encroach  upon  these  bounds  ;  and  though  -the 
statements  of  their  repeated  victories  are  gross  exaggerations,  if  not 
altogether  unfounded,  yet  the  successive  loss  of  Locri,  Conseutia,  ar.d 
Pandosia,  besides  smaller  towns,  must  have  hemmed  him-  in  within 
limits  continually  narrowing.  Crotoua  seems  to  have  been  his  chid' 
stronghold  and  centre  of  operations ;  and  it  was  during  this  period 
that  he  erected,  in  the  temple  of  the  Lacinian  Juno,  near  that  city,  a 
column  bearing  an  inscription  which  recorded  the  leading  events  of 
his  memorable  expedition.  To  this  important  monument,  which  was 
seen  and  consulted  by  Polybius,  we  are  indebted  for  many  of  the 
statements  of  that  author. 

It  is  difficult  to  judge,  whether  it  was  the  expectation  of  effective 
assistance  from  Carthage,  or  the  hopes  of  a  fresh  diversion  beiii'i1 
operated  by  Mago  in  the  North,  that  induced  Hannibal  to  clii!.u;  so 
pertinaciously  to  the  corner  of  Italy  that  he  still  held.  It  is  < 
that  he  was,  at  any  time,  free  to  -quit  it  ;  and  when,  at  length,  he 
was  induced  to  comply  with  the  urgent  request  of  the  Carthaginian 
government  that  he  should  return  to  Africa,  to  make  head  against 
Scipio,  he  was  able  to  embark  his  troops  without  an  attempt  at  oppo- 
sition. His  departure  from  Italy  seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  the 
great  object  of  desire  with  the  Romans.  For  more  than  fifteen  years 
had  he  carried  on  the  war  in  that  country,  laying  it  waste  from  one 
extremity  to  the  other,  and  during  all  this  period  his  superiority  in 
the  field  had  been  uncontested.  The  Romans  calculated  that  in  these 
fifteen  years  their  losses  in  the  field  alone  amounted  to  not  less  Hum 
300,000  men  ;  a  statement  which  will  hardly  appear  exaggerated, 
when  we  consider  the  continual  combats  in  which  they  were  engaged 
by  their  ever-watchful  foe. 

Hannibal  landed,  with  the  small  but  veteran  army  which  he  was 
able  to  bring  with  him  from  Italy,  at  Leptis,  in  Africa,  apparently 
before  the  close  of  the  year  203.  From  thence  he  proceeded  to  the 
strong  city  of  Hadrumetum.  The  circumstances  of  the  campaign 
which  followed  are  very  differently  related  ;  nor  will  our  space  allow 
us  to  enter  into  any  discussion  of  the  details.  Some  of  these,  es- 
pecially the  well-known  account  of  the  interview  between  Scipio  and 
Hannibal,  savor  strongly  of  romance,  notwithstanding  the  high 
authority  of  Polybius.  The  decisive  action  was  fought  at  a  place 
called  Naragara,  not  far  from  the  city  of  Zartia  ;  and  Hannibal,  ac- 
cording to  the  express  testimony  of  h'is  antagonist,  displayed,  on  this 
occasion,  all  the  qualities  of  a  consummate  general.  But  he  was 


LIFE   OF   HANNIBAL.  80 

now  particularly  deficient  in  that  formidable  cavalry  which  had  so 
often  decided  the  victory  in  his  favor  :  his  elephants,  of  which  he 
had  a  great  number,  were  rendered  unavailing  by  the  skilful  man- 
agement of  Scipio  ;  and  the  battle  ended  in  his  complete  defeat,  not- 
withstanding the  heroic  exertions  of  his  veteran  infantry.  Twenty 
thousand  of  his  men  fell  on  the  field  of  battle  ;  as  many  more  were 
made  prisoners,  and  Hannibal  himself  with  difficulty  escaped  the  pur- 
suit of  Masinissa,  and  he  fled  with  a  few  horsemen  to  Hadrumetum. 
Here  he  succeeded  in  collecting  about  6000  men,  the  remnant  of  his 
scattered  army,  with  whom  he  repaired  to  Carthage.  But  all  hopes 
of  resistance  were  now  at  an  end,  and  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  urge 
the  necessity  of  an  immediate  peace.  Much  time,  however,  appears 
to  have  been  occupied  in  the  negotiations  for  this  purpose  ;  and  the 
treaty  was  not  finally  concluded  until  after  the  battle  of  Zama. 

By  this  treaty,  Hannibal  saw  the  object  of  his  whole  life  frustrated, 
and  Carthage  was  effectually  humbled  before  her  imperious  rival. 
But  his  enmity  to  Rome  was  unabated  ;  and  though  now  more  than 
45  years  old,  he  set  himself  to  work,  like  his  father  Hamilcar  after 
the  end  of  the  first  Punic  war,  to  prepare  the  means  of  renewing  the 
contest  at  a  distant  period.  His  first  measures  related  to  the  internal 
affairs  of  Carthage,  and  were  directed  to  the  reform  of  abuses  in  the 
administration,  and  in  the  introduction  of  certain  constitutional 
changes,  which  our  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  government  of  Car- 
thage wholly  disqualifies  us  clearly  to  understand.  We  are  told  that 
after  the  termination  of  the  war  with  Rome,  Hannibal  was  assailed 
by  the  opposite  faction  with  charges  of  remissness,  and  even 
treachery,  in  his  command  ;  accusations  so  obviously  false,  that  they 
appear  to  have  recoiled  on  the  heads  of  his  accusers  ;  and  he  was  not 
only  acquitted,  but  shortly  afterwards  was  raised  to  the  chief  mag- 
istracy of  the  republic,  the  office  styled  by  Livy  prcetor  :  by  which  it 
is  probable  that  he  means  one  of  the  suffetes.  But  the  virtual  con- 
trol of  the  whole  government  had  at  this  time  been  assumed  by  the 
assembly  of  judges,  apparently  the  same:  as  the  council  of  one  hun- 
dred, evidently  a  high  and  aristocratic  body  ;  and  it  was  only  by 
the  overthrow  of  this  power  that  Hannibal  was  enabled  to  introduce 
order  into  the  finances  of  the  state,  and  thus  prepare  the  way  for  the 
gradual  restoration  of  the  republic.  But  though  he  succeeded  in  ac- 
complishing this  object,  and  in  introducing  the  most  beneficial  re- 
forms^ such  a  resolution  could  not  but  irritate  the  adverse  faction, 
and  they  soon  found  an  opportunity  of  revenging  themselves,  by  de- 
nouncing1 him  to  the  Romans,  as  bein«;  engaged  in  negotiations  with 
Antiochus  III.,  King  of  Syria,  to  induce  him  to  take  up  arms 
against  Rom».  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  charge  was  well 
founded,  and  Hannibal  saw  that  his  enemies  were  too  strong  for  him. 
No  sooner,  therefore,  did  thy  K  >iu  m  envoys  appear  at  Carthage, 
thiui  he  secretly  took  to  flight,  an  I  escaped  by  sea  to  the  island  of 
Cercina,  from  whence  he  retire.1  to  Tyre,  and  thence  again,  after  u 


8fi  LIFE    OF   HAXXIBAL. 

• 

short  interval,  to  the  court  of  Antiochus  at  Ephesus.  Tho  Syrian 
monarch  was  at  tliis  time  on  the  eve  of  war  wilh  Rome,  though  hos- 
tilities find  not  yet  commenced.  Hence  Hannibal  was  welcomed  with 
the  utmost  honors.  But  Antioclnis,  partly  perhaps  from  incapacity, 
partly,  also,  from  personal  jealousy,  encouraged  by  the  intrigues  of 
his  courtieie,  could  nor  be  induced  to  listen  to  his  judicious  counsels, 
the  wisdom  :>f  which  he  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  when  too 
late.  Hannibal  in  vain  urged  the  necessity  oi  carrying  ihc  war  at 
once  into  Italy,  instead  of  awaiting  the  Romans  in  (i  recce.  The 
king  could  not  be  persuaded  to  place  a  force  at  his  disposal  for  this 
purpose,  and  sent  him  instead  to  assemble  a  fleet  for  him  from  the 
cities  of  Phoenicia.  This  Hannibal  effected,  and  took  the  command 
of  it  in  person  ;  but  his  previous  habits  could  have  little  qualified  him 
for  this  service,  and  he  was  defeated  by  the  Rhodian  fleet,  in  an 
action  near. Side.  But  uvuiportaut  as  his  services  in  this  war  appear 
to  have  been,  he  was  still  Kgarded  by  the  Romans  with  such  appre- 
hension, that  his  surrender  was  one  of  the  conditions  of  the  peace 
granted  to  Antipchus  after  hL  defeat  at  Magnesia.  Hannibal,  how- 
ever, foresaw  his  danger,  and  nadc  his  esc  ape  to  Crete,  from  whence 
he  afterwards  repaired  to  the  court  of  Prusias,  King  of  Bithynia. 
Another  account  represents  hisii  as  repairing  from  the  court  of  Anti- 
ochus  to  Armenia,  where  it  is  said  he  found  u-f'uge  for  a  time  with 
Artaxias,  one  of  the  generals  of  Auticchus,  who  had  revolted  from 
his  master,  and  that  he  superintended  the  foundation  of  Artaxata, 
the  new  capital  of  the  Armenian  kingdom.  In  any  case,  it  was  iu 
the  kingdom  of  Prusias  that  he  took  up  his  abode.  That  numarcl; 
was  in  a  state  of  hostility  with  Eumenes,  the  faithful  ally  of  Rome, 
and  on  that  account  unfriendly,  at  least,  to  the  Romans.  Here, 
therefore,  he  found,  for  some  years,  a  secure  asylum,  during  which 
time  we  are  told  that  he  commanded  the  fleet  of  Piusias  in  a  naval 
action  against  Eumenes,  and  gained  a  victory  over  that  monarch, 
absurdly  attributed,  by  Cornelius  Nepos  and  Justin,  to  (lie  stratagem 
of  throwing  vessels  filled  with  serpents  into  the  enemy's  ships  !  I  Jut 
the  Romans  could  not  be  at  ease  so  long  a?  Hannibal  lived  ;  and  T. 
Quintals  Flamininus  was  at  length  dispatched  to  the  court  of  Prusias 
to  demand  the  surrender  of  the  fugitive.  The  Bitbynum  king  was 
unable  to  resist,  and  he  sent  troops  tx>  arrest  his  illustrious  guest ;  but 
Hannibal,  who  had  long  been  in  expectation  of  such  an  event,  as, 
soon  as  he  found  that  atl  approaches  were  beset,  and  that  flight  was 
impossible,  took  poison,  to  avoid  falling  into  the  hands  of  his  ene- 
ma s.  The  year  of  his  death  is  uncertain,  having  been  a  subject  of 
much  dispute  among  the  Roman  chronologers.  The  testimony  ot 
Polybiua  on  the  point,  which  would  have  appeared  conclusive,  is 
doubtful.  From  the  expressions  of  Livy,  we  should  certainly  have 
inferred  that  he  placed  the  death  of  Hannibal,  together  with  those  of 
Scipio  and  Philopoemen,  in  the  consulship  of  M.  Claudius  Marcelluk 
and  Q.  Fabius  Labes  ;  and  this,  which  was  the  date  adopted  by 


LIFE    OF   HAKNIBAL.  87 

Atticus,  appears  on  the  whole  the  most  probable  :  but  Cornelius 
Nepos  expressly  says  that  Poly  bins  assigned  it  to  the  following  year, 
and  Sulpicius  to  the  year  after  that.  The  scene  of  his  death  and 
burial  was  a  village  named  Libyssa.  on  the  coast  of  Bithynia. 

Hannibal's  character  has  been  very  variously  estimated  by  different 
writers. 

A  man  who  had  rendered  himself  formidable  to  the  Roman  power, 
and  had  wrought  them  such  extensive  mischief,  could  hardly  fail  to  be 
the  object  of  the  falsest  calumnies  and  misrepresentations  during  his 
life  ;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  many  such  were  recorded  in  the 
pages  of  the  historian  Fabius,  and  have  been  transmitted  to  us  by 
Appian  and  Zouares.  He  was  judged  with  less  passion,  and,  on  the 
whole,  with  great  impartiality,  by  Polybius.  An  able  review  of  his 
character  will  be  found  also  in  Dion  Cassius.  But  that  writer  tells 
us  that  he  was  accused  of  avarice  by  the  Carthaginians,  and  of 
cruelty  by  the  Romans.  Many  instances  of  the  latter  are  certainly 
recorded  by  the  Roman  historians  ;  but  even  if  we  were  to  admii. 
them  all  as  true  (and  many  of  them  are  demoustrably  false),  the\  do 
not  exceed,  or  even  equal,  wha*  the  sarm;  writers  have  related  of 
their  own  generals  :  and  severity,  often  degenerating  into  cruelty, 
seems  to  have  been  so  characteristic  of  the  Carthaginians  in  general, 
that  Hannibal's  conduct  in  this  respect,  as  compared  with  that  of  his 
countrymen,  deserves  to  be  regarded  as  a  favorable  exception.  We 
find  him  readily  entering  into  an  agreement  with  Fabius  for  an  ex- 
change of  prisoners  ;  and  it  was  only  the  sternness  of  the  Roman* 
themselves  that  prevented  tha  same  humane  arrangements  from  be- 
ing carried  throughout  the  war.  On  many  occasions,  too,  his  gen- 
erous sympathy  for  his  fallen  foes  bears  witness  of  a  noble  spirit,  and 
his  treatment  of  the  dead  bodies  of  Flaminius,  of  Gracchus,  and  of 
Marcellus,  contrasts  most  favorably  with  the  barbarity  of  Claudius 
Nero  to  that  of  Hasdrubal.  The  charge  of  avarice  appears  to  have 
been  as  little  founded  :  of  such  a  vice,  in  its  lowest  acceptation,  he 
was  certainly  incapable  ;  though  it  is  not  unlikely  that  he  was  greedy 
of  money  for  the  prosecution  of  his  great  schemes;  and,  perhaps, 
unscrupulous  in  his  modes  of  acquiring  it.  Among  other  virtues  lie  is 
extolled  for  his  temperance  and  continence,  and  for  the  fortitude  with 
which  he  endured  every  species  of  toil  and  hardship.  Of  his  abil- 
ities as  a  general  it  is  unnecessary  to  speak  :  all  the  great  masters  uf 
the  art  of  war,  from  Scipio  to  Napoleon,  have  concurred  in  their 
homage  to  his  genius.  But  in  comparing  Hannibal  with  any  other 
of  the  great  leaders  of  antiquity,  we  must  ever  bear  in  mind  the  pecu- 
liar circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed.  He  was  not  in  Hie 
position  either  of  a  powerful  monarch,  disposing  at  his  pleasure  of 
the  whole  resources  of  the  state,  nor  yet  in  that  of  a  republican  leader 
supported  by  the  patriotism  and  national  spirit  of  the  people  that  fol- 
lowed him  to  battle.  Feebly  and  grudgingly  supported  by  the  gov- 
ernment at  home,  he  stood  alone  at  the  head  of  an  army  composed  of 


88  LIFE   OF  HANNIBAL 

mercenaries  of  many  nations,  of  men  fickle  and  treacherous  to  all 
others  but  himself,  men  who  had  no  other  bond  of  union  than  their 
common  confidence  in  their  leader.  Yet  not  only  did  he  retain  the 
attachment  of  these  men,  unshaken  by  any  change  of  fortune,  for  a 
period  of  more  than  fifteen  years,  but  he  trained  up  army  after 
army  ;  and,  long  after  the  veterans  that  followed  him  over  the  Alps 
had  dwindled  to  an  inconsiderable  remnant,  his  new  levies  were  still 
as  invincible  as  their  predecessors. 

Of  the  private  character  of  Hannibal,  we  know  very  little  :  no  man 
ever  played  so  conspicuous  a  part  in  history  of  whom  so  few  personal 
anecdotes  have  been  recorded.  Yet  this  can  hardly  have  been  for 
want  of  the  opportunity  of  preserving  them  ;  for  we  are  told  that  he 
was  accompanied  throughout  his  campaigns  by  two  Greek  writers, 
Silenus  and  Sosilus  ;  and  we  know  that  the  works  of  both  these 
authors  were  extant  in  later  times  ;  but  they  seem  to  have  been  un- 
worthy of  their  subject.  Sosilus  is  censured  by  Polybius  for  the 
fables  and  absurdities  with  which  he  had  overlaid  his  history  ;  and 
Silenus  is  cited  only  as  an  authority  for  dreams  and  prodigies.  The 
former  is  said  also  to  have  acted  as  Hannibal's  instructor  in  Greek,  a 
language  which,  at  least  in  the  latter  years  of  his  life,  he  spoke  with 
fluency  ;  and  in  which  he  even  composed,  diiringhis  residence  at  the 
court  of  Prusias,  a  history  of  the  expedition  of  Cn.  Manlius  Vulso 
against  the  Galatians.  If  we  may  believe  Zonares,  he  was,  at  an 
early  age,  master  of  several  other  languages  also,  Latin  among  the  rest ; 
but  this  seems  at  least  very  doubtful.  Dion  Cassius,  however,  also 
bears  testimony  to  his  having  received  an  excellent  education,  not 
only  in  Punic,  but  in  Greek  learning  and  literature.  During  his  res- 
idence in  Spain,  Hannibal  had  married  the  daughter  of  a  Spanisi 
but  we  do  not  learn  that  he  left  any  children. 


THE  BJTD. 


LIFE    OF    JULIUS    CAESAR. 


CHAPTER  I. 

*TIOM  THE  CONSULSHIP  OF  POMPEY  AND  CRA88US  TO  THE  RETURN 
OP  POMPEY  FROM  THE  EAST— CAESAR— CICERO—CATILINE.  (69-61 
B.C.) 

C.  JULIUS  CAESAR  was  born  of  an  old  patrician  family  in  the  year 
100  B.C.  He  was  therefore  six  years  younger  than  Pompey  and 
Cicero.  His  father,  C.  Caesar,  did  not  live  to  reach  the  consulship. 
His  uncle  Sextus  held  that  high  dignity  in  91  B.C.,  just  before  the 
outbreak  of  the  Social  War.  That  L.  Caesar  who  held  command  in 
the  first  year  of  that  war  (90  B.C.),  and  was  author  of  the  famous 
Julian  law  for  enfranchising  the  Allies,  was  a  more  distant  kinsman, 
who  adhered  to  the  aristocratical  party  and  fell  a  victim  in  the  Marian 
massacre.  But  the  connection  on  which  the  young  patrician  most 
prided  himself  was  the  marriage  of  his  aunt  Julia  with  the  famous 
C.  Marius  ;  and  at  the  early  age  of  seventeen  he  declared  his  adhe- 
sion to  the  popular  party  by  espousing  Cornelia,  the  daughter  of 
Cinna,  who  was  at  that  time  absolute  master  of  Rome.*  On  the  re- 
turn of  Sylla,  he  boldly  refused  to  repudiate  this  wife,  and  only  saved 
4iis  life  by  skulking  in  the  Apennines.  But  at  length  his  aristocratic 
friends  induced  the  dictator  to  pardon  him.  Sylla  gave  way  against 
his  own  judgment,  and  told  the  nobles  to  whom  he  bequeathed 
authority  to  "beware  of  that  dissolute  boy.  "f  His  first  military 
service  was  performed  under  the  praetor  L.  Minucius  Thermus,  who 
was  left  by  Sylla  to  take  Mitylene  ;  and  in  the  siege  of  that  place  he 
won  a  civic  crown  for  saving  the  life  of  a  Roman  citizen.  On  the 
death  of  Sylla  he  returned  to  Rome,  and,  after  the  custom  of  am- 
bitious young  Romans,  though  he  was  but  in  his  twenty-third  year, 
he  indicted  Cn.  Dolabella,  a  partisan  of  Sylla,  for  extortion  in  his 
province  of  Macedonia.  The  senatorial  jury  acquitted  Dolabella  as 

*  Yet  he  bad  already  bean  married  before  to  Cogsutia,  a  rich  hoirws.    H*  di- 
vorced her  to  marry  Cornelia, 
t  Dio  C.  xliii.  48,  etc. 


4  LIFE    OF   JULIUS   C.ESAR. 

a  matter  of  course  ;  but  the  credit  gained  by  the  young  orator  was 
great ;  and  he  went  to  Rhodes  to  study  rhetoric  under  Molo,  in  whose 
school  Cicero  had  lately  been  taking  lessons.  It  was  on  his  way  to 
Rhodes  that  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  Cilician  pirates.  Redeemed  by 
a  heavy  ransom,  he  collected  some  ships  at  Miletus,  attacked  his  cap- 
tors, took  the  greater  part  of  them  prisoners,  and  crucified  them  at 
Pergamus,  according  to  a  threat  which  he  had  often  made  while  he 
had  been  their  prisoner.  About  the  year  74  B.C.  he  heard  that  he  had 
been  chosen  as  one  of  the  pontifices,  to  succeed  his  uncle  C.  Aurelius 
Cotta,  and  he  instantly  returned  to  Rome,  where  he  remained  for 
some  years,  leading  apparently  a  life  of  pleasure,  taking  little  out- 
ward part  in  politics,  but  yet,  by  his  winning  manners  and  open- 
handed  generosity,  laying  in  a  large  store  of  popularity.  Many  wri- 
ters attribute  to  him  a  secret  agency  in  most  of  the  events  of  the  time. 
The  early  attachment  which  he  showed  to  the  Marian  party,  and  his 
bold  defiance  of  Sylla's  orders,  prove  that  he  was  quite  willing  .imd 
able  to  act  against  the  senatorial  oligarchy  whenever  opportunity 
might  offer.  But  we  have  no  positive  evidence  on  the  matter,  fur- 
ther than  that  it  was  his  uncle  C.  Cotta  who  in  75  B.C.  proposed  to 
restore  to  the  tribunes  some  portion  of  the  dignity  they  had  lost  by 
the  Syllan  legislation,  and  that  it  was  another  uncle,  L.  Cotta,  who 
was  author  of  the  celebrated  law  (70  B.C.)  for  reorganizing  the  juries. 
After  his  consulship,  as  we  have  seen,  Pompey  had  remained  for 
two  years  in  dignified  ease  at  Rome,  envied  by  Crassus,  and  reposing 
on  the  popularity  he  had  won.  In  67  B.C.  he  left  the  city  to  take  the 
command  against  the  pirates.  In  that  year  Ca-sar,  being  now  in  his 
thirty-third  year,  was  elected  quaestor,  and  signalized  his  year  of 
office  by  an  elaborate  panegyric  over  the  body  of  his  aunt  Julia,  the 
widow  of  Marius.  His  wife  Cornelia  died  in  the  same  year,  and 
gave  occasion  to  another  funeral  harangue.  In  both  of  these  speeches 
the  political  allusions  were  evident ;  and  he  ventured  to  have  the 
1)11*4  of  Marius  carried  in  procession  among  his  family  images  for  the 
first  time  since  the  terrible  dictatorship  of  Sylla.  In  65  B.C.  he  was 
circled  curule  gedile,  and  increased  his  popularity  by  exhibiting 
three  hundred  and  twenty  pairs  of  gladiators,  and  conducting  all  the 
games  on  a  scale  of  unusual  magnificence.  The  expense  of  these 
exhibitions  was  in  great  measure  borne  "by  his  colleague  M.  Bibulus, 
who  naively  complained  that  Caesar  had  all  the  credit  of  the  shows — 
"  just  as  the  temple  of  the  Dioscuri,  though  belonging  both  to  Castof 
;nid  Pollux,  bore  the  name  of  Castor  only."  But  he  did  not  confine 
himself  to  winning  applause  by  theatrical  spectacles.  As  curator  of 
the  Appian  Way  he  expended  a  large  sum  from  his  own  resources. 
The  Cimbrian  trophies  of  Marius  had  been  thrown  down  by  Sylla, 
and  no  public  remembrance  existed  of  the  services  rendered  to  Rome 
by  her  greatest  soldier.  The  popular  a?dile  ordered  the  images  and 
trophies,  with  suitable  inscriptions,  to  be  secretly  restored  ;  and  in 
one  night  he  contrived  to  have  them  set  up  upon  the  Capitol,  so  that 


LIFE    OF   JULIUS   CJESAR.  5 

at  daybreak  men  were  astonished  by  the  unaccustomed  sight.  Old 
soldiers  who  had  served  with  Marius  shed  tears.  All  the  party  op- 
posed to  Sylla  and  the  senate  took  heart  at  this  boldness,  and  recog- 
nized their  chief.  So  important  was  the  matter  deemed,  that  it  was 
brought  before  the  senate,  and  Catulus  accused  Caesar  of  openly  as- 
saulting the  constitution.  But  nothing  was  done  or  could  be  done 
to  check  his  movements.  In  all  things  he  kept  cautiously  within  the 
law. 

The  year  of  his  aedilcship  was  marked  by  the  appearance  of  a  man 
destined  to  an  infamous  notoriety — L.  Sergius  Catilina,  familiar  to 
all  under  the  name  of  Catiline. 

For  some  time  after  the  death  of  Sylla,  the  weariness  and  desire  of 
repose  which  always  follows  violent  revolutionary  movements  had 
disposed  all  ranks  of  society  to  acquiesce  in  the  senatorial  rule  estab- 
lished by  the  dictator.  But  more  than  one  class  of  men  soon  found 
themselves  ill  at  ease,  and  the  elements  of  trouble  again  began  to 
move  freely.  All  the  families  proscribed  by  Sylla,  remembering 
their  sometime  wealth  and  consequence,  cherished  the  thoughts  thai 
by  a  new  revolution  they  might  recover  what  they  had  lost ;  and  tin; 
enthusiasm  displayed  when  by  the  happy  temerity  of  Caesar  the 
trophies  of  Marius  were  restored,  revealed  to  the  senate  both  the  num- 
ber and  the  increasing  boldness  of  their  political  enemies.  But  be- 
sides these  avowed  enemies  there  was  a  vast  number  of  persons, 
formerly  attached  to  Sylla,  who  shared  the  discontent  of  the  Marian 
party.  The  dictator  paid  the  services  of  his  instruments,  but  he  left 
all  real  power  in  the  hands  of  a  few  great  families.  His  own 
creatures  were  allowed  to  amass  money,  but  remained  without  polit- 
ical power.  Pompey  and  Crassus,  who  rose  independently  of  him. 
and  almost  in  despite  of  his  will,  belonged  to  families  so  distinguished 
that  in  any  state  of  things  they  might  have  reached  the  consulate. 
But  the  upstarts  who  enjoyed  a  transient  greatness  while  Sylla  \va  . 
dictator  found  themselves  rapidly  reduced  to  obscurity.  With  tli" 
recklessness  of  men  who  had  become  suddenly  rich,  they  had  for  tin- 
most  part  squandered  their  fortunes.  Neither  money  nor  power  was 
theirs.  These  men  were  for  the  most  part  soldiers,  and  ready  for  any 
violence  which  might  restore  their  wealth  and  their  importance. 
They  only  wanted  chiefs.  These  chiefs  they  found  among  the  spend- 
thrift and  profligate  members  of  noble  families,  who  like  themselves 
had  enjoyed  the  license  of  the  revolutionary  times  now  gone  by,  an  1 
like  themselves  were  excluded  from  the  councils  of  the  respectable 
though  narrow-minded  men  who  composed  the  senate  and  adminis- 
tered the  government.  These  were  the  young  nobles,  effeminate  and 
debauched,  reckless  of  blood,  of  whom  Oicero  often  speaks  with 
horror. 

Of  these  adventurers  Catiline  was  by  far  the  most  remarkable,  lie 
belonged  to  an  old  patrician  gens,  and  had  distinguished  himself 
both  by  valor  and  cruelty  in  the  late  civil  war.  He  is  said  to  have 


6  LIFE    OF   JULIUS    CJESAR. 

murdered  bis  own  brother,  and  to  bave  secure J  impunity  by  getting 
the  name  of  his  victim  placed  on  the  proscribed  lists.  A  beautiful 
and  profligate  lady,  by  name  Aurelia  Orestilla,  refused  his  proffered 
hand  because  he  had  a  grown-up  son  by  a  former  marriage  ;  and  this 
son  speedily  ceased  to  live.  Notwithstanding  these  and  other 
crimes,  real  or  imputed,  the  personal  qualities  of  Catiline  gave  him 
great  ascendency  over  the  people  at  large,  and  especially  over  the 
young  nobles,  who  lacked  money,  and  who  were  jealous  of  the  few 
great  families  that  now,  as  before  the  times  of  the  Gracchi,  had  ab- 
sorbed all  political  power.  His  strength  and  activity  were  such, 
that,  notwithstanding  his  debaucheries,  he  was  superior  to  the 
soldiers  at  their  own  exercises,  and  could  encounter  skilled  gladi- 
ators with  their  own  weapons.  His  manners  were  open  and  genial, 
and  he  was  never  known  to  desert  friends.  By  qualities  so  nearly 
resembling  virtues,  it  is  not  strange  that  he  deceived  many,  and  ob- 
tained mastery  over  more.  In  68  B.C.  he  was  elected  praetor,  and  in 
the  following  year  became  governor  of  the  province  of  Africa.  Here 
he  spent  two  years  in  the  practice  of  evrery  crime  that  is  imputed  to 
Roman  provincial  rulers.  During  the  year  of  Caesar's  aedileship, 
Catiline  was  accused  by  no  less  a  person  tnan  the  profligate  P.  Clodi- 
us  Pulcher,  who  cared  not  how  or  at  whose  expense  he  gained  dis- 
tinction. Catiline  had  intended  in  that  year  to  offer  himself  candi- 
date for  the  consulship.  But  while  this  accusation  was  pending,  the 
law  forbade  him  to  come  forward  ;  and  this  obstacle  so  irritated  him 
that  he  took  advantage  of  a  critical  juncture  of  circumstances  to  plan 
a  new  revolution. 

The  senatorial  chiefs,  in  their  wish  to  restore  at  least  an  outward 
show  of  decency,  had  countenanced  the  introduction  of  a  very  severe 
law  to  prevent  bribery  by  L.  Calpurnius  Piso,  consul  for  the  year  67 
B.C.  Under  this  law  P.  Cornelius  Sulla  and  P.  Autronius  PaHus, 
consuls-elect  for  65  B.C.,  were  indicted  and  found  guilty.  Their 
election  was  declared  void.  L.  Aurelius  Cotta  and  L.  Manlius  Tor- 
quatus,  their  accusers,  were  nominated  by  the  senate  consuls  in  their 
stead,  without  the  formality  of  a  new  election.  Catiline  found 
Autronius  ready  for  any  violence  ;  and  these  two  entered  into  a  con- 
spiracy with  another  profligate  young  ncbleman,  byname  Cn.  I'iso, 
to  murder  the  new  consuls  on  the  calends  of  January — the  day  on 
which  they  entered  upon  office — and  to  seize  the  supreme  authority 
for  themselves.  The  scheme  is  said  to  have  failed  only  because  Cat- 
iline gave  the  signal  of  attack  before  the  armed  assassins  had  as- 
sembled in  sufficient  numbers  to  begin  their  work. 

That  this  attempt  was  either  not  generally  known  or  not  generally 
believed  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  Cn.  Piso  was  intrusted  by  the 
senate  with  the  government  of  Spain.  Hardly  had  he  arrived  when 
he  was  murdered  by  the  Spanish  horsemen  in  attendance  upon  his  per- 
son, men  who  had  formerly  served  under  Pompey  in  the  Sertorian  war. 
But  who  were  the  instigators  and  what  the  causes  of  this  dark  deed 
were  things  never  known. 


Catiline  was  acquitted  on  his  trial,  no  doubt  by  the  intentional  mis- 
conduct of  the  case  by  Clodius.  We  are  astonished  to  find  the  con- 
sul Torquatus  appear  as  his  advocate,  and  to  read  a  private  letter  of 
Cicero,  in  which  the  orator  expressed  his  willingness  to  undertake 
the  same  disreputable  office.  The  reason  which  he  gives  himself  for 
this  assent  is  that  in  the  next  year  he  was  to  be  candidate-  for  the 
consulship  :  if  Catiline  were  acquitted,  he  also  would  be  a  com- 
petitor ;  and  it  would  be  better  to  have  him  as  a  friend  than  as  an 
enemy.  This  alone  speaks  loudly  for  the  influence  of  Catiline  ;  for 
at  the  same  time  Cicero  privately  asserts  his  conviction  that  his  guilt 
was  clear  as  noonday. 

In  the  next  year  (64  B.C.)  Cassar  made  another  movement  in  ad- 
vance against  the  Syllan  party,  by  bringing  to  trial  two  obscure  men 
who  had  slain  persons  under  the  authority  of  Sylla's  law  of  proscrip- 
tion. They  were  found  guilty  and  condemned.  One  of  them,  L. 
Bellienus,  was  an  uncle  of  Catiline.  On  this  hint,  L.  Lucceius 
brought  Catiline  himself  to  trial  for  the  same  offence.  He  was  ac- 
quitted, probably  by  the  exercise  of  influence  which  the  obscure  per- 
sons assailed  by  Caesar  were  unable  to  procure.  But  the  condemna- 
tion of  any  person  for  obeying  the  ordinances  of  Sylla  was  a  notable 
encroachment  on  the  authority  of  his  constitutional  regulations  ;  and 
the  success  which  attended  this  step  showed  the  discretion  and  judg- 
ment of  Caesar  in  the  conduct  of  political  warfare. 

Catiline  was  now  free  to  offer  himself  for  the  consulship.  There 
was  every  reason  to  fear  his  success.  Five  of  the  six  candidates  who 
opposed  him  were  men  of  little  note,  and  many  of  them  men  of  in- 
different character.  The  sixth  was  Cicero,  whose  obscure  birth  was 
a  strong  objection  against  him  in  the  eyes  of  the  senatorial  nobility. 
But  they  had  no  choice.  C.  Autonius,  brother  of  M.  Antonius  Cre- 
ticus,  and  younger  son  of  the  great  orator,  was  considered  sure  of  his 
election  ;  and  he  was  inclined  to  form  a  coalition  with  Catiline.  Ci- 
cero was  supported  by  the  Equites,  by  the  friends  of  Pompey  whom 
he  had  so  well  served  by  his  speech  for  the  Manilian  law,  and  by  a 
number  of  persons  whom  he  had  obliged  by  his  services  as  advocate. 
What  part  he  had  hitherto  taken  in  politics  had  been  decidedly  in 
opposition  to  the  senate.  In  early  youth  he  had  distinguished  him- 
self by  a  daring  attack  upon  Sylla's  proscriptions.  As  aedile-elect 
he  had  strengthened  the  hands  of  Pompey  in  his  assault  on  the  sen- 
atorial courts  by  his  bold  and  uncompromising  accusation  of  Verres. 
Lastly,  he  had  given  offence  to  Catulus  and  the  leaders  of  the  senate 
by  his  eloquent  support  of  the  Manilian  law.  But  necessity  knows 
no  rule  ;  and  to  keep  out  Catiline,  whom  they  feared  and  hated,  the 
senatorial  chiefs  resolved  to  support  Cicero,  whom  they  disliked  and 
despised.  The  orator  himself  showed  his  usual  activity.  Publicly 
he  inveighed  against  the  coalition  of  Antonius  and  Catiline  ;  private- 
ly he  made  advances  to  Antonius.  His  personal  popularity  and  tha 
support  of  the  aristocracy  placed  him  at  the  bead  of  tUe  poll.  An- 


8  LIFE   OF   JULIUS   C^ESAE. 

tonius  was  returned  as  his  colleague,  though  he  headed  Catiline  by 
the  votes  of  very  few  centuries. 

We  now  come  to  the  memorable  year  of  Cicero's  consulship,  63 
B.C.  It  was  generally  believed  that  Catiline's  second  disappoint- 
ment in  suing  for  the  chief  object  of  a  Roman's  ambition  would 
drive  him  to  a  second  conspiracy.  Immediately  after  his  election, 
Cicero  at  once  attached  himself  to  the  senate  and  justified  their 
choice.  To  detach  Antonius  from  connection  with  Catiline,  he  vol- 
untarily ceded  to  him  the  lucrative  province  of  Macedonia,  which  he 
had  obtained  by  lot.  But  Catiline's  measures  were  conducted  with 
so  much  secrecy  that  for  several  months  no  clue  was  obtained  to  his 
designs. 

.Meantime  Cicero  had  other  difficulties  to  meet.  Among  the  trib- 
unes of  the  year  were  two  persons  attached  to  Caesar's  party,  Q.  SLT- 
vilius  Rullus  and  T.  Atius  Labienus.  The  tribunes  entered  upon 
their  office  nearly  a  month  before  the  consuls  ;  and  in  these  few  days 
Rullus  had  come  forward  with  an  agrarian  law,  by  which  it  was 
proposed  to  revive  the  measure  of  Cinna,  and  divide  the  rich  public 
lands  of  Campania  among  the  poor  citizens  of  the  tribes.  Cicero's 
devotion  to  his  new  political  friends  was  shown  by  the  ready  alacrity 
with  which  he  opposed  this  popular  measure.  On  the  calends  of 
January,  the  very  day  upon  which  he  entered  office,  he  delivered  a 
vehement  harangue  in  the  senate  against  the  measure,  which  he  fol- 
lowed up  by  elaborate  speeches  in  the  forum.  He  pleased  himself 
by  thinking  that  it  was  in  consequence  of  these  efforts  that  Rullus 
Avitlulrew  his  bill.  But  it  is  probable  that  Caesar,  the  real  author  of 
the  law,  cared  little  for  its  present  success.  In  bringing  it  forward 
he  secured  favor  for  himself.  In  forcing  Cicero  to  take  part  against 
it,  he  deprived  the  eloquent  orator  of  a  large  portion  of  his  hard-won 
popularity. 

Soon  after  this  Caesar  employed  the  services  of  T.  Labienus  to 
follow  up  the  blow  which  in  'the  preceding  year  he  had  struck 
against  the  proscription  of  Sylla  by  an  assault  upon  the  arbitrary 
power  assumed  by  the  senate  in  dangerous  emergencies.  It  will  be 
remembered  that  in  the  sixth  consulship  of  Marius  the  revolutionary 
enterprise  of  the  tribune  Saturninus  had  been  put  down  by  resort- 
ing to  the  arbitrary  power  just  noticed.  Labienus,  whose  uncle  had 
perished  by  the  side  of  Saturniuus,  now  indicted  C.  Rabirius,  an 
aged  senator,  for  having  slain  the  tribune.  It  was  well  known  that 
the  actual  perpetrator  of  the  deed  was  a  slave  named  Scaeva,  who 
had  been  publicly  rewarded  for  his  services.  But  Rabirius  had  cer- 
tainly been  in  the  midst  of  the  assailants,  and  it  was  easy  to  accuse 
him  of  complicity.  The  actual  charge  brought  against  him  was  that 
he  was  guilty  of  high  treason  (perdudlio) ;  and  if  he  were  found 
guilty,  it  would  follow  that  all  persons  who  hereafter  obeyed  the 
senate  in  taking  up  arms  against  seditious  persons  would  be  liable  to 
A  similar  charge.  The  cause  was  tried  before  the  duumviri,  one  of 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS  C^ESAE.  9 

whom  was  L.  Caesar,  consul  of  the  preceding  year  ;  the  other  was  C. 
Caesar  himself.  Hortensius  and  Cicero  defended  the  old  senator.  It 
would  seem  almost  impossible  for  Caesar  to  condemn  an  act  which 
was  justified  by  Marius  himself,  who  had  been  obliged  to  lead  the 
assault.  upon  the  tribune's  party.  But  Caesar's  object  was  wholly 
political,  and  he  was  not  troubled  by  scruples.  The  duumviri  found 
Rabirius  guilty. 

From  this  judgment  the  old  senator  appealed  to  the  popular  assembly. 
Cicero  again  came  forward,  in  his  consular  robes,  to  defend  him.  He 
was  only  allowed  half  aii  hour  for  his  speech  ;  but  the  defence  which 
he  condensed  into  that  narrow  space  was  unanswerable,  and  must 
have  obtained  a  verdict  for  his  client,  if  it  had  been  addressed  to  a 
calm  audience.  The  people,  however,  were  eager  to  humiliate  the 
senatorial  government,  and  were  ready  to  vote,  not  according  to  the 
justice  of  the  case,  but  according  to  their  present  political  passion. 
In  vain  the  senators  descended  into  the  assembly  and  implored  for  a 
vote  of  acquittal.  Kabirius  would  certainly  have  been  condemned 
had  not  Q.  Metellus  Celer,  praetor  of  the  city,  taken  down  the  standard 
which  from  ancient  times  floated  from  the  Janiculum  during  the  sit- 
ting of  the  comitia.  *  But  Caasar's  purpose  was  effectually  answered. 
The  governing  body  had  been  humbled,  and  their  right  to  place 
seditious  persons  under  a  sentence  of  outlawry  had  been  called  in 
question.  We  may  almost  suppose  that  Caesar  himself  suggested  to 
Metellus  the  mode  of  stopping  the  trial  ;  for  he  was  never  inclined  to 
shed  blood  and  oppress  the  innocent,  unless  when  he  deemed  it 
necessary  for  his  political  ends. 

About  the  same  time  Caesar  promoted  an  accusation  against  C. 
Calpurnius  Piso  for  malversation  in  his  government  of  Gallia  Nar- 
boneusis.  Piso,  when  consul,  had  led  the  opposition  to  the  Gabinian 
law.  He  was  acquitted  on  the  present  charge,  and  became  one  of 
Ca'sar's  most  determined  enemies.! 

Cicero  lost  still  more  favor  by  the  successful  opposition  which  he 
offered  to  an  attempt  to  restore  to  their  political  rights  the  sons  of 
those  who  had  bi;en  on  the  proscribed  lists  of  Sylla.  In  this  he  well 
served  the  purpose  of  the  senate  by  excluding  from  the  comitia  their 
mortal  enemies  ;  but  he  incurred  many  personal  enmities,  and  he  ad- 
vocated a  sentence  which  was  manifestly  unjust  and  could  be  just 
tied  only  by  necessity.  In  return  for  these  services  ho  induced  his 
new  friends  to  second  him  in  some  measures  of  practical  reform. 
He  procured  a  law  against  bribery  still  more  stringent  than  the  Cal- 


*  A  cnptom  probably  derived  from  the  times  when  the  Etruscans  were  fo«8  of 
Rome.  The  removal  of  the  standard  was,  In  those  times,  a  signal  of  tin-  enemy's 
approach,  and  on  this  signal  the  Comitia  Centunata  became  an  army  ready  tor  bat- 
tle. The  form  remained,  though  the  reason  had  long  passed  away. 

t  This  C.  Piso,  the  aristocrat,  must  be  carefully  distinguished  from  Cn.  Piso  the 
dissolute  associate  of  Catiline,  and  from  L.  Piso,  the  enemy  of  Cicero  and  father-in- 
law  of  Ca-sar.  Several  other  Pisos  occur  iu  this  period,  and  thuir  identity  of  aam« 


. 
leads  to  souiu  confusion. 


10  LIFE   OF   JULIUS   CAESAR. 

purnian  law  of  67  B.C.  At  his  instance  the  senate  gave  up  the  priv- 
ilege by  which  every  senator  was  entitled  to  free  quarters  in  any  city 
of  the  empire,  on  pretence  that  they  were  engaged  in  the  service  of 
the  state. 

About  this  time  the  age  and  infirmities  of  Metellus  Pius  made 
probable  a  vacancy  in  the  high  office  of  pontifex  maximus  ;  and 
Labienus  introduced  a  law  by  which  the  right  of  election  to  this  office 
was  restored  to  the  tribes,  according  to  the  rule  observed  before 
Sylla's  revolution.  Very  soon  after,  Metellus  died,  and  Caesar  offered 
himself  as  a  candidate  for  this  high  office.  Catulus,  chief  of  the  sen- 
ate and  the  respectable  leader  of  the  governing  party,  also  came  for- 
ward, as  well  as  P.  Servilius  Isauricus.  Caesar  had  been  one  of  the 
pontiffs  from  early  youth  ;  but  he  was  known  to  be  unscrupulous  in 
his  pleasures  as  in  his  politics,  overwhelmed  with  debt,  careless  of 
religion.  His  election,  however,  was  a  trial  of  political  strength 
merely.  It  was  considered  so  certain,  that  Catulus  attempted  to  take 
advantage  of  the  heavy  debts  which  embarrassed  him  by  offering 
him  a  large  sum  if  he  would  retire  from  the  contest.  Caesar  peremp"- 
torily  refused,  saying  that  if  more  money  were  necessary  for  his  pur- 
poses he  would  borrow  more.  He  probably  anticipated  that  the  sen- 
ate would  use  force  to  oppose  him  ;  for  on  the  morning  of  the  elec- 
tion he  parted  from  his  mother  Aurelia  with  th<3  words,  "  I  shall  re- 
turn as  pontifex  maximus,  or  you  will  see  me  no  more."  His  suc- 
cess was  triumphant.  Even  in  the  tribes  to  which  his  opponents  be- 
longed he  obtained  more  votes  than  they  counted  altogether.  No 
fact  can  more  strongly  prove  the  strength  which  the  popular  party 
had  regained  under  his  adroit  but  unseen  management.  It  is  worth 
noting  that  in  this  year,  when  he  first  appeared  as  master  of  the 
forum,  was  born  his  sister's  son,  M.  Octavius,  who  reaped  the  fruit 
of  all  his  ambitious  endeavors. 

The  year  was  now  fast  waning,  and  nothing  was  known  to  the 
public  of  any  attempts  on  the  part  of  Catiline.  That  dark  and  enter- 
prising person  had  offered  himself  again  as  candidate  for  the  consul- 
ship, and  he  was  anxious  to  keep  all  quiet  till  the  result  was  known. 
But  Cicero  had  become  acquainted  with  a  woman  named  Fulvia- 
mistress  to  Curius,  one  of  Catiline's  confidential  friends,  and  by  her 
means  he  obtained  immediate  knowledge  of  all  the  designs  of  the 
conspirators.  At  length  he  considered  t  hern  so  far  advanced,  that  on 
the  21st  of  October  he  convened  the  senate  and  laid  all  his  informa- 
tion  before  them.  So  convinced  were  they  of  the  danger,  that  on  the 
next  day  a  decree  was  framed  to  invest  the  consuls  with  dictatorial 
power,  to  be  used  at  their  discretion.  At  present,  however,  this  de- 
cree was  kept  secret. 

Soon  after,  the  consular  comitia  were  held,  and  the  election  of  the 
centuries  fell  on  D.  Junius  Silamis  and  L.  Licinius  Murena,  both  of 
them  adherents  of  the  senatorial  party.  Catiline,  disappointed  of  his 
last  hopes  of  election,  convened  his  friends  at  the  house  of  M.  Por- 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS   C^SAK.  11 

cius  Lseca,  on  the  nights  of  the  6th  and  7th  of  November  ;  *  and  at 
this  meeting  it  was  determined  to  proceed  to  action.  0.  Mallius,  an 
old  centurion,  who  had  been  employed  in  levying  troops  secretly  in 
Etruria,  was  sent  to  Fsesulas  as  headquarters,  and  ordered  to  prepare 
for  war  ;  Catiline  and  the  rest  of  his  associates  were  to  organize  rev- 
olutionary movements  within  the  city. 

Cicero  was  immediately  informed  of  these  resolutions  through 
Fulvia,  and  resolved  to  dally  no  longer  with  the  peril.  He  summoned 
the  senate  to  meet  on  the  8th  of  November  in  the  Temple  of  Jupiter 
Stator.  Catiline,  himself  a  senator,  with  marvellous  effrontery,  ap- 
peared in  his  place  ;  but  every  senator  quitted  the  bench  on  which 
he  took  his  seat  and  left  him  alone.  Cicero  now  rose  and  delivered 
that  famous  speech  which  is  entitled  his  First  Oration  against  Catiline. 
The  conspirator  attempted  to  reply  ;  but  a  general  shout  of  execra- 
tion drowned  his  voice.  Unable  to  obtain  a  hearing,  lie  left  the 
senate-house  ;  and,  perceiving  that  his  life  was  in  danger  if  he  re- 
mained at  Rome,  he  summoned  his  associates  together,  and  handed 
over  the  execution  of  his  designs  at  home  to  M.  Leutulus  Sura,  praetor 
of  the  city,  and  C.  Cethegus,  while  on  that  same  night  he  himself 
left  Rome  to  join  Mallius  at  Fajsulae.  On  the  following  morning 
Cicero  assembled  the  people  in  the  forum,  and  there  in  his  second 
speech  he  told  them  of  the  flight  of  Catiline  and  explained  its  cause. 

The  senate  now  made  a  second  decree,  in  which  Catiline  and  Mal- 
lius were  proclaimed  public  enemies  ;  and  the  consul  Antonius  was 
directed  to  take  the  command  of  an  army  destined  to  act  against 
him,  while  to  Cicero  was  committed  the  care  of  the  city.  Cicero 
was  at  a  loss  how  to  act  ;  for  he  was  not  able  to  bring  forward  Ful- 
via as  a  witness,  and  alter  the  late  proceedings  against  Rabirius  he 
was  obliged  to  be  very  cautious  in  resorting  to  the  use  of  dictatorial 
power.  But  at  this  moment  he  obtained  full  and  direct  proof  of  the 
intentions  of  the  conspirators.  There  were  then  present  at  Rome 
ambassadors  from  the  Allobroges,  whose  business  it  was  to  solicit 
relief  from  the  oppression  of  their  governors  and  from  the  debts 
which  they  had  incurred  to  the  Roman  treasury.  The  senate  heard 
them  coldly,  and  Lentulus  took  advantage  of  their  discontent  to 
make  overtures  to  them  in  hope  of  obtaining  military  aid  from  their 
countrymen  against  the  senatorial  leaders.  At  first  they  lent  a  ready 
ear  to  his  offers,  but  thought  it  prudent  to  disclose  these  offers  to  Q. 
Fabius  Sanga,  whose  family  had  long  been  engaged  to  protect  their 
interests  at  Rome.f  Fabius  at  once  communicated  with  Cicero.  By 
the  consul's  directions,  the  Allobrogian  envoys  continued  their  in- 

*  Our  Jan  llth,  62  B.C.  In  this  and  all  following  dates  correction  must  be  made 
to  obtain  the  real  time.  The  Roman  1st  of  January  of  this  year  would  be  by  our 
reckoning  the  14th  of  March.  It  must  be  observed  also  that  the  Romans i  reckoned 
the  night  us  belonging  to  the  following  day.  What  we  call  the  night  of  the  bth  of 
November  would  be  with  them  the  night  of  the  7th.  . 

t  They  had  been  conquered  by  Q.  Fabius Maximus,  nephew  of  Scipio  ^Emillflnuii. 


l;i  LIFB    OF   JULIUS   CJESAK. 

trigue  with  Lentulus,  and  demanded  written  orders,  signed  by  him- 
self, Cethegus,  and  others  of  the  chief  conspirators,  to  serve  us  cre- 
dentials to  their  nation.  Bearing  these  fatal  documents,  they  set  out 
from  Rome  on  the  evening  of  the  3d  of  December  (5th  of  February, 
B.C.),  accompanied  by  one  T.  Vulturcius,  who  carried  letters  from 
Lentulus  to  Catiline  himself.  Cicero,  kept  in  full  information  of 
every  fact,  ordered  the  pra3tors  L.  Flaccus  and  C.  Pomptinus  to 
take  post  with  a  sufficient  force  upon  the  MUlvian  Bridge.  Here  the 
envoys  were  quietly  arrested,  together  with  Vulturcius,  and  all  their 
papers  were  seized. 

Early  next  morning,  Cicero  sent  for  Lentulus,  Cethegus,  and  the 
others  who  had  signed  the  Allobrogian  credentials,  to  his  house. 
Utterly  ignorant  of  what  had  passed,  they  came;  and  the  consul, 
holding  the  praetor  Lentulus  by  the  hand,  and  followed  by  the  rest, 
went  straight  to  the  Temple  of  Concord,  where  he  had  summoned 
the  senate  to  meet.  Vulturcius  and  the  Allobrogian  envoys  were 
now  brought  in,  and  the  praetor  Flaccus  produced  the  papers  which 
lie  had  seized.  The  evidence  was  so  clearly  bi  ought  to  a  point  that 
the  conspirators  at  once  confessed  their  handwriting  ;  and  the  senate 
decreed  "that  Lentulus  should  be  deprived  of  his  praetorship,  and 
that  he  with  his  accomplices  should  be  put  into  the  hands  of  eminent 
senators,  who  were  to  be  answerable  for  their  persons.  Lentulus  fell 
to  the  charge  of  P.  Lentulus  Spinther,  who  was  then  sedile,  Cethegus 
to  that  of  Q.  Cornificius,  Statilius  to  Caesar,  Gabinius  to  Crassns, 
Caeparius  to  Cn.  Terentius.  Immediately  after  the  execution  of  this 
decree,  Cicero  went  forth  into  the  forum,  and  in  his  third  speech  de- 
tailed to  the  assembled  people  all  the  circumstances  which  had  been 
discovered.  Not  only  had  two  knights  been  commissioned  by 
Cethegus  to  kill  Cicero  in  his  chamber,  a  fate  which  the  consul 
eluded  by  refusing  them  admission,  but  it  had  been  resolved  to  set 
the  city  on  fire  in  twelve  places  at  once,  as  soon  as  it  was  known  that 
Catiline  and  Mallius  were  ready  to  advance  at  the  head  of  an  armed 
force.  Lentulus,  who  belonged  to  the  great  Cornelian  gens,  had 
been  buoyed  up  by  a  Sibylline  prophecy,  which  promised  the  domin- 
ion over  Rome  to  "  three  C's  :"  he  was  to  be  the  third  Cornelius 
after  Cornelius  Cinna  and  Cornelius  Sylla.  But  it  was  to  his  slug- 
gish remissness  that  the  fiery  Cethegus  attributed  their  ignominious 
failure  ;  and  it  is  probable  that  if  the  chief  .conduct  of  the  business 
had  been  left  to  this  desperate  man,  some  attempt  at  a  rising  would 
have  been  made. 

The  certainty  of  danger  and  the  feeling  of  escape  filled  all  hearts 
with  indignation  against  the  Catilinarian  gang  ;  and  for  a  moment 
Cicero  and  the  senate  rose  to  the  height  of  popularity. 

Two  days  after  (December  5  =  February  7,  62  "B.C.),  the  senate 
was  once  more  summoned  to  decide  the  fate  of  the  captive  conspira- 
tors. Silanus,  as  consul-elect,  was  first  asked  his  opinion,  and  he 
gave  it  in  favor  of  death.  Ti.  Nero  moved  that  the  question  should 


OF  JULILfS   (LESAR.  13 

be  adjourned  till  the  contest  with  Catiline  in  the  field  was  brought  to 
an  end.  Csesar,  who  was  then  praetor-elect,  spoke  against  capital 
punishment  altogether,  and  proposed  that  the  prisoners  should  be 
condemned  to  perpetual  chains  in  various  cities  of  Italy — taking  care 
incidentally  to  moot  the  question  lately  raised  in  the  case  of  Rabirius 
as  to  the  power  of  the  senate  to  inflict  the  penalty  of  death.  His 
speech  produced  such  an  effect  that  even  Silanus  declared  his  inten- 
tion to  accede  to  Nero's  motion.  But  Cicero  himself  and  Cato  de- 
livered vehement  arguments  in  favor  of  extreme  punishment,  and  the 
majority  voted  with  them.  Immediately  after  the  vote,  the  consul, 
with  a  strong  guard,  conveyed  the  prisoners  to  the  loathsome  dungeon 
called  the  Tullianum,  and  here  they  were  strangled  by  the  public  ex- 
ecutioners. 

It  is  difficult  to  see  how  the  state  could  have  been  imperilled  by 
suffering  the  culprits  to  live — at  least  till  they  had  been  allowed  the 
chances  of  a  regular  trial.  If  Rabirius  was  held  guilty  for  taking 
part  in  putting  Saturninus  to  death — a  man  who  was  actually  in  arms 
against  the  government — what,  had  Cicero  to  expect  from  those  who 
were  ready  to  deliver  this  verdict  ?  It  was  not  long  before  he  had 
cause  to  rue  his  over-zealous  haste.  But,  at  present,  a  panic  fear 
pervaded  all  classes.  No  one  knew  what  danger  threatened  and  who 
might  be  the  sufferers.  At  the  moment,  the  popular  voice  ratified 
the  judgment  of  Cato,  when  he  proclaimed  Cicero  to  have  justly  de- 
served the  title  of  "  Father  of  his  Country." 

Before  the  clos«  of  the  consular  year,  the  consul-elect  Murena  was 
indicted  by  C.  Sulpicius,  one  of  his  competitors,  for  bribery.  The 
accusation  was  supported  by  Cato.  Hortensius  and  Cicero  undertook 
the  defence.  Cicero's  speech  is  extant ;  and  the  buoyant  spirits  with 
which  he  assails  first  the  legal  pedantry  of  Sulpicius  and  then  the  im- 
practicable stoicism  of  Cato  show  how  highly  he  was  elated  by  his 
late  successful  management  in  crushing  the  conspiracy  at  home. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Murena  was  guilty.  The  only  argument 
of  any  force  used  in  his  defence  by  Cicero  was  his  statement  of  the 
danger  of  leaving  the  state  with  but  one  consul  when  Catiline  was  at 
the  head  of  an  army  in  the  field.  And  this  argument  probably  it 
was  that  procured  the  acquittal  of  the  consul-elect. 

The  sequel  may  be  briefly  related.  Before  the  execution  of  his  ac- 
complices, Catiline  was  at  the  head  of  two  complete  legions,  consist- 
ing chiefly  of  Sylla's  veterans.  But  servile  insurrections  in  Apulia 
and  other  places,  on  which  Catiline  counted,  were  promptly  re- 
pressed :  his  own  small  army  was  very  imperfectly  armed  ;  and  their 
leader  avoided  a  conflict  with  Antonius,  who  was  continued  in  com- 
mand as  pro-consul.  When  the  failure  of  the  plot  at  home  reached 
the  insurgents,  many  deserted  ;  and  Catiline  endeavored  to  make 
good  his  retreat  by  Pistoja  into  Cisalpine  Gaul.  But  the  passes  were 
already  beset  by  the  pro'-pnetorMetellus  Celer  ;  the  consul  Antonius 
was  close  behind  ;  and  it  became  necessary  either  to  fight  or  surren- 
A.B.— 12 


14  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   CJESAE. 

der.  Catiline  and  his  desperadoes  chose  the  braver  course.  His 
small  army  was  drawn  up  with  skill.  Antonius,  mindful  of  former 
intimacy  with  Catiline,  alleged  illness  as  a  plea  for  giving  up  the 
command  of  his  troops  to  M.  Petreius,  a  skilful  soldier.  A  short  but 
desperate  conflict  followed.  Mallius  and  his  best  officers  fell  fight- 
ing bravely.  Catiline,  after  doing  the  duties  of  a  good  general  and  a 
brave  soldier,  saw  that  the  day  was  lost,  and  rushing  into  the  thick 
of  battle  fell  with  many  wounds.  He  was  taken  up,  still  breathing, 
•with  a  menacing  frown  stamped  upon  his  brow.  None  were  taken 
prisoners  ;  all  who  died  had  their  wounds  in  front. 

It  is  impossible  to  part  from  this  strange  history  without  adding  a 
word  with  respect  to  the  part  taken  by  Cassar  and  Crassus.  Both 
these  eminent  persons  were  supposed  to  have  been  more  or  less  privy 
to  Catiline's  designs.  If 'the  first  conspiracy  attributed  to  Catiline 
had  succeeded,  we  are  told  that  the  assassins  of  the  consuls  had  in- 
tended to  declare  Crassus  dictator,  and  that  Caesar  was  to  be  master 
of  the  horse.  Suetonius,  in  his  love  for  improbable  gossip,  goes  so 
far  as  to  make  Caasar  a  principal  actor  in  that  first  conspiracy  ;  and 
many  senators  believed,  or  determined  to  believe,  that  he  at  least,  if 
not  Crassus,  was  guilty. 

Nothing  seems  more  improbable  than  that  Crassus  should  have 
countenanced  a  plan  which  involved  the  destruction  of  the  city,  and 
which  must  have  been  followed  by  the  ruin  of  credit.  He  had  con- 
stantly employed  the  large  fortune  which  he  had  amassed  in  the  Syl- 
lan  proscription  for  the  purposes  of  speculation  and  jobbing.  One 
profitable  branch  of  the  latter  business  was  to  buy  up  promising 
youths,  give  them  a  first-rate  education  in  music  or  any  art  to  which 
they  showed  an  aptitude,  and  then  sell  them  at  enormous  price's.  Spec- 
ulations of  this  sort  could  only  succeed  in  a  state  of  political  security. 
To  a  money-lender,  speculator,  and  jobber,  a  violent  revolution,  at- 
tended by  destruction  of  property  and  promising  abolition  of  debts, 
would  be  of  all  things  the  least  desirable.  Crassus  was  not  without 
ambition,  but  he  never  gratified  the  lust  of  power  at  the  expense  of 
his  purse. 

The  case  against  Caesar  bears  at  first  sight  more  likelihood.  Sal- 
lust  represents  Cato  as  hinting  that  Caesar's  wish  to  spare  the  con- 
spirators arose  from  his  complicity  with  them.  As  that  unflinching 
politician  was  speaking  in  the  debate  on  the  punishment  of  the  con- 
spirators, a  note  was  privately  put  into  Caesar's  hand.  Cato  stopped 
and  demanded  that  the  note  should  be  read  aloud.  Caesar  handed  it 
to  his  accuser  ;  it  was  a  billet-doux  from  Servilia,  the  sister  of  Cato 
himself  and  wife  of  Silanus.  "  Take  it,  drunkard,"  retorted  the  disap- 
pointed speaker.  This  first  attack,  then,  had  signally  failed.  But  in 
the  next  year  (02  H.C.),  after  Caesar  had  entered  upon  his  pnaetorship, 
accusations  were  brought  against  several  persons  who  were  doubtless 
guilty.  Among  them  Autronius,  the  accomplice  of  Catiline  in  his 
first  conspiracy,  earnestly  implored  Cicero  to  be  his  advocate.  The 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS   (LESAR.  15 

orator  refused,  and  Autronius  was  condemned.  But,  immediately 
after  this,  the  world  was  scandalized  to  see  the  orator  undertake  the 
defence  of  P.  Sylla,  who  had  been  the  colleague  of  Autronius,  when 
both  were  ejected  from  the  consulship— more  especially  when  it  was 
whispered  that  he  had  received  a  large  sum  for  his  services.  The 
speech  remains,  and  a  comparison  of  this  pleading  with  his  Catilina- 
rian  speeches  shows  that  the  latitude  which  Cicero  allowed  himself 
as  an  advocate  was  little  compatible  with  his  new  character  of  a  po- 
litical leader.  Notwithstanding  the  failure  of  the  indictment  against 
P.  Sylla,  the  success  which  had  lately  attended  their  political  efforts 
encouraged  some  of  the  senatorial  chiefs  to  raise  a  formal  accusation 
against  Caesar.  A  person  called  Veltius,  already  employed  by  Cicero 
as  a  spy,  had  made  a  gainful  trade  of  his  informations,  and  he  offered 
to  produce  a  letter  from  Caesar  to  Catiline  which  would  prove  his 
guilt.  Curius  also  came  forward  with  similar  assertions.  Cicero 
and  the  more  prudent  of  the  senators  wished  at  once  to  quash  these 
tales.  But  Caesar  would  not  be  content,  with  this,  and  in  full  senate 
he  called  on  the  ex-consul  to  state  what  he  knew  of  the  matter. 
Cicero  rose,  and  in  the  most  explicit  manner  declared  that  so  far 
from  Caesar  being  implicated  in  the  plot,  he  had  done  all  that  could 
be  expected  from  a  good  citizen  to  assist  in  crushing  it.  The  people, 
having  learned  what  was  the  question  before  the  senate,  crowded  to 
the  doors  of  the  house  and  demanded  Caesar's  safety.  His  appear- 
ance assured  them,  and  he  was  welcomed  with  loud  applause.  It 
was  only  by  his  interference  that  Vettius  was  saved  from  being  torn 
in  pieces.  Curius  was  punished  by  the  loss  of  the  reward  which  had 
been  promised  for  his  information. 

In  truth,  of  evidence  to  prove  Caesar's  complicity  with  Catiline, 
there  was  really  none  ;  and  the  further  the  case  is  examined  the  less 
appears  to  be  the  probability  of  such  complicity.  The  course  he  had 
pursued  for  the  purpose  of  undermining  the  power  of  the  senatorial 
aristocracy  was  perfectly  consistent,  and  had  been  so  successful 
hitherto  that  he  was  little  likely  to  abandon  it  at  this  precise  moment 
for  a  scheme  of  reckless  ruin  and  violence  from  which  others  would 
reap  the  chief  advantage.  Even  if  Catiline  had  succeeded,  he  must 
have  been  crushed  almost  immediately  by  Pompey,  who  was  prepar- 
ing to  return  to  Italy  at  the  head  of  his  victorious  legions.  The  de- 
sire of  Caesar  to  save  the  lives  of  Lentulus,  Cethegus,  and  the  rest,  is 
at  once  explained,  when  we  remember  that  he  had  just  before  pro- 
moted  the  prosecution  of  Rabirius  for  obeying  an  order  of  the  very 
kind  against  which  he  now  argued.  As  the  leader  of  the  party  of 
the  Gracchi,  of  Saturninus,  and  of  Marius,  it  was  his  cue  always  and 
everywhere  to  protest  against  the  absolute  power  assumed  by  the 
•enate  in  such  emergencies  as  unconstitutional  and  illegal.  It  is 
possible  that  he  may  have  suspected  the  designs  of  Catiline  ;  and  at 
an  earlier  period  he  may  have  been  sounded  by  that  reckless  person, 
as  a  well-known  opponent  of  the  senate.  But  without  claiming  for 


16  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   CAESAR. 

Caesar  any  credit  for  principle  or  scrupulosity,  we  may  safely  con- 
clude that  it  was  utterly  inexpedient  for  him  to  have  any  dealings 
with  Catiline  ;  and  we  may  be  sure  that  he  was  the  last  man  to  be 
•aisled  into  a  rash  enterprise  which  was  not  expedient  for  himself. 


CHAPTER  II. 

f 

POJCPET'S     RETURN— FIRST    TRIUMVIRATE— C^SAK's     CONSULSHIP— 
CLODIU8.      (62-58  B.C.) 

IN  the  first  heat  of  his  triumph,  Cicero  disclosed  the  weakness  of 
his  character.  He  was,  to  speak  plainly,  full  of  inordinate  vanity,  a 
quality  which  above  all  others  deprives  a  man  of  the  social  and  polit- 
ical influence  which  may  otherwise  be  due  to  his  integrity,  industry, 
and  ability.  The  more  violent  among  the  senators  who  had  taken 
him  for  their  leader  in  the  Catilinarian  troubles  were  offended  by  his 
refusal  to  assail  Caesar  ;  all  the  order  was  disgusted  by  the  constant 
iteration  of  his  merits.  An  oligarchy  will  readily  accept  the  services 
of  men  of  the  people  ;  but  they  never  cordially  unite  with  them,  and 
never  forgive  a  marked  assumption  of  personal  superiority.  But  it 
was  not  only  the  senate  at  home  that  was  irritated  by  hearing  Cicero 
repeat,  "  I  am  the  savior  of  Rome  ;  I  am  the  father  of  my  coun- 
try." Pompey  was  now  in  Greece,  on  the  eve  of  returning  to  Italy, 
and  he  had  been  watching  Cicero's  rise  to  political  eminence  not 
without  jealousy.  Metellus  Nepos,*  his  legate,  had  already  re- 
turned to  Rome  with  instructions  from  his  chief,  and  had  been 
elected  Tribune  for  the  next  year.  Cicero,  in  the  fulness  of  his 
heart,  wrote  Pompey  a  long  account  of  his  consulate,  in  which  lie 
had  the  ill  address  to  compare  his  own  triumph  over  Catiline  with 
Pompey 's  eastern  conquests.  The  general  in  his  reply  took  no  no- 
tice of  Cicero's  actions  ;  and  the  orator  wrote  him  a  submissive  let- 
ter, in  which  he  professes  his  hope  of  playing  Laelius  to  his  great 
correspondent's  Africanus.  Meanwhile  Metellus  Nepos  had  entered 
upon  hia  tribuniciau  office,  and  made  no  secret  of  his  disapproval  of 
Cicero's  conduct  in  putting  citizens  to  death  without  trial.  On  the 
calends  of  January,  when  the  ex-consul  intended  to  have  delivered 
an  elaborate  panegyric  on  himself  and  the  senate  for  their  conduct 
in  the  late  events,  the  tribune  interdicted  him  from  speaking  at  ail. 
He  could  do  nothing  more  than  step  forward  and  swear  aloud  that 
"  he  alone  had  preserved  the  republic. "  The  people,  not  yet  recov- 

*  Several  Metelli  are  mixed  up  with  the  history  of  this  period.  Mctcllus  Nepofi 
was  the  younger  brother  of  Metellus  Celer,  who  as  pnetor  was  in  ,-inns  against 
Catiline  in  Cisalpine  Gaul.  They  were  groat-graudsons  of  Metcllus  Balearicus,  and 
therefore  distant  cousins  of  Metellus  Pius. 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS  C^SAB.  17 

ered  from  the  fear  of  Catiline  and  his  crew,  shouted  in  answer  that 
he  had  sworn  the  truth. 

Metellus  Nepos  followed  up  this  assault  by  two  bills — one  empow- 
ering Pompey  to  be  elected  consul  for  the  second  time  in  his  absence  ; 
the  other  investing  him  with  the  command  in  Italy  for  the  purpose 
of  quelling  the  insurrection  of  Catiline.  Caesar  supported  both  these 
motions  ;  but  when  Nepos  began  to  read  them  to  the  people  previ- 
ous to  submitting  them  to  the  votes  of  the  assembly,  Cato,  who  was 
also  one  of  the  tribunes  for  the  year,  snatched  the  paper  from  the 
hand  of  his  colleague  and  tore  it  in  pieces.  Nepos  then  began  to  re- 
cite his  laws  from  memory  ;  but  another  tribune  who  was  in  the  in- 
terest of  the  senate  placed  his  hand  over  his  mouth.  A  tumult  fol- 
lowed. But  popular  feeling  was  at  present  with  those  who  had  so 
resolutely  opposed  Catiline.  Nepos  was  obliged  to  forego  his  bills, 
and  for  the  time  the  senate  triumphed  over  the  agent  of  Pompey. 

On  laying  down  his  praetorship  at  the  close  of  the  year,  Caesar  ob- 
tained Spain  for  his  province.  His  debtors,  fearing  that  he  might 
elude  them  altogether,  threatened  to  detain  him  ;  ami  in  this  emer- 
gency he  applied  to  Crassus,  with  whom  he  had  for  some  time  culti- 
vated friendly  relations.  Crassus,  believing  in  the  fortune  of  Copsar, 
advanced  the  required  sums,  and  the  pro-praetor  set  out  for  Spain  at 
the  very  beginning  of  the  year  61  B.C. 

Pompey,  after  his  progress  through  Greece,  had  arrived  in  Italy, 
but  not  at  Rome.  Great  apprehensions  were  felt  there  ;  for  he  was 
at  the  head  of  an  army  devoted  to  his  person,  and  therefore  his 
power  was  not  to  be  doubted  ;  he  was  as  silent  on  political  matters 
as  Monk  on  the  eve  of  the  Restoration,  and  therefore  his  intentions 
were  suspected.  But  all  fears  and  jealousies  were  dissipated  for  the 
moment,  when  he  addressed  his  soldiers  at  Brundusium,  thanked 
them  for  their  faithful  services,  and  dismissed  them  to  their  respec- 
tive homes  till  it  was  time  for  them  to  attend  his  triumph.  He  then 
set  out  for  Rome,  accompanied  only  by  a  few  friends.  Outside  the 
walls  he  halted,  and  asked  permission  from  the  senate  to  enter  the 
city  without  forfeiting  his  claim  to  a  triumph.  But  what  had  been 
excused  in  Sylla  after  the  act  was  not  to  be  allowed  by  anticipation 
to  Pompey.  Cato  strenuously  opposed  the  application,  and  it  was 
refused.  This  triumph,  the  third  which  he  had  enjoyed,  did  not 
take  place  till  the  end  of  September.  It  lasted  t\vo  days,  and  the 
sum  of  money  paid  into  the  treasury  exceeded  all  former  experience. 
After  the  triumph  he  addressed  set  speeches  both  to  the  senate  and  to 
the  people,  but  with  so  much  coldness  and  caution  that  no  one  could 
form  any  conclusion  with  respect  to  his  present  sentiments  or  inten- 
tions ;  in  particular  he  studiously  avoided  expressing  any  clear  opinion 
with  respect  to  the  late  troubles,  and  the  active  part  taken  by  Cicero 
and  the  senate  against  the  Catilinarian  conspirators.  Crassus,  always 
jealous  of  Pompey,  took  advantage  of  his  rival's  cautious  reserve  to 
rise  in  the  senate,  and  pronounce  a  panegyric  upon  Cicero  ;  and  this 


18  LIFE   OF   JULIUS   CAESAR. 

gave  the  orator  an  opportunity  of  delivering  the  elaborate  speech 
which  he  had  prepared  for  the  calends  of  January.  Cicero  sat  down 
amid  cheers  from  all  sides  of  the  house.  It  was  probably  the  hap- 
piest moment  of  his  life.* 

The  consuls-elect  were  L.  Afranius,  an  old  and  attached  officer  of 
Pompey,  and  Q.  Metellus  Celer,  elder  brother  of  Nepos.f  The  chief 
officers  of  state,  therefore,  seemed  likely  to  be  at  the  beck  of  the 
great  general.  But  Afranius  proved  to  be  a  cipher  on  the  political 
stage,  and  Metellus  Celer,  exasperated  because  Pompey  bad  just  di- 
vorced his  sister,  sided  warmly  with  the  senate.  Caesar  was  in  Far- 
ther Spain  ;  Crassus,  stimulated  (as  we  have  said)  by  ancient  jeal- 
ousy, had  shown  a  disposition  to  oppose  Pompey  ;  and  the  game,  if 
prudently  played,  might  have  been  won  by  the  senatorial  leaders. 
But  about  this  time  they  lost  Catulus,  their  most  respected  and  most 
prudent  chief  ;  and  the  blind  obstinacy  of  Metellus  Celer,  Cato,  and 
others,  converted  Pompey  from  his  cold  neutrality  into  a  warm  an- 
tagonist. 

During  his  stay  in  the  East  after  the  death  of  Mithridates,  he  had 
formed  provinces  and  re-distributed  kingdoms  by  his  own  judgment, 
unassisted  by  the  senatorial  commission,  which  usually  advised  a 
proconsul  in  such  matters.  lie  now  applied  to  have  the  arnm.irr- 
ments  which  he  had  made  confirmed  by  authority  of  the  senate. 
But  Lucullus  and  Metellus  Creticus,  though  they  had  been  allowed 
the  honors  of  a  triumph,  were  not  unjustly  irritated  at  seeing  that  in 
the  blaze  of  his  triumphant  success  their  own  unquestionable  merits 
had  been  utterly  over-past  and  forgotten.  They  spoke  warmly  in 
the  senate  of  the  unfair  appropriation  of  their  labors  by  Pompey, 
and  persuaded  the  jealous  majority  to  withhold  the  desired  confir- 
mation. 

At  the  same  time  a  tribune  named  L.  Flavius  proposed  an  agrarian 
law  by  which  it  was  proposed  to  assign  certain  lands  in  guerdon  to 
Pompey's  veteran  soldiers.  It  seems  that  by  the  original  terms  of 
this  bill  certain  of  Sylla's  assignments  were  cancelled,  and  thus  arose 
a  general  sense  of  insecurity  in  such  property,  till  Cicero  came  for- 
ward and  proposed  the  removal  of  all  these  objectionable  clause's. 
But  even  in  this  amended  form  the  law,  like  all  agrarian  laws,  was 
hateful  to  the  senate.  The  consul  Metellus  Celer  opposed  it  with 
rancorous  determination  ;  and  Pompey,  who  disliked  popular  tu- 
mults, suffered  the  measure  to  be  withdrawn,  and  brooded  over  the  in- 
sult in  haughty  silence.  Cicero  made  advances  to  the  great  man, 
and  received  scraps  of  praise  and  flattery,  which  pleased  him  and  de- 
c«ived  him,  while  it  increased  the  coldness  which  had  already  sprung 

*  For  alirely  description  of  the  whole  scene,  see  Cicero's  letter  to  Attisius,  1. 14. 
t  It  was  from  this  year  that  Pollio  began  his  hitTory  ol  this  civil  war  : 

"t/lotnmex  ifetello  Conaule  civicum, 
Belliquecausas,"  etc.— Horat.  OU.  ii.  I. 


LIFE    OP   JUHUS   C.*:SAK.  19 

up  between  him  .and  the  senatorial  chiefs.  But  Pompe-y  well  knew 
the  political  impotence  of  the  great  orator,  and  it  was  to  a  very 
different  quarter  that  he  cast  his  eyes  to  gain  support  against  the 
senate. 

Caesar  (as  we  have  said)  had  taken  his  departure  for  Spain  before 
Pompey's  return.  In  that  province  he  had  availed  himself  of  some 
disturbances  on  the  Lusitanian  border  to  declare  war  against  that 
gallant  people.  He  overran  their  country  with  constant  success,  and 
then  turned  his  arms  against  the  Gallaecians,  who  seem  to  have  bi-cn 
unmolested  since  the  days  of  Dec.  Brutus.  In  two  campaigns  he 
became  master  of  spoils  sufficient  not  only  to  pay  off  a  great  portion 
of  his  debts,  but  also  to  enrich  his  soldiery.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  he  must  have  acted  with  great  severity  to  wring  these  large 
sums  from  the  native  Spaniards.  He  never,  indeed,  took  aiiy 
thought  for  the  sufferings  of  the  people  not  subject  to  Roman  rule. 
But  he  was  careful  not  to  be  guilty  of  oppression  toward  the  provin- 
cials :  his  rule  in  the  Spanish  provinces  was  long  remarked  for  its 
equitable  adjustment  of  debts  and  taxes  due  to  the  Roman  publicaui 
and  money-lenders. 

He  left  Spain  in  time  to  reach  Rome  before  the  consular  elec- 
tions of  the  year  60  B.C.  ;  for  he  intended  to  present  himself  as  a 
candidate.  But  he  also  claimed  a  triumph,  and  till  this  was  over  he 
could  not  begin  his  canvass.  He  therefore  applied  to  the  senate  for 
leave  to  sue  for  the  consulship  without  presenting  himself  personally 
in  the  city.  The  senate  probably  repented  of  their  stiffness  in  re- 
fusing Pompey's  demand  a  year  before,  and  were  disposed  to  make 
a  merit  of  granting  Caesar's  request.  But  Cato,  who  never  would 
give  way  to  a  plea  of  expediency  except  in  favor  of  his  own  party, 
adjourned  the  decision  of  the  question  by  speaking  against  time  ; 
and  Caesar,  who  scorned  the  appearance  in  comparison  with  the  re- 
ality of  power,  relinquished  his  triumph  and  entered  the  city.  lie 
found  Pompey,  as  he  expected  to  find  him,  in  high  dudgeon  with 
the  senate  ;  for  secret  negotiations  had  already  been  opened  between 
them.  To  strengthen  their  hands  still  further,  C;esar  proposed  to  in- 
clude Crassus  in  their  treaty.  This  rich  and  unpopular  nobleman 
had,  as  we  have  seen,  made  advances  to  Cicero  and  to  the  senate  ; 
but  these  advances  had  been  ill  received,  and  he  lent  a  ready  ear  to 
the  overtures  of  the  dexterous  negotiator  who  now  addressed  him. 
Pompey  also,  at  the  instance  of  Caesar,  relinquished  the  old  enmity 
which  he  bore  to  Crassus  ;  and  thus  was  formed  that  famous  cabal 
which  is  commonly,  though  improperly,  called  the  First  Triumvi- 
rate.* It  was  at  present  kept  studiously  secret,  and  Cicero  for  some 
time  after  counted  upon  Pompey  for  neutralizing  the  ambitious  de- 
signs of  Caesar,  whose  expected  return  filled  him  with  apprehension. 


*  Improperly,  because  it  was  a  secret  combination,  and  not  an  open  assumption 
of  political  power,  such  as  to  Roman  ears  was  implied  in  the  word  triumvirate. 


W  LIFE  OF  JULIUS  c.i:sAii. 

Thus  supported  secretly  by  the  influence  of  Pompey,  by  the  wealth 
of  Crassus,  and  by  his  own  popularity,  Caesar  was  elected  to  the  con- 
sulship by  acclamation.  He  had  formed  a  coalition  with  L.  Lucceius, 
a  man  of  letters,  who  had  taken  an  active  part  against  Catiline,  and 
who  was  expected  to  write  a  memoir  of  Cicero's  consulship.  But 
the  senatorial  chiefs  exhausted  every  art  of  intrigue  and  bribery  to 
secure  the  return  of  M.  Calpurnius  Bibulus,  who  had  been  the  col- 
league of  Caesar  in  his  previous  offices,  and  was  known  to  be  a  man  of 
unflinching  resolution.  He  was  son-in-law  to  Cato,  who  to  obtain  a 
political  advantage  did  not  hesitate  to  sanction  tie  bribery  and  cor- 
rupt practices  which  on  other  occasions  he  loudly  denounced. 
Bibulus  was  elected  ;  and  from  the  resolute  antagonism  of  the  two 
consuls,  the  approaching  year  seemed  big  with  danger. 

Caesar  began  the  acts  of  his  consulship  by  a  measure  so  adroitly 
drawn  up  as  to  gratify  at  once  his  own  adherents  and  Pompey  and 
Cicero.  It  was  an  agrarian  law,  framed  very  carefully  on  the 
model  of  that  which  had  been  proposed  last  year  by  Pompey 's  agents 
and  amended  by  the  orator.  Before  bringing  it  forward  in  (he  pop- 
ular assembly,  he  read  it  over  clause  by  clause  in  the  senate,  and  not 
even  Cato  was  able  to  find  fault.  But  Bibulus  declared  that  the. 
measure,  however  cautiously  framed,  was  revolutionary,  and  should 
not  pass  while  he  was  consul.  He  therefore  refused  to  sanction  any 
further  meetings  of  the  senate.  Caesar,  unable  to  convene  the  groat 
council  without  the  consent  of  his  colleague,  now  threw  himself 
upon  the  people,  and  enlarged  his  agrarian~bill  to  the  dimension  of 
the  laws  formerly  proposed  by  Cinua  and  by  Rullus.  Cicero  now 
took  alarm,  and  the  senatorial  order  united  in  opposition  to  any  dis- 
tribution of  their  favorite  Campanian  lands.  On  the  day  appointed 
for  taking  the  votes  of  the  people,  the  most  violent  of  the  oligarchy 
met  at  the  house  of  Bibulus.  Hence  they  sallied  out  into  the  forum 
and  attempted  to  dissolve  the  assembly  by  force.  But  Caosar  ordered 
his  lictors  to  arrest  Cato  ;  Lucullus  was  only  saved  from  violence 
by  the  consul  himself,  and  the  other  leaders  were  obliged  to  seek 
safety  in  flight.  After  this  vain  effort,  in  which  the  senators  set  an 
(3xample  of  violence,  Bibulus  attempted  to  stop  proceedings  by  send- 
ing word  that  he  was  engaged  in  consulting  the  heavens  to  deter- 
mine whether  the  assembly  could  be  legally  held  ;  and  that,  till  his 
divinations  were  concluded,  no  business  was  to  be  done.  But  C:rsar 
set  his  message  at  naught,  and  proceeded  as  if  all  formalities  had 
been  regularly  observed.  Finding  that  arms  and  auguries  were 
equally  powerless,  Bibulus  shut  himself  up  in  his  house  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  term  of  office,  and  contented  himself  with  protesting 
from  time  to  time  against  the  acts  of  his  colleague.  After  this  vic- 
tory, C:i'sar  called  upon  Pompey  and  Crassus  before  the  whole  assem- 
bly to  express  their  opinions  with  respect  to  the  bill.  Pompey 
warmly  approved  it,  and  declared  that  if  others  drew  swords  to  op- 
pose it  he  would  cover  it  with  his  shield.  Crassus  spoke  in  a  similar 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS  CAESAR.  21 

strain.  After  this  public  manifestation  of  the  union  of  the  triumvirs 
all  opposition  ceased.  The  bill  became  law,  and  Caesar  forced  every 
senator  to  swear  obedience  to  its  provisions.  Cato  and  some  others 
made  a  struggle,  but  finally  complied.  Cicero  looked  on  in  blank 
perplexity. 

Caesar  immediately  followed  up  this  successful  movement  by  pro- 
curing from  the  people  a  full  acknowledgment  of  Pompey's  arts  in 
the  East.  Here  again  the  senate  saw  what  they  had  captiously  re- 
fused employed  as  a  means  for  cementing  the  union  of  the  triumvirs 
against  them.  It  was  also  a  great  annoyance  that  the  department  of 
foreign  affairs,  which  they  regarded  as  absolutely  their  own,  should 
thus  unceremoniously  be  invaded  by  the  assembly  of  the  people. 

The  next  step  taken  by  the  dexterous  consul  was  to  establish  his 
credit  with  another  class  in  the  community,  the  Equites,  who  also 
(it  may  be  observed)  were  especially  favored  both  by  Poinpey  and 
Cicero.  The  orator,  during  hjs  consulship,  had  prided  himself  on 
effecting  a  union  between  the  senatorial  and  equestrian  orders.  The 
tax-collectors  (it  seems)  had  made  a  high  offer  for  the  taxes  of  A  sin 
at  the  last  auction,  and  they  prayed  to  be  let  off  their  contract. 
Cicero  undertook  their  cause,  and  at  the  time  when  he  relinquished 
office  had  good  hopes  of  success.  But  Cato,  always  jealous  of  indul- 
gent measures,  opposed  it  with  his  utmost  force,  and  the  Equites 
were  held  strictly  to  their  bargain.  At  Caesar's  suggestion,  a  law 
was  passed  remitting  a  third  part  of  what  they  had  agreed  to  give. 
The  refusal  of  the  senate  appears  to  have  been  somewhat  harsh  ;  and 
the  favor  which  they  might  have  achieved  with  little  loss  was  trans- 
ferred to  their  most  dangerous  enemy. 

Other  popular  laws,  mostly  beneficial  in  their  tendency,  were 
passed  at  the  instance  of  Caesar,  among  which  may  be  noted  one 
which  at  an  earlier  stage  might  have  done  much  toward  establishing 
the  authority  of  the  senate,  by  forcing  it  into  harmony  with  public 
opinion.  By  the  law  in  question  it  was  provided  that  the  acts  and 
proceedings  of  the  senate  should  be  regularly  published. 

Before  he  quitted  office,  Cajsar  determined  to  provide  for  his  future 
power.  The  senate  had  assigned  him  the  insignificant  province  of 
managing  the  forests  and  public  pastures  of  Italy.  But  the  tribune 
Vatinius,  his  creature,  proposed  a  law  by  which  the  selection  of  con- 
sular provinces  by  the  senate  was  suspended,  and  a  special  provi- 
sion made  for  Caesar.  By  this  law  he  was  invested,  as  proconsul, 
with  the  government  of  Cisalpine  Gaul  and  Illyricum,  and  the  com- 
mand of  two  legions  ;  and  this  government  was  conferred  upon  him 
for  the  extraordinary  term  of  five  years.  No  doubt  his  purpose  in 
obtaining  this  province  was  to  remain  as  near  Rome  as  possible,  and 
by  means  of  the  troops  necessarily  under  his  command  to  assume  a 
commanding  position  with  regard  to  Roman  politics.  Circumstances 
unexpectedly  enlarged  his  sphere  of  action,  and  enabled  him  to  add 
to  his  political  successes  that  which  his  brief  career  in  Spain  hardly 


22  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   C^SAE. 

justified— the  character  of  a  skilful  and  triumphant  general.  Foi- 
some  time  past  there  had  been  threatening  movements  in  Transalpine 
Gaul.  The  Allobrogians,  who  had  been  treated  with  little  consider- 
ation after  the  services  rendered  by  their  envoys  in  the  Catilinarian 
conspiracy,  had  endeavored  to  redress  their  grievances  by  arms,  and 
had  been  subdued  by  Poutinus,  one  of  the  praetors  employed  by 
Cicero  in  the  arrest  at  the  Mulvian  Bridge.  The  ^Sduans  (who  in- 
habited modern  Burgundy),  though  in  alliance  with  Rome,  were  sus- 
pected of  having  favored  this  revolt.  Pn  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  the 
Suevi,  a  powerful  German  tribe,  were  threatening  inroads  which  re- 
vived the  memory  of  the  Cimbrtc  and  Teutonic  times  ;  and  the  Hel- 
vetian mountaineers  were  moving  uneasily  within  their  narrow  bor- 
ders. An  able  and  active  commander  was  required  to  meet  these 
various  dangers  ;  and  the  senate  perhaps  thought  that  by  removing 
Caesar  to  a  distant,  perilous,  and  uncertain  war,  they  might  expose 
him  to  the  risk  of  failure,  or  at  least  that  absence  might  diminish  the 
prestige  of  his  name.  At  any  rate,  it  was  the  senate  which  added 
the  province  of  Transalpine  Gaul,  with  an  additional  legion,  to  the 
provinces  already  conferred  upon  him  by  popular  vote.  Pompey 
and  Crassus  warmly  supported  the  decree — a  fact  which  might  have 
caused  the  senate  to  repent  of  their  liberality. 

Pompey,  we  have  said,  had  divorced  his  wife  Cecilia  on  his  return 
from  Asia  ;  and  Caesar  took  advantage  of  this  circumstance  to 
cement  his  political  union  with  Pompey  by  offering  to  him  the  hand 
of  Julia,  his  young  and  beautiful  daughter.  Pompey  accepted  the 
offer,  and  had  no  reason  to  repent  it  as  a  husband,  whatever  may  be 
thought  of  its  effect  on  his  public  career.  The  letters  of  Cicero  to 
Atticus,  written  during  this  period,  reveal  in  a  very  lively  manner  the 
perplexity  of  the  orator.  He  still  hoped  against  hope  in  Pompey, 
but  in  private  he  does  not  dissemble  his  misgivings.  At  length  affairs 
took  place  which  effectually  opened  his  eyes.  Early  in  the  day  he 
tries  to  put  a  good  face  upon  the  matter  :  he  represents  his  union 
with  Pompey  as  being  so  close  that  the  young  men  nicknamed  the 
great  general  C/ueus  Cicero ;  he  professes  his  unshaken  confidence  in 
his  illustrious  friend  ;  he  even  hopes  that  they  may  be  able  to  reform 
( 'jcsar.  His  confidence  is  much  shaken  by  Pompey 's  approbation  of 
(  a-sar's  agrarian  law  ;  and  he  begins  to  fear  that  the  great  Eastern 
conqueror — Sampsiceranus,  Alabarches,  the  Jerusalemite  (such  arc 
the  names  which  he  uses  to  indicate  the  haughty  reserve  of  Pom- 
pey)—is  aiming  at  a  tyranny  ;  then  again  he  relents,  affects  to  believe; 
that  young  Curio,  an  ardent  supporter  of  the  senate,  is  more  popular 
than  Caesar,  and  regrets  Pornpey's  isolation.  Still  he  believes  in  his 
unaltered  attachment,  and  continues  to  hope  that  he  will  ultimately 
declare  himself  for  the  senate,  till  at  length  he  is  roused  from  his 
waking  dream  by  the  marriage  of  the  great  man  with  Julia,  and  by 
the  approach  of  personal  danger  to  himself. 

Puring  Csesar's  praetorship,  he  had  lent  the  house  which  belonged 


LIFE  OF   JULIUS   CAESAR.  23 

to  him  as  chief  pontiff  for  the  celebration  of  the  mysteries,  of  theBona 
Dea — rites  at  which  it  was  not  lawful  for  any  but  women  to  be  pres- 
ent. Young  App.  Clodius  either  had  or  aspired  to  have  an  intrigue 
with  Pompeia,  Caesar's  third  wife,  and  contrived  to  enter  the  forbid- 
den precincts  disguised  as  a  singing  girl.  He  was  discovered  by  hig 
voice  ;  and  the  matter  was  considered  important  enough  to  be  inves- 
tigated by  the  senate.  But  nothing  was  done  till  the  next  year,  when 
Clodius  was  quaestor.  He  was  then  brought  to  trial,  and  pleaded  an 
alibi.  Caesar  and  Cicero  were  summoned  as  witnesses  against  him. 
Caesar  had  divorced  his  wife  in  consequence  of  the  affair,  but  pro- 
fessed ignorance  of  all  that  had  passed.  "  Why,  then,"  it  was 
asked,  "  have  you  put  away  your  wife?" — a  question  to  which  he 
gave  the  famous  reply,  "  Caesar's  wife  must  be  above  suspicion." 
Cicero,  on  the  other  hand,  who  justly  detested  the  profligate  charac- 
ter of  Claims,  declared  that  he  had  seen  and  spoken  with  Clodius  on 
that  very  day  at  Rome.  He  thus  overthrew  his  plea  of  an  alibi,  and 
followed  up  his  evidence  by  several  pointed  speeches  in  the  senate. 
There  was  no  doubt  of  the  guilt  of  Clodius.  But  the  matter  was 
treated  as  a  trial  of  political  strength  ;  by  corruption  and  other  arts, 
he  was  acquitted  ;  and,  before  Caesar's  consulship,  he  had  conceived 
the  desire  of  satisfying  his  vengeance  upon  Cicero  and  the  senate  by 
becoming  tribune  of  the  plebs.  But  his  patrician  pedigree — the  sole 
relic  of  the  old  distinction  between  the  orders — forbade  his  election  to 
this  office.  Caesar,  in  the  first  instance,  attempted  to  gain  the  sup- 
port of  Cicero,  as  he  had  gained  the  support  of  Pompey,  by  promises. 
But  though  the  orator  received  these  advances  with  some  pleasure,  it 
was  more  in  the  hope  of  converting  the  popular  statesman  to  his  own 
opinion  than  with  any  thought  of  being  converted.  But  Ca-sar  was 
not  the  man  to  be  led  by  Cicero.  He  soon  saw  that  he  should  not 
prevail  by  fair  means,  and  therefore  endeavored  to  alarm  the  orator 
by  threatening  to  introduce  a  law  for  making  Clodius  a  plebeian. 
But  Cicero  relied  on  Pompey,  and  felt  no  alarm  for  himself.  After 
the  marriage  of  Pompey  with  Julia,  he  still  stood  aloof,  and  present- 
ly provoked  Caesar  to  fulfil  his  threats.  C.  Antonius,  Cicero's  col- 
league in  the  consulship,  had  lately  returned  from  his  Macedonian 
government.  He  had  been  guilty  of  more  than  the  usual  measure  of 
extortion  and  oppression,  and  Clodius  sought  popularity  by  impeach 
ing  him.  Cicero  appeared  as  his  advocate,  and  took  occasion  to  con- 
trast his  own  forgotten  services  in  the  Ctvtilinarian  conspiracy  with 
the  present  condition  of  public  affairs.  An  immediate  report  of  this 
speech  was  conveyed  to  Caesar.  It  was  delivered  at  noon,  and  the 
same  afternoon  Caesar  gave  his  consent  to  the  proposed  law  for  iv- 
moviug  Clodius  from  his  patrician  rank.  Presently  after,  the  reek- 
less  young  noble  was  elected  tribune  for  the  ensuing  year— that  is,  for 
68  B.C.  Cicero  was  justly  thrown  into  consternation. 

The  consular  elections  were  equally  disheartening.     Caesar  had  just 
espoused  Calpuiuia,  the  daughter  of  L.  Piso,  who  also  had  been  lately 


24  LIFE   OP   JULIUS  CyESAU. 

accused  by  the  busy  Clodius.  This  Piso  was  now  chosen  consul,  at ' 
Caesar's  recommendation,  together  with  Au.  Gabiuius,  who,  as  tri- 
bune, had  moved  the  law  for  conferring  the  extraordinary  command 
of  the  Mediterranean  upon  Pompey.  It  was  evident  that  these  con- 
suls, one  the  father-in-law  of  Caesar,  the  otlier  a  mere  creature  of 
Pompey,  would  serve  as  the  tools  of  the  triumviral  cabal. 

In  December  Clodius  entered  upon  office  as  tribune.  Caesar  did 
not  set  out  for  his  province  before  the  end  of  March  in  the  next  year 
(58  B.C.)  "During  these  three  months,  he  was  actively  employed  in 
removing  from  Rome  the  persons  most  likely  to  thwart  his  policy. 
Close  to  the  gates  lay  the  legions  which  he  had  levied  for  service  in 
Gaul  ;  so  that,  if  need  were,  military  force  was  at  hand  to  support 
Clodius  in  the  forum. 

Immediately  after  entering  upon  office,  the  tribune  began  his  as- 
saults upon  the  senate,  and  Cicero  was  one  of  the  first  objects  of  his 
attack.  Caesar  was  determined  at  all  risks  to  remove  the  orator  from 
Rome  ;  but  he  was  willing  to  have  spared  him  the  rude  treatment 
which  he  was  certain  to  experience  from  Clodius.  He  had  therefore 
offered  him  first  one  of  the  commissionerships  for  executing  the 
agrarian  law,  and  then  a  lieutenancy  under  himself  in  Gaul.  But 
Cicero  declined  both  offers,  and  Caesar  left  him  to  the  mercies  of  the 
vindictive  tribune.  Clodius  at  once  gave  notice  of  a  bill  enacting 
that  any  magistrate  who  had  put  Roman  citizens  to  death  without  a 
regula/trial  should  be  banished  from  the  soil  of  Italy,  thus  embody- 
ing in  a  direct  law  the  principle  which  Caesar  had  sought  to  estab- 
lish by  the  indictment  of  Rabirius.  At  first  Cicero  trusted  to  Pom- 
pey  and  his  own  imaginary  popularity.  But  the  haste  with  which 
Cicero  had  acted  was  condemned  by  Metellus  Nepos,  the  agent  ot 
Pompey,  even  before  the  league  with  Caesar  ;  and  many  Who  had  ap- 
plauded Cicero  at  the  time  now  took  part  with  Clodius.  Finding 
also  that  the  reckless  tribune  was  supported  by  Caesar  and  his  legions 
in  the  background,  the  frightened  orator  put  on*  mourning,  and  can- 
vassed for  acquittal.  The  greater  part  of  the  senators  and  knights, 
if  we  may  believe  Cicero,  followed  his  example,  but  Clodius  per 
severed,  and  the  consuls  ordered  the  mourners  to  resume  their  usual 
apparel.  Notwithstanding  this  significant  hint,  he  applied  to  these 
very  magistrates  for  protection.  Gabinius,  the  friend  of  Pompey, 
rudely  repulsed  his  advances  ;  Piso;  the  father-in  law  of  Caesar,  gave 
him  fair  words,  but  no  real  hope.  As  a  last  chance,  he  appealed  to 
Pompey  himself,  who  maintained  the  cold  reserve  which  he  had 
affected  ever  since  his  return,  and  told  him,  with  what  in  truth  was 
bitter  mockery,  to  seek  assistance  from  the  consuls.  In  this  des- 
perate case  he  held  counsel  with  his  friends.  The  senators  felt  that 
Cicero's  cause  had  become  their  own,  and  repented  of  the  coldness 
which  they  had  shown  to  their  most  distinguished  partisan,  since  the 
time  that  he  had  served  them  well  in  the  matter  of  Catiline's  plot. 
Lucullus  shook  off  his  luxurious  indolence  for  a  moment,  and  ad- 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS  C^SAR.  25 

vised  an  appeal  to  arms.  But,  after  full  deliberation,  even  Cato 
recommended  the  orator  to  leave  Italy  before  the  law  passed,  and 
wait  for  better  times.  He  complied  with  a  heavy  heart— for  Koine, 
the  forum,  and  the  senate-house,  were  all  the  world  to  him— and  left 
the  capital  before  Caesar's  departure  for  his  province.  No  sooner 
was  his  back  turned,  than  Sex.  Clodius,  a  client  of  the  audacious  tri- 
bune, brought  in  a  second  bill,  by  which  Cicero  was  expressly  at- 
tacked by  name.  He  was  forbidden  to  approach  within  four  hundred 
miles  of  Rome  ;  all  who  harbored  him  within  those  limits  were  sub- 
jected to  heavy  penalties  ;  all  his  property  was  confiscated.  His 
favorite  house  on  the  Palatine,  with  his  villas  at  Tusculum  and-  at 
Formue,  were  to  be  destroyed.  The  great  orator  lingered  on  the 
southern  shores  of  his  beloved  Italy,  at  Vibo,  at  Thurii,  at  Taren- 
tum,  at  Brundusium,  m  hopes  that  his  friends  might  even  yet  baffle 
the  designs  of  Clodius.  But  his  hopes  faded  and  vanished.  In  his 
letters  he  pours  forth  unmanly  lamentations  ;  accuses  all — Cato, 
Hortensius,  even  his  friend  Atticus  ;  refuses  to  see  his  brother  Quiu- 
tus  ;  and  seriously  debates  the  question  of  suicide.  Atticus  began  to 
be  alarmed  for  his  friend's  sanity.  At  length  he  crossed  the  sea,  and 
sought  refuge  at  Thessalonica,  in  Macedonia  ;  for  the  province  of 
Greece,  in  which  he  would  fain  have  fixed  his  place  of  exile,  was 
ruled  by  a  magistrate  of  the  adverse  party. 

The  next  person  to  be  disposed  of  was  Cato.  This  remarkable 
man  has  already  come  before  us  on  one  or  two  occasions  which  serve 
to  indicate  his  character.  He  was  great-grandson  of  the  old  censor, 
and  resembled  him  in  many  points,  though  he  wanted  much  of  the 
politic  shrewdness  of  his  ancestor.  He  was  five  years  younger  than 
Caesar,  and  at  present  therefore  not  more  than  thirty-seven  years  of 
age.  In  60  B.C.  he  had  served  as  quaestor,  and  had  then  entered  the 
senate.  He  was  tribune  three  years  later  in  company  with  Clodius. 
From  the  time  when  his  speech  determined  the  fate  of  Catiline,  his 
unflinching  and  resolute  character  had  made  him,  notwithstanding 
his  youth,  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  senatorial  oligarchy  ;  and  after 
the  death  of  Catulus  he  took  far  the  most  determined  part  in  oppos- 
ing the  popular  party.  But  the  Stoic  philosophy  which  he  professed 
almost  unfitted  him  for  the  political  life  of  that  dissolute  and  un- 
scrupulous age.  He  applied  the  rules  of  Zeno's  inflexible  logic  with 
the  same  unflinching  rigor  to  politics  as  to  mathematics,  without  re- 
gard to  times  or  persons  or  places,  and  treated  questions  of  mere  ex- 
pedience as  if  they  were  matters  of  moral  right  and  wrong.  Cicero 
often  complains  of  his  impracticable  and  pedantic  stiffness,  and  rep- 
resents him  as  applying  the  principles  of  an  Utopian  philosophy  to  a 
state  in  the  last  condition  of  corruption.  At  times,  however,  party 
spirit  overcame  even  Cato's  scruples,  and  to  gain  a  victory  he  forgot 
his  philosophy.  But  110  definite  accusation  could  be  brought  against 
him  as  against  Cicero  ;  and  therefore,  to  remove  him  from  Rome,  he 
was  charged  with  a  business  of  apparent  honor.  Ptolemy,  brother 


26  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   CAESAR. 

of  the  King  of  Egypt,  was  Prince  of  Cyprus  ;  and  when  Clodius  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  pirates  this  prince  contributed  the  paltry  sum  of 
two  talents  toward  his  ransom.  The  tribune,  who  never  forgot  or 
forgave,  brought  in  a  law  by  which  Cyprus  was  annexed  to  the 
Roman  Empire  ;  and  Cato,  though  he  held  no  curule  office,  was  in- 
vested with  praetorian  rank  for  the  execution  of  this  iniquitous  busi- 
ness. Cato  pretended  not  that  he  was  ignorant  of  the  real  purpose 
of  this  mission.  But  he  declared  himself  ready  to  obey  the  law,  left 
Rome  soon  after  Cicero's  departure,  and  remained  absent  for  about 
two  years.  When,  therefore,  Caesar  left  Rome  in  the  spring  of  the 
year  58  B.C.  to  assume  the  government  of  Gaul,  the  senate  was  left 
in  a  state  of  paralysis  from  the  want  of  able  and  resolute  leaders. 

After  Caesar's  departure,  Clodius  pursued  his  democratic  measures 
without  let  or  hindrance.  He  abolished  the  law  of  the  comitial  aus- 
pices by  which  Bibulus  had  attempted  to  thwart  Caesar  in  the  former 
year.  He  distributed  the  freedmen  and  city  rabble  throughout  all 
the  tribes.  He  restored  the  trade-unions  and  companies,  which  had 
been  abolished  by  the  senate  nine  years  before.  He  deprived  the 
censors  of  the  power  of  removing  senators  or  degrading  citizens,  un- 
less each  person  so  dishonored  had  previously  been  found  guilty  by 
a  verdict  of  the  law  courts,  and  unless  both  censors  concurred  in 
every  sentence.  He  gave  such  an  extension  to  the  unwise  corn  laws 
of  C.  Gracchus  and  Saturninus,  that  grain,  instead  of  being  sold  at  a 
low  rate,  was  distributed  without  price  to  all  citizens  of  Rome. 
Some  of  these  laws  were  probably  based  upon  suggestions  of  Caesar's. 
But  even  those  of  which  he  may  have  approved  generally  were  passed 
in  a  form  and  in  a  manner  of  which  he  could  not  approve  ;  and  of 
some  he  is  known  utterly  to  have  disapproved.  But  for  the  time 
Clodius  and  his  gang  were  masters  of  Rome.  Caesar  was  in  Gaul. 
Neither  Pompey  nor  Crassus  stirred  hand  nor  foot  to  interfere. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CAESAR  IN  GAUL — BREACH  BETWEEN  POMPEY  AND  CAESAR.  (58-50  B.C.) 

IT  was  but  a  few  days  after  Cicero  had  left  Rome  that  Caesar  re- 
ceived news  from  Gaul  which  compelled  his  precipitate  departure. 
The  Helvetians  in  great  numbers  were  advancing  upon  Geneva,  with 
the  purpose  of  crossing  the  Rhone  near  that  town,  the  extreme  out- 
post of  the  province  of  Transalpine  Gaul,  and  forcing  their  way 
through  that  province  to  seek  new  settlements  in  the  West.  In  eight 
days,  the  active  proconsul  travelled  from  the  gates  of  Rome  to 
Geneva.  Arrived  there,  he  lined  the  river  with  fortifications  such  as 
compelled  the  Helvetians  to  pass  into  Gaul  by  a  longer  and  more  diffi- 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS  CAESAR.  27 

cult  route  over  the  Jura  ;  he  then  followed  them  across  the  Arar 
(Saone),  ami  after  a  murderous  battle  near  Bibracte  (Autun  in  Bur- 
gundy), compelled  the  remnant  to  return  to  their  own  country. 

Immediately  after  clearing  the  frontiers  of  the  province  of  these  in- 
vaders, he  accepted  the  invitation  of  the  ^Eduans  and  other  Gauls 
dwelling  westward  of  the  Saoue  to  expel  from  their  borders  a  foiai id- 
able  German  tribe,  which  had  passed  the  Rhine  and  were  threatening 
to  overrun  all  Northern  Gaul.  These  Suevi,  who  have  left  their 
name  and  a  remnant  of  their  race  in  modern  Suabia,  were  led  by  a 
great  chief  named  Ariovistus.  Ariovistus  at  first  proposed  to  divide 
Gaul  with  the  Romans  ;  but  Caesar  promptly  rejected  all  such  over- 
tures, and  war  followed.  So  alarmed  were  the  Roman  legionaries  at 
the  prospect  of  a  contest  with  the  Germans,  huge  in  frame  and  mul- 
titudinous in  number,  that  it  required  all  Caesar's  adroitness  to  restore 
their  confidence.  "  If,"  he  said,  "  all  deserted  him,  he  would  him- 
self brave  every  hazard,  and  face  the  foe  with  the  tenth  legion  alone. " 
This  had  the  desired  effect.  A  desperate  battle  was  fought  about 
five  miles  from  the  Rhine,  somewhere  north  of  Bale,  in  which  the 
Germans  were  utterly  defeated  ;  and  Ariovistus  himself  only  escaped 
in  a  boat  across  the  great  river  which  was  long  destined  to  remain  as 
the  boundary  between  the  Celtic  and  Teutonic  races. 

Thus  in  one  campaign,  not  only  the  Roman  province,  but  all  Gaul, 
was  delivered  from  the  presence  of  those  German  invaders  whose 
congeners  in  the  time  of  Marius  had  overrun  the  whole  country,  and 
whose  descendants  at  a  later  period  gave  to  the  conquered  land  its 
new  name  of  France. 

Cesar's  troops  wintered  in  the  heart  of  the  country  which  he  had 
just  set  free  from  the  Sueviau  invaders.  This  position  at  once  roused 
the  jealousy  of  the  Belgic  tribes  to  the  north  of  the  Seine,  and  a  pow- 
erful confederacy  was  formed  to  bar  any  designs  which  might  be  en- 
tertained by  Ctesar  for  extending  the  dominion  of  Rome  beyond  its 
present  limits.  Caesar,  informed  of  their  proceedings,  did  not  wait  to  be 
attacked.  lie  raised  two  new  legions  without  expecting  the  authority 
of  the  senate,  and  early  in  the  next  year  (57  B.C.)  entered  the  Belgic  ter- 
ritory, which  was  then  bounded  southward  by  the  Seine  and  Marne, 
Here  he  occupied  a  strong  position  on  the  Aisne,  and  baffled  all  the 
efforts  of  the  confederates  to  dislodge  him  or  draw  him  out  to  battle. 
Wearied  out,  they  dispersed,  each  to  their  own  homes  ;  and  Caesar 
advanced  rapidly  into  the  country  of  the  Nervians,  the  most  formid- 
able people  of  the  Belgic  League,  who  then  occupied  the  district  be- 
tween the  Sambre  and  the  Scheld.  As  he  was  forming  his  camp 
upon  the  right  bank  of  the  first-named  river,  he  was  surprised  by  the 
watchful  enemy,  and  his  whole  army  was  nearly  cut  off.  He  re- 
trieved the  disaster  only  at  the  most  imminent  peril  to  himself,  and 
had  to  do  the  duty  both  of  a  common  soldier  and  a  general.  But 
when  the  first  confusion  was  over,  the  Roman  discipline  prevailed  ; 
and  the  brave  barbarians  were  repulsed  with  prodigious  slaughter, 


28  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   C^SAR. 

After  this  desperate  battle,  he  received  the  submission  of  the  whole 
country  south  of  the  Lower  Rhine. 

In  the  following  year  (56  B.C.),  he  built  a  fl^et,  and  quickly  reduced 
the  amphibious  people  of  Bretagne,  who  had  defied  his  power  and 
insulted  his  officers.  He  then  attempted,  but  without  success.,  to 
occupy  a  post  at  or  near  Martigny,  in  the  Valais,  for  the  purpose  of 
commanding  the  Pass  of  the  Pennine  Alp  (Great  St.  Bernard),  re- 
ceived the  submission  of  the  Aquitanians  in  the  extreme  south 
through  his  young  lieutenant  P.  Crassus,  son  of  the  triumvir,  and 
himself  chastised  the  wild  tribes  who  occupied  the  coast-lands  which 
now  form  Picardy,  Artois,  and  French  Flanders — the  Menapii  and 
the  Morini,  "  remotest  of  mankind."  Thus  in  three  marvellous  cam- 
paigns, he  seemed  to  have  conquered  the  whole  of  Gaul,  from  the 
Rhine  and  Mount  Jura  to  the  Western  Ocean.  The  brilliancy  and 
rapidity  of  his  successes  silenced  all  questionings  at  Rome.  No  at- 
tempt was  made  to  call  him  to  account  for  levying  armies  beyond 
what  had  been  allotted  to  him  by  law.  Thanksgivings  of  fifteen 
days — an  unprecedented  length  of  time — were  decreed  by  the  senate. 

The  winter  months  of  each  year  were  passed  by  the  proconsul  on 
the  Italian  side  of  the  Alps.  After  travelling  through  his  Cisalpine 
province  to  hold  assizes,  inspect  public  works,  raise  money  for  his 
wars,  and  recruit  his  troops,  he  fixed  his  headquarters  at  Luca 
(Lucca) — a  town  on  the  very  frontier  of  Roman  Italy,  within  two 
hundred  miles  of  Rome  itself.  Here  he  could  hold  easy  communica- 
tion with  his  partisans  at  home.  Luca  during  his  residence  was  more 
like  a  regal  court  than  the  quarters  of  a  Roman  proconsul.  At  one 
time  two  hundred  senators  were  counted  among  his  visitors  ;  one 
hundred  and  twenty  lictors  indicated  the  presence  of  the  numerous 
magistrates  who  attended  his  levees.  This  was  in  the  spring  of  56 
B.C.,  when  both  Pompey  and  Crassus  came  to  hold  conference  with 
him.  To  explain  the  object  of  this  visit,  we  must  know  what  hud 
been  passing  at  Rome  since  his  departure  two  years  before. 

It  has  been  mentioned  that  Clodius,  supported  by  the  consuls  Piso 
and  Gabinius,  remained  absolute  at  Rome  during  the  year  58  B.C. 
But  the  insolence  and  audacity  of  the  patrician  tribune  after  the  de- 
parture of  Caesar  at  length  gave  offence  to  Pompey.  Clodius  had  ob- 
tained possession  of  the  person  of  a  son  of  Tigranes,  whom  the  great 
conqueror  had  brought  with  him  from  the  East ;  and  in  order  to  raise 
money  for  some  of  his  political  projects,  the  tribune  accepted  a  large 
ransom  for  the  young  prince.  The  praetor  L.  Flavius,  a  creature  of 
Pompey's,  endeavored  to  arrest  the  liberated  prisoner  ;  but  Clodius  in- 
terfered at  the  head  of  an  armed  force,  and  in  the  struggle  which  ensued 
several  of  Pompey's  adherents  were  slain.  The  great  man  was  irrev- 
ocably offended,  and  determined  to  punish  the  tribune  by  promoting 
the  recall  of  Cicero,  his  chief  enemy.  Ever  since  the  departure  of  the 
orator,  his  friends  had  been  using  all  exertions  to  compass  this  end. 
His  brother  Quintus,  who  had  lately  returned  from  a  three  years' 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS   CAESAR.  29 

government  in  Asia,  and  was  about  to  join  Caesar  as  one  of  his  legates, 
Eis  friend  Atticus,  who  on  this  occasion '  forsook  his  usual  epicurean 
ease,  his  old  but  generous  rival  Hortensius— all  joined  with  his  wife 
Terentia,  a  woman  of  masculine  spirit,  to  watch  every  opportunity 
for  promoting  his  interests.  The  province  of  Macedonia  had  been 
assigned  by  a  law  of  Clodius  to  Fiso  ;  and  Cicero,  parti}' through  IVar 
of  the  new  proconsul,  partly  through  desire  of  approaching  Italy, 
ventured  before  the  end  of  the  year  to  Dyrrhachium,  though  it  was 
within  the  prescribed  four  hundred  miles.  But  Pompey's  quarrel 
with  Clodius  had  already  been  announced  by  the  election  to  the  con- 
sulate of  P.  Lentulus  Spinther,  a  known  friend  of  Cicero,  and  ^. 
Metellus  Nepos,  a  creature  of  Pompey. 

An  attempt  had  been  already  made  in  the  senate  to  cancel  the  law 
by  which  Cicero  had  been  banished,  on  the  ground  of  its  having  been 
carried  without  regard  to  constitutional  forms.  But  this  attempt 
was  stopped  at  once  by  tribunician  veto,  and  the  impatient  orator 
was  obliged  to  wait  for  the  new  year.  The  new  consuls,  on  entering 
ollice  (58  B.C.),  immediately  moved  for  the  orator's  recall  ;  and  it 
was  proposed  by  L.  Cotta  that  the  law  by  which  he  was  banished, 
being  informal,  should  be  set  aside  by  the  authority  of  the  senate. 
But  Pompey,  both  for  the  sake  of  peace,  and  also  that  Cicero  might 
be  restored  with  all  honor  and  publicity,  urged  that  a  law  should  be 
brought  in  for  the  purpose.  It  was  not,  however,  easy  to  carry 
such  a  law.  Clodius,  though  no  longer  tribune,  had  adherents  in  the 
new  college,  who  resolutely  interposed  their  veto.  The  motion  was 
dropped  for  the  moment,  but  was  presently  renewed  ;  and  Clodius 
entered  the  forum  at  the  head  of  a  large  retinue  fully  armed  and 
prepared  for  any  violence.  A  regular  battle  followed,  which  left 
Clodius  master  of  the  field.  For  some  days  Rome  was  at  his  mercy. 
With  his  own  hand  he  fired  the  Temple  of  the  Nymphs  and  destnn  .  <1 
the  censorial  registers.  He  attacked  his  enemies'  houses,  and  many 
persons  were  slain  in  these  riotous  assaults.  No  public  attempt  was 
made  to  stop  him.  The  consuls  were  powerless.  Of  Pompey  and 
Crassus  we  hear  not.  But  a  young  nobleman,  named  T.  Annius 
Milo,  bold  and  reckless  as  Clodius  himself,  raised  a  body  of  gladi- 
ators at  his  own  charge,  and  succeeded  in  checking  the  lawless  vio- 
lence of  the  tribune  by  the  use  of  violence  no  less  lawless.  The  bill 
for  Cicero's  recall  was  now  for  the  third  time  brought  forward  ;  and 
after  long  delays,  caused  by  fresh  interference  of  the  Clodiau  tri- 
bunes, it  was  passed  in  the  month  of  August. 

Meantime  the  impatient  orator  had  been  writing  letters  from  Thus- 
salonica  and  Dyrrhachium,  in  which  he  continued  to  accuse  hi* 
friends  of  coldness  and  insincerity.  But  when  the  law  wa-s  passed, 
all  the  clouds  vanished.  Early  in  September,  about  a  year  and  four 
months  after  his  departure,  he  approached  the  city,  and  crowds  at- 
tended him  along  the  whole  length  of  the  Appiau  Way.  From  the 
Porta  Capena  to  the  Capitol,  all  the  steps  of  the  temples  aud  every 


30  LIFE    OF   JULIUS    C.ESAR. 

place  of  vantage  were  thronged  by  multitudes,  who  testified  their 
satisfaction  by  loud  applause.  For  the  moment,  the  popularity 
which  hud  followed  his  consulship  returned,  and  in  honest  pride  ho 
ascended  to  the  Capitoline  Temple  to  return  thanks  to  tiie  gods  for 
turning  the  hearts  of  the  people. 

At  this  time  there  was  a  great  scarcity  of  corn  at  Rome.  This 
might  in  part  be  occasioned  by  the  disturbed  state  of  Egypt,  one  of 
the  chief  granaries  of  Italy.  The  king,  Ptolemy  Auletes,  had  lately 
been  expelled  by  his  subjects,  and  was  now  at  Rome  seeking  aid 
from  the  senate  to  procure  restoration  to  his  throne,  \7hatever  was 
the  cause,  the  people,  accustomed  to  be  fed  by  the  state,  murmured 
loudly.  Prices  had  fallen  after  the  return  of  Cicero,  and  his  friends 
attributed  this  cheapness  to  the  orator's  recall.  But  before  his  re- 
turn to  Rome,  they  had  again  risen  ;  and  Clodius  hastened  to  attribute 
this  untoward  change  to  the  same  cause.  On  the  day  after  his  tri- 
umphant entry,  therefore,  the  orator  appeared  in  the  senate,  and 
after  returning  thanks  for  his  recall,  he  moved  that  an  extraordinary 
commission  should  be  issued  to  Pompey,  by  which  he  was  to  be  in- 
trusted with  a  complete  control  over  the  corn-market  of  the  empire. 
The  consuls  eagerly  closed  with  the  proposal,  and  added  that  Hie 
commission  should  run  for  five  years,  with  the  command  of  money, 
troops,  fleets,  and  all  things  necessary  for  absolute  authority.  The 
senate  dared  not  oppose  the  hungry  mob  ;  and  the  bill  passed, 
though  Pompey  was  obliged  to  relinquish  the  clauses  which  in- 
vested him  with  military  power..  He  proved  unable  to  influence 
prices,  or,  in  other  words,  to  force  nature,  and  the  coveted  appoint- 
ment resulted  in  unpopularity. 

At  the  same  time,  handsome  sums  were  voted  to  Cicero  to  enable 
him  to  rebuild  his  ruined  houses,  and  to  compensate  him  for  the  de- 
struction of  his  property.  Encouraged  both  by  the  favor  of  the 
senate  and  by  his  present  popularity  in  the  forum,  he  proceeded  to 
institute  a  prosecution  against  Clodius  for  assuming  the  tribunate 
illegally,  and  for  seditious  conduct  during  his  office.  The  reckless 
demagogue  prepared  to  resist  by  means  of  his  armed  mob.  But  he 
received  support  from  an  unexpected  quarter.  Cato  had  returned 
from  executing  the  hateful  commission  given  him  by  Clodius.  The 
helpless  Prince  of  Cyprus,  despairing  of  resistance,  though  Cato 
was  unattended  by  an  armed  force,  put  an  end  to  his  own  life  ;  and 
the  Roman,  with  rigorous  punctuality,  proceeded  to  sell  all  the  royal 
property  and  reduce  the  island  to  the  condition  of  a  Roman  province. 
On  his  return,  he  paid  large  sums  into  the  treasury,  insisted  on  his 
^accounts  being  examined  with  minute  scrutiny,  and  took  pride  in 
having  executed  his  commission,  without  regard  either  to  the  justice 
of  its  origin,  or  to  mercy  in  its  execution.  But  this  commission 
would  become  illegal  were  the  tribunate  of  Clodius  declared  illegal. 
Cato,  therefore,  with  the  usual  perversity  of  his  logic,  came  forward 
as  a  warm  defender  of  Clodius  and  the  acts  of  his  tribunate. 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS   C^SAR.  31 

While  the  question  was  pending,  fresh  passions  were  excited  by 
ihe  application  of  Ptolemy  Auletes.  The  king  had  consulted  Gate 
during  his  sojourn  in  the  East,  though  the  Roman  was  at  that  time 
engaged  in  ruining  the  king's  brother  ;  and  Cato  had  vainly  advised 
him  to  procure  restoration  by  any  means  rather  than  by  application 
to  Rome,  whose  assistance  was  only  to  be  bought  by  ruin.  But 
Ptolemy  neglected  the  well-meant  advice  ;  and  when  he  appeared  at 
Rome  to  demand  succor,  every  senator  of  influence  claimed  the 
lucrative  task  of  giving  back  her  king  to  Egypt.  Pompey  sought 
it ;  Crassus  sought  it ;  and  the  latter  person  now  appears  for  the  first 
time  as  the  mover  of  a  popular  force,  independent  of  his  brother  tri- 
umvirs. But  the  senate  was  too  jealous  of  the  triumvirs  to  increase 
their  power — and  all  the  great  expectants  of  the  Egyptian  commis- 
sion were  disappointed.  It  was  conferred,  as  if  in  the  regular  course 
of  things,  upon  the  late  consul  Lentulus  Spinther,  who  had  obtained 
the  province  of  Cilicia  ;  but  the  tribune  G.  Cato  produced  an  oracle 
from  the  Sibylline  Books  which  forbade  the  use  of  an  army.  Len- 
tulus, therefore,  obtained  a  commission  without  the  power  of  execut- 
ing it,  and  the  Question  in  reality  was  left  open  for  future  aspirants. 

In  the  heat  of  this  contest,  Clodius  had -been  elected  a'dile,  and 
thus  for  the  nonce  escaped  the  impeachment  which  was  menacing. 
The  armed  conflicts  between  him  and  Milo  continued  ;  and  the  con- 
sular election  for  the  year  55  B.C.  threatened  to  become  the  oppor- 
tunity of  serious  bloodshed.  The  consuls  of  the  current  year  (57 
B.C.),  Cn.  Lentulus  Marcellinus  and  L.  Philippus,  were  decidedly  in 
the  interest  of  the  senate  ;  and  they  supported  with  their  whole  in- 
fluence L.  Domitius  Ahenobarbus,  brother-in-law  of  Cato  and  a  de- 
termined antagonist  of  the  triumviral  cabal.  This  man  threatened 
that  his  first  act  should  be  to  recall  Caesar  from  his  province.  Pompcy 
al.so  and  Crassus  met  with  little  favor  from  him.  And  thus  common 
danger  again  united  the  three  men  who  had  lately  been  diverging. 
It  was  to  concert  measures  for  thwarting  the  reviving  energy  of  ihe 
senate,  that  the  ominous  meeting  at  Luca  was  proposed  and  took 
effect.  What  passed  between  the  three  is  only  known  from  the  n-MilN. 

Pompey  and  Crassus  returned  to  Rome  from  their  interview  at 
Luca  fully  pledged  (as  is  evident  from  what  followed)  to  pre\em 
the  election  of  Domitius  and  the  recall  of  Caesar.  To  fulfil  both 
these  conditions,  they  came  forward  themselves  as  joint  candidates 
for  a  second  consulship.  The  senate,  however,  had  gathered  courage 
of  late.  Milo  held  Clodius  in  check,  and  the  consuls  hindered  tin- 
election  of  the  powerful  confederates  by  refusing  to  hold  the 
comitia.  The  powers  of  government  were  in  ahvynnce.  The 
calends  of  January  came,  and  there  were  no  magistrates  to  assume 
the  government.  The  young  Crassus  had  just  arrived  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Rome  with  a  strong  body  of  the  Gallic  veterans  from 
C;esar's  army.  Under  the  fear  of  violence,  the  senatorial  chiefs 
drew  back,  and  allowed  Pompey  and  Crassus  to  assume  the  consul- 


32  L!FE  OF  JULIUS  <  .i.su;. 

ship,  as  Marius  and  Cinna  had  assumed  it,  without  any  regular 
form  of  election.  They  immediately  held  comitia  for  the  election  of 
the  other  curule  magistracies.  Cato  offered  himself  for  the  pra-tor- 
ship,  but  was  defeated  by  Vatinius,  a  person  chiefly  known  as  a  mer- 
cenary instrument  of  Caesar's  policy. 

Soon  after,  further  fruits  of  the  conference  of  Luoa  appeared. 
The  tribune,  C.  Treboniiis,  moved  in  the  Assembly  of  Tribes  that 
the  consuls  should  receive  special  provinces  for  the  space  of  five 
years — Syria  being  allotted  to  Crassus,  Spain  to  Pompey.  Whethei 
•  he  consuls  intended  to  bring  forward  a  supplementary  law  to  extend 
Caesar's  command,  or  whether  they  purposed  to  l>r<  a k  faith  with  their 
absent  confederate,  cannot  be  known.  But  the  Civsariari  party  at 
Rome  exclaimed  so  loudly  against  the  omission  of  their  leader's  name, 
that  Pompey  himself  added  a  clause  to  the  Trebonian  law,  by  which 
Caesar's  government  of  the  Gauls  and  Illyria  was  extended  for  an  ad- 
ditional five  years,  to  date  from  the  expiration  of  the  first  term.* 
During  the  first  day  Cato  obstructed  the  law  by  his  old  device  of 
speaking  against  time.  But  when  a  second  day  seemed  likely  to  be 
wasted  in-  like  manner,  Trebonius  committed  him  t<3  prison.  Two 
tribunes  who  threatened  to  interpose  their  veto  were  prevented  from 
attending  the  assembly  by  the  use  of  positive  force. 

Pompey  endeavored  to  outdo  even  Caesar  in  bidding  for  the  favor 
of  the  people  by  magnificent  spectacles.  In  his  name,  his  freedman 
Demetrius  erected  the  first  theatre  of  stone  which  Rome  had  yet 
seen,  and  exhibited  combats  of  wild  beasts  on  a  scale  never  before 
witnessed.  Then  for  the  first  time  a  combat  between  elephants  was 
witnessed  in  the  arena. 

Cicero  after  his  return  from  exile  had  for  a  time  eagerly  engaged 
in  professional  pursuits.  To  pass  over  the  speeches  which  he.deliv- 
ered  with  respect  to  himself  and  the  restoration  of  his  property  in 
the  year  57  B.C.,  we  rind  him  defending,  among  others,  P.  Sestius, 
M.  Caelius,  and  L.  Balbus,  and  the  speeches  he  delivered  as  their  ad- 
vocate are  full  of  interesting  allusions  to  the  state  of  political  affairs. 
In  the  senate  also  he  had  taken  an  active  part  in  the  debates.  Before 
the  conference  of  Luca  the  triumviral  cabal  seemed  shaken,  and 
Pompey  seemed  to  be  roused  from  his  apathy  by  the  insolence  of 
Clodius.  At  that  juncture  the  orator  ventured  to  move  in  the  senate 
the  repeal  of  Caesar's  law  for  dividing  the  Campanian  lands,  and  his 
motion  was  warmly  received  by  the  leading  senators.  But  after  the 
conference  a  message  was  conveyed  to  him  through  Crassus  which 
convinced  him  at  once  of  the  renewed  union  of  the  triumvirs,  and  of 
the  danger  which  might  again  overtake  him.  He  was,  moreover,  be- 
coming disgusted  with  the  senatorial  chiefs.  Lucullus,  after  spend- 

*  Veil.  Pat.  ii.  46.  By  the  Vatinian  law,  Caesar's  command  extended  from  the 
beginning  of  58  to  the  cud  of  54  B.C.;  by  the  Trebonian,  from  the  beginning  of  53 
to  th«  end  of  49. 


LlFF,   OF  JULIUS  C^SAE.  33 

ing  his  latter  days  in  profuse  and  ostentatious  luxury,  was  sinking 
into  a  state  of  senile  apathy.  Hortensius,  always  more  of  an  advo- 
cate than  a  statesman,  was  devoted  to  his  fish-ponds  and  his  planta- 
tions. With  Cato  the  gentler  nature  of  Cicero  never  acted  harmoni- 
ously. The  persons  who  were  now  rising  to  be  chiefs  of  the  senate, 
such  as  Domitius  Ahenobarbus,  Milo,  and  others,  were  as  little  loath  to 
use  lawless  force  as  Clodius.  It  had  been  best  for  Cicero  if  he  had 
taken  the  advice  of  his  friend  Atticus  and  retired  altogether  from 
public  life,  at  a  time  when  there  seemed  no  place  left  for  him  on  the 
field  of  politics.  But  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  give  up  those  ac- 
tive and  stirring  pursuits  which  he  had  followed  from  youth  up- 
ward. He  could  not  bear  to  abandon  the  senate-house  and  forum  ; 
he  would  not  join  the  violent  members  of  the  senatorial  party  ;  he 
dared  not  oppose  the  triumvirs.  It  was  impossible  to  satisfy  these 
conflicting  fears  and  wishes  without  quitting  the  ranks  of  the  sena- 
torial oligarchy  and  joining  the  supporters  of  the  trium viral  cabal. 
The  first  step  Cicero  took  with  little  regret  ;  the  second  no  doubt 
gave  him  much  pain.  Nevertheless  he  took  it.  Soon  after  the  con- 
ference of  Luca  a  change  appeared  in  his  politics.  He  spoke  in 
favor  of  the  prolongation  of  Caesar's  command,  aiid  pronounced  a 
labored  panegyric  on  Crassus,  whom' he  had  always  disliked.  To 
Caesar  he  had  been  reconciled  by  his  brother  Quintus,  who  was  a 
warm  admirer  of  the  great  proconsul.  The  gallant  son  of  Crassus. 
who  had  returned  flushed  with  triumph  from  the  Gallic  wars  was 
a  devoted  follower  of  Cicero  ;  and  perhaps  personal  feeling  for  the 
son  supplied  feelings  and  words  which  the  father  could  not  have 
claimed.  It  may  well  be  supposed  that  Cicero  was  disgusted  with 
the  ferocity  of  Milo  and  the  new  senatorial  chiefs.  It  is  even  possi- 
ble that  he  really  believed  the  best  hope  of  moderate  and  regular  gov- 
ernment was  from  the  triumvirs.  At  all  events  his  letters  written  at 
this  time  show  that  he  labored  to  convince  his  friends  and  perhaps 
himself  that  such  was  his  belief. 

In  some  points,  however,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  Cicero  carried 
his  compliance  beyond  the  limits  even  of  political  morality.  Since 
the  first  extraordinary  appointment  of  Pompey  to  command  in  t lie 
Mediterranean,  it  had  become  common  to  confer  provinces  and  com- 
mands, not  according  to  the  provisions  of  the  Sempronian  law,  but 
by  special  votes  of  the  people.  In  this  way  the  profligate  Piso,  Cae- 
sar's  father-in-law,  had  received  the  government  of  Macedonia,  and 
Gabinius,  Pompey's  creature,  that  of  Syria.  These  men  had  used 
their  power  in  a  manner  now  too  common  ;  Cicero  had  inveigh.-.l 
against  them  in  his  most  vehement  manner  soon  after  his  return,  and 
the  effect  of  his  speech  was  such  that  Piso  was  recalled.  Gabinitis, 
meantime,  had  taken  a  daring  step.  Lentulus  Spinther,  proconsul 
of  Cilicia,  was  (as  has  been  said)  unable  to  execute  his  commission  of 
restoring  Ptolemy  Auletes.  The  king,  therefore,  applied  to  Gubi- 
nius,  and  by  offer  of  enormous  sums  prevailed  upon  him  to  march  to 


34  UFE  OP  JULIUS   C^SAB. 

Alexandria  without  waiting  for  a  commission.  Gabinius,  by  the  aid 
of  an  armed  force,  had  no  difficulty  in  reinstating  Ptolemy.  This 
was  during  the  consulship  of  Pompey  and  Crassus.  Being  super- 
seded by  Crassus  in  his  Syrian  government,  Gabiuius  returned  to 
Rome.  He  found  the  people  infuriated  against  him  for  daring  to 
lead  an  army  into  Egypt  in  despite  of  the  Sibylline  oracles,  and  he 
was  impeached.  By  the  influence  of  Pompey,  doubtless,  he  was  ac- 
quitted. But  he  was  again  indicted  for  extortion  in  his  province, 
and  Cicero,  at  the  solicitation  of  Pompey,  came  forward  to  defend 
him.  But  this  time  he  was  condemned,  no  doubt  most  justly,  and 
sought  safety  in  exile. 

The  triumviral  cabal  now  hastened  to  dissolution.  In  the  year 
54  B.C.,  Julia,  the  daughter  of  Caesar  and  wife  of  Pompey,  died  in 
childbed.  Though  Pompey  was  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  she 
had  been  to  him  a  loving  and  faithful  wife.  He  on  his  part  was  so 
devoted  to  his  young  and  beautiful  consort,  that  ancient  authors  at- 
tribute much  of  his'apathy  in  public  matters  to  the  happiness  which 
he  found  in  domestic  life.  This  faithful  attachment  to  Julia  is  Ihc 
most  amiable  point  in  a  character  otherwise  cold  and  unattractive. 
So  much  was  Julia  beloved  by  all,  that  the  people  voted  her  the  ex- 
traordinary honor  of  a  public  funeral  in  tiie  Campus  Martius.  Her 
death  set  Pompey  free  at  once  from  ties  which  might  long  have 
bound  him  to  Caesar,  and  almost  impelled  him  to  drown  the  son.se  of 
his  loss  in  the  busy  whirl  of  public  life. 

Meanwhile  Crassus  had  left  Rome  for  the  East,  and  thus  destroyed 
another  link  in  the  chain  that  had  hitherto  maintained  political  union 
among  the  triumvirs.  Early  in  the  year  after  his  consulship  (54 
B.C.)  he  succeeded  Gabiuius  in  the  government  of  Syria.  His  chief 
object  in  seeking  this  province  was  to  carry  the  Roman  arms  beyond 
the  Euphrates,  and  by  the  conquest  of  the  Parthians  to  win  fresh  ad- 
ditions to  his  enormous  fortune,  while  a  great  military  triumph  might 
serve  to  balance  the  conquests  of  Pompey  in  the  same  regions,  and 
of  Caesar  in  Gaul.  Toward  the  close  of  the  year  53  B.C.,'  about 
twelve  mouths  after  the  death  of  Julia,  Rome  was  horror-struck  by 
hearing  that  the  wealthy  proconsul  and  his  gallant  sou  had  been  cut 
off  by  the  enemy,  and  that  the  greater  part  of  his  army  had  been  de- 
stroyed. 

The  Parthians,  a  people  originally  found  in  the  mountainous  dis- 
trict to  the  south-west  of  the  Caspian  Sea,  had,  on  the  death  of  Alex- 
ander, fallen  under  the  nominal  sway  of  Seleucus  and  his  successor* 
on  the  (iiM-co-Syrian  throne.  As  that  dynasty  fell  into  decay,  the 
I'arthians  continually  waxed  bolder;  till  at  the  time  of  the  great 
Milhridatic  war  we  find  their  king  Pharnaces  claiming  to  be  called 
king  of  kings,  and  exercising  despotic  power  over  the  whole  of  Per- 
svinml  the  adjacent  countries  to  the  Euphrates  westward.  Their 

' 


was  fixed  at  the  Greek  city'of  Seleuceia  on  the  Tigris  ;  and 
here  tho  king  maintained  a  court  in  which  the  barbaric  splendor  of 


LIFE    OF   JULIUS   CAESAR.  35 

the  East  was  strangely  mingled  with  the  frugal  refinements  intro- 
duced by  the  Greek  settlers  and  adventurers,  who  abounded  in  all 
quarters.  They  possessed  a  numerous  cavalry,  clad  in  light  armor,- 
used  to  scour  the  broad  plains  of  the  countries  they  overran,  trained 
to  disperse  like  a  cloud  before  regular  troops,  but  to  fire  on  the  ad- 
vancing enemy  as  they  fled.  Orodes,  their  present  king,  already 
threatened  with  an  attack  by  Gabinius,  was  not  unprepared  for  tho 
war  which  Crassus  lost  no  time  in  beginning. 

In  the  first  year  of  his  proconsulship,  Crassus  was  too  late  for 
serious  attack  ;  but  early  in  the  next  spring  (53  B.C.)  he  ad- 
vanced in  strength  from  the  Euphrates,  at  the  head  of  a  well- 
appointed  army.  Artabazus,  the  present  king  of  Armenia,  who, 
through  fear  of  the  Parthian  monarch,  was  sincerely  attached 
to  Rome,  wished  the  proconsul  to  take  Armenia  as  a  basis  of 
operations,  and  to  descend  the  valley  of  the  Tigris,  so  as  to  avoid 
the  open  plains,  where  the  Parthian  horsemen,  seconded  by  the  heat 
of  summer,  would  act  against  him  at  terrible  advantage.  C.  Cassias 
Longinus,  the  most  experienced  officer  of  the  proconsul — a  man  who 
afterward  became  famous  as  the  chief  author  of  Caesar's  death— took 
the  same  view.  But  Crassus  was  impatient,  and,  neglecting  all  ad- 
vice, marched  straight  across  the  plains.  What  was  foretold  hap- 
pened. The  Parthians,  avoiding  a  general  battle,  drew  on  the  Ro- 
mans into  the  heart  of  Mesopotamia,  till  the  legionaries,  faint  with 
heat  and  hunger,  could  advance  no  farther.  As  they  began  to  re- 
treat, they  were  enveloped  by  a  crowd  of  horsemen,  and  pursued  by 
a  great  army  commanded  by  Surenas,  a  principal  officer  of  Orodes. 
At  Charraj,  the  Haran  where  Abraham  once  dwelt,  he  halted  and 
offered  battle.  It  was  accepted,  and  the  proconsul  was  defeated. 
Still  he  contrived  to  make  good  his  retreat,  and  was  within  reach  of 
the  mountains  that  skirt  the  western  side  of  the  great  plain  of  Meso- 
potamia when  he  was  induced  to  accept  a  conference  offered  l>y  the 
treacherous  Surenas.  At  this  conference  he  was  seized  and  slain,  as 
the  chiefs  of  the  ten  thousand  had  been  dealt  with  three  centuries 
before.  His  head  was  sent  to  Orodes,  who  ordered  molten  gold  to 
be  poured  into  the  mouth.  Young  Publius,  the  friend  of  Caesar  and 
Cicero,  fell  in  the  struggle,  fighting  valiantly  for  his  father.  Cas- 
sius  alone  of  the  chief  officers  did  the  duty  of  a  general,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  drawing  off  his  division  of  the  army  in  safety  to  the  Ro- 
man frontiers.  For  two  years  he  continued  to  defend  the  province 
against  the  Parthian  assaults,  till  in  51  B.C.  a  decisive  victory  on  the 
confines  of  Cilicia  and  Syria  checked  their  advances,  and  enabled 
Cassius  to  hand  over  the  latter  province  in  a  peaceful  condition  to 
Bibulus. 

Meanwhile  Caesar  in  Gaul  was  also  involved  in  unexpected  difficul- 
ties. In  his  three  first  campaigns  (58-56  B.C.)  as  has  been  said,  he 
seemed  to  have  reduced  all  Gaul  to  silent  submission.  In  the  two 
next  years  he  was  engaged  in  expeditions  calculated  rather  to  aston- 


36  LIFE   OF   JULIUS    CLESAR. 

ish  and  dazzle  men's  minds  at  Rome  than  necessary  to  secure  his 
conquests.  Fresh  swarms  of  Germans  had  begun  to  cross  the  Rhine 
near  Coblenz.*  He  defeated  them  near  that  place  with  slaughter  so 
terrible  that  upward  of  150,000  men  are  said  to  have  been  slain  by 
the  sword  or  to  have  perished  in  the  Rhine.  To  terrify  them  still 
further,  he  threw  a  bridge  over  the  broad  river  at  a  spot  probably  be- 
tween Coblenz  and  Andernach,  which  was  completed  in  ten  days — a 
miracle  of  engineering  art.  He  then  advanced  into  Germany,  burn- 
ing and  destroying,  and  broke  up  his  bridge  as  he  retired.  Caesar's 
account  of  the  victory  of  Coblenz  was  not  received  with  the  same  ap- 
plause in  the  senate  as  had  welcomed  the  triumphs  of  previous  years. 
It  appeared  that  the  German  chiefd  had  come  into  the  Roman  camp, 
that  Caesar  detained  them  on  tlie  ground  that  they  hod  broken  an 
armistice,  and  while  they  were  captives  had  attacked  their  army. 
The  facts  as  narrated  by  himself  bear  an  appearance  of  ill  faith. 
Cato  rose  in  the  senate,  and  proposed  that  Caesar  should  be  delivered 
up  to  the  Germans,  as  an  offering  in  expiation  of  treachery:  But 
such  a  proposition  came  with  aa  ill  grace  even  from  Cato's  mouth. 
Few  Romans  acknowledged  th,e  duty  of  keeping  faith  with  barba- 
rians ;  and  if  Caesar  had  not  been  the  enemy  oTf  the  senatorial  party, 
probably  nothing  would  have  been  said  of  his  treachery.  But  how- 
ever this  might  be,  it  is  clear  that  the  decree  would  have  been  an 
empty  threat.  Who  could  have  been  found  to  "  bell  the  cat"  ?  Who 
would  or  could  have  arrested  Ca3sar  at  the  head  of  his  legions  ? 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  (55  B.C.)  that  he  passed  over 
into  our  own  island,  taking  ship  probably  at  Witsand  near  Calais, 
and  landing  on  the  open  beach  near  Deal.  In  the  next  year  he  re- 
peated the  invasion  of  Britain  with  a  much  larger  force,  marched  up 
the  Stour,  took  Canterbury,  crossed  the  Thames  above  London,  prob- 
ably near  Walton,  defeated  Cassivelaunus,  the  gallant  chief  of  the 
Trinobantes,  and  took  their  town,  which  stood  probably  on  the  site 
of  the  modern  St.  Albans.  Little  result  followed  from  these  ex- 
peditions except  to  spread  the  terror  of  the  Roman  name,  and  to 
afford  matter  of  wonderment  at  Rome.  Cicero's  curiosity  about 
these  unknown  lands  was  satisfied  by  letters  from  his  brother  Quin- 
tus,  and  from  C.  Trebatius  Testa,  a  learned  lawyer,  who  attended  Cae- 
sar in  a  civil  capacity  at  the  recommendation  of  Cicero  himself,  f 

But  it  was  soon  discovered  how  hollow  was  the  pacification  of 
Gaul.  During  the  winter  of  54-58  B.C..  Caasar  had  spread  his  troops 
in  winter-quarters  over  a  wide  area.  Ambiorix,  a  crafty  and  able  chief 
of  the  Eburones,  a  half-German  tribe  on  either  side  of  the  Meuse,  as- 
saulted the  camp  of  Cotta  and  Sabinus,  and  by  adroit  cunning  con- 
trived  to  cut  off  two  legions.  He  then  attacked  Q.  Cicero.  But  this  offi- 

*  It  seems  certain  that  this  is  what  Caesar  means  by  "  ad  confluentem  Mosa,  et 
Kheni.  Bell.  Gall.  iv.  15.  The  Mosa  here  must  be  the  Moselle,  not  the  Meuse— or 
else  Mo/tula*  must  be  restored 

t  Epiet.  ad  Att.  iv.  16,  13  ;  17,  3 ;  ad  Quintum  Fratrem,  ii.  16,  4, 


LIFE   OF   JULIUS   CJESA  li.  37 

Cer,  though  stationed  in  the  hostile  country  of  the  Nervii  with  one 
legion  only,  gallantly  defended  his  camp  till  he  was  relieved  by  Cae- 
sar himself,  who  had  not  yet,  according  to  his  custom,  left  Transal- 
pine Gaul.  Alarmed  by  the  general  insurrection  which  was  threat- 
ened by  these  bold  movements  of  Ambiorix,  Caesar  asked  Pompey  to 
lend  him  a  legion  from  his  Spanish  army  ;  and  his  request  was 
granted  at  once.  The  next  year's  campaign  quelled  the  attempt  of 
Ambiorix,  and  CaBsar  returned  to  Italy  during  the  winter  of  53-52  B.C.  , 
where  his  presence  was  needed,  as  we  shall  presently  hear.  But  in 
the  years  53  and  51  B.C.  all  central  Gaul  rose  against  the  Romans, 
under  the  able  conduct  of  Vercingetorix,  chief  of  the  Arvernians. 
The  combined  Gauls  for  the  most  part  declined  open  conflicts,  and 
threw  themselves  into  towns  fortified  with  great  skill  and  defended 
with  great  obstinacy.  But,  notwithstanding  some  reverses,  the  rapid 
movements  and  steady  resolution  of  Caisar  and  his  officers  triumphed. 
The  last  hope  of  the  Gauls  lay  in  the  strong  fortress  of  Avaricum 
(Bourges)  ;  and  when  this  at  last  yielded,  all  actual  resistance  was  at 
an  end.  But  for  the  two  next  winters  he  was  again  obliged  to  winter 
beyond  the  Alps  ;  and  by  the  beginning  of  the  year  50  B.C.,  the  ninth 
of  his  command,  he  had  conquered  the  whole  country,  and  reduced 
every  murmur  to  silence.  This  conquest  was  achieved  at  a  fearful 
loss  of  life.  Nearly  a  million  of  Gauls  and  Germans  are  computed  to 
have  been  sacrificed  in  those  eight  years  of  war.  Caesar  was  humane 
in  the  treatment  of  his  fellow-citizens  ;  but,  like  a  true  Roman,  he 
counted  the  lives  of  barbarians  as  naught. 

While  therefore  Crassus  was  engaged,  never  to  return,  in  the  East, 
and  Caesar  was  occupied  with  serious  dangers  in  Gaul,  Pompey,  no 
longer  bound  by  marriage  ties,  was  complete  master  of  Rome.  Con- 
trary to  all  precedent,  he  sent  lieutenants  to  govern  Spain  in  his 
stead,  pleading  his  employment  as  curator  of  the  corn-market  as  a 
reason  for  his  remaining  at  home.  As  a  matter  of  form,  he 
lived  outside  the  city  at.  his  Alban  villa,  and  never  appeared 
publicly  at  least  within  the  walls  of  Rome.  But  he  did  not 
the  less  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  political  events.  At  present,  in- 
deed, he  interfered  little.  He  seems  to  have  expected  that  the 
condition  of  things  would  at  length  become  so  desperate,  and 
all  government  so  impossible,  that  all  orders  would  unite  in  pro- 
claiming him  dictator.  In  54  B.C.  consuls  were  elected  who  were 
more  in  the  interest  of  the  senate  than  of  the  popular  party,  probably 
by  a  free  use  of  money.  When  the  elections  for  53  B.C.  approached," 
several  tribunes  of  the  popular  party  bound  themselves  together,  and 
by  their  veto  prevented  all  elections  whatsoever  ;  and  for  eight  months 
the  city  was  left  in  a  state  of  anarchy,  without  any  responsible  gov- 
ernment. At  length  two  consuls  were  chosen  ;  but  when  they  pro- 
posed to  hold  the  comitia  for  the  elections  of  52  B.C.,  the  same  scenes 
were  renewed.  The  tribunes  obstinately  refused  to  permit  any  elec- 
tions ;  and  when  the  calends  of  January  came  round,  there  were  uo 


38  LIFE   OF   JULIUS   CAESAR. 

magistrates  to  assume  the  government.  But  in  a  few  days  an  event 
happened  which  completely  altered  all  political  relations. 

We  may  attribute  all  the  late  movements  of  the  tribunes  to  the  in- 
spiration of  Clodius.  In  Caesar's  absence  he  had  become  the  leader 
of  the  popular  party.  During  the  present  interregnum,  he  came  for- 
ward as  candidate  for  the  praetorship,  while  his  enemy  Milo  sought  to 
be  consul.  On  the  18th  of  January,  52  B.C.,  Milo  was  travelling  with 
his  wife  and  family,  attended  (as  usual)  by  a  strong  armed  retinue, 
along  the  Appian  Road  to  Lanuvium,  where  he  held  a  municipal 
office.  Near  Bovillae  he  met  Clodius  riding  with  a  small  number  of 
attendants  also  armed.  A  quarrel  arose  among  the  servants  ;  Clo- 
dius  mingled  in  the  fray,  and,  being  wounded,  took  refuge  in  a  tav- 
ern. Milo,  determined  not  to  suffer  for  an  imperfect  act  of  violence, 
surrounded  the  house,  drew  forth  his  wounded  enemy,  and  left  him 
dead  upon  the  road.  The  body  was  picked  up  by  a  friend  soon 
after,  and  carried  to  Rome.  Here  it  was  exposed  in  the  forum,  and 
a  dreadful  riot  arose.  The  houses  of  Milo  and  other  senatorial  chiefs 
were  assaulted,  but  they  were  strongly  built  and  prepared  for  de- 
fence, and  the  populace  was  beaten  off.  But  the  furniture  of  the  curia, 
the  ancient  meeting-place  of  the  senate,  was  seized  to  make  a  funeral- 
pile  to  the  deceased  demagogue  ;  the  curia  itself  and  other  buildings 
were  involved  in  flames.  Every  day  witnessed  a  fresh  riot,  till  the 
senate  named  Pompey  as  head  of  a  commission  to  restore  order. 
This  was  done  ;  and  it  was  supposed  that  he  would  have  been  ap- 
pointed dictator  at  once,  had  not  Caesar  been  at  Luca  during  this 
winter,  watching  for  a  false  move  of  the  party  opposed  to  him.  To 
avoid  a  direct  collision,  Cato  and  Bibulus  recommended  that  Pompey 
should  be  named  as  sole  consul.  Milo  was  soon  after  brought  to  trial 
for  the  death  of  Clodius.  .  Cicero  was  his  advocate,  and  had  exerted 
himself  to  the  utmost  to  prepare  a  speech  in  justification  of  the 
Euanghter  of  Clodius.  The  jury  were  willing  to  have  acquitted  Milo. 
But  Pompey  was  anxious  to  get  rid  of  a  citizen  as  troublesome  on  the 
one  side  as  Clodius  had  been  on  the  other  :  and  he  placed  soldiers  at 
every  avenue  of  the  court  for  the  purpose,  as  he  said,  of  preserving  or- 
der. This-  unwonted  sight,  and  the  fear  of  popular  violence,  robbed 
Cicero  of  his  eloquence  and  the  judges  of  their  courage.  Milo  was 
t  jndemned,  and  fled  to  Marseilles.  Cicero  sent  him  there  a  written 
speech,  such  (he  said)  as  he  intended  to  have  spoken.  Milo,  who 
knew  no  fear,  sarcastically  replied,  that  "he  was  glad  that  it  had 
hot  been  delivered  ;  else  he  should  not  then  have  been  eating  the 
fine  mullets  of  Marseilles. " 

Pompey  had  now  reached  the  height  of  his  ambition.  He  was  vir- 
tually raised  to  the  position  of  dictator,  without  being  bound  to  any 
party — popular  or  senatorial.  But  from  this  time  he  seems  to  have 
made  up  his  mind  to  break  with  Caesar,  and  to  put  himself  at  the  head 
of  the  senatorial  nobility  without  binding  himself  to  its  traditional 
policy.  He  married  Cornelia,  the  daughter  of  Metellus  Scipio,  a  lead- 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS  C^SAE.  39 

ing  member  of  the  aristocracy,  and  on  the  1st  of  August  associated 
his  new  father-in-law  in  the  consulship  with  himself.  He  repealed 
some  of  the  democratic  measures  of  Clodius,  and  made  rules  for  the 
better  conduct  of  elections,  and  the  assignment  of  provinces.  He 
struck  indirectly  at  Caesar  by  several  new  enactments.  He  procured 
a  decree  of  the  senate  by  which  his  government  of  Spain  was  pro- 
longed for  five  years  longer, whereas  Caesar's  command  in  Gaul  would 
terminate  in  little  more  than  two  years.  By  this  law  Pompey  calcu- 
lated that  he  would  be  able  to  keep  his  own  army  on  foot  after  the 
Gallic  conqueror  had  disbanded  his.  In  anticipation  of  Caesar's  seek- 
ing to  obtain  a  second  consulship,  it  was  further  provided  that  no  one 
should  hold  a  province  till  five  years  had  elapsed  from  the  end  of  his 
tenure  of  office.  By  this  law  Pompey  calculated  that  his  rival  would 
be  left  for  this  period  without  any  military  force.  It  is  strange  that 
Pompey,  with  the  intimate  knowledge  that  he  ought  to  have  gained 
of  Caesar's  character  during  his  long  political  connection  with  him, 
should  not  have  foreseen  that  a  man  so  resolute  and  so  ambitious 
would  break  through  the  cobwebs  of  law  by  the  strong  hand. 

Pompey  was  disappointed  in  his  hope  of  remaining  as  supreme 
arbiter  of  the  fate  of  Rome,  without  joining  heart  and  hand  with  the 
senatorial  nobility.  The  men  who  were  now  coming  forward  as 
leaders  of  that  party  were  men  of  action.  Lucullus  was  dead.  Hor- 
tensius  also  was  dead  to  public  life.  Cicero  left  Rome  at  this  moment 
to  assume  the  government  of  Cilicia  in  virtue  of  the  law  just  passed 
by  Pompey,  by  which  magistrates  lately  in  office  were  excluded  from 
government ;  for  it  was  added,  that  the  present  need  should  be  sup- 
plied by  those  consulars  or  praetorians  who  had  not  yet  held  govern- 
ments. The  orator  was  absent  from  the  beginning  of  51  to  the  end 
of  50  B.C.,  and  during  this  time  the  chief  authority  in  the  senate  be- 
longed to  the  brothers  M.  Marcellus  and  0.  Marcellus,  who  held  the 
consulship  successively  in  the  above-named  years,  together  with 
Domitius  Ahenobarbus  and  others,  who  hated  Pompey  almost  as 
much  as  Caesar.  The  people  of  Rome  and  Italy  looked  on  with  little 
interest.  They  had  no  sympathy  either  with  Pompey  or  the  senate, 
and  Caesar's  long  absence  had  weakened  his  influence  in  the  forum. 
It  was  simply  a  dispute  for  power,  between  the  senatorial  nobility  on 
the  one  hand  and  two  military  chiefs  on  the  other.  These  chiefs  at 
first  united  against  the  senate,  and  then  parted  so  irreconcilably  that 
one  of  them  was  thrown  into  a  forced  alliance  with  that  hody. 
Pompey  and  the  senatorial  leaders  agreed  only  in  one  point — tk« 
necessity  of  stripping  Caesar  of  power. 


40  LIFE  OF  JULIUS  CJiSAK. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

SECOND  CIVIL  WAR— DEATH  OP    POMPEY.      (50-48  B.C.) 

THE  senatorial  chiefs  had  resolved  to  break  with  Caesar.  The  at- 
tack was  commenced  by  the  consul  M.  Marcellus,  in  September,  51 
B.C.  The  proconsul  had  at  that  time  just  succeeded  in  putting  down 
the  formidable  insurrection  organized  by  Vercingetorix,  and  the  fact 
of  his  complete  success  could  not  yet  be  known  at  Rome.  It  was 
the  eighth  year  of  his  command,  and  therefore  little  more  than  two 
years  were  yet  to  run  before  he  became  a  private  citizen,  lie  had, 
however,  already  intimated  his  intention  of  offering  himself  for  the 
consulship,  either  in  the  next  year  or  the  j^ear  after  that,  in  order 
that  he  might,  by  continued  tenure  of  office,  be  safe  from  the  prose- 
cution with  which  he  was  threatened  on  laying  down  his  proconsular 
command  ;  and  it  was  intended  to  ask  permission  of  the  senate  that 
he  might  become  a  candidate  without  returning  to  Rome.  For,  if 
he  continued  to  be  proconsul,  he  could  not  legally  enter  the  gates  ; 
and  if  he  ceased  to  be  proconsul,  he  would  be  exposed  to  personal 
danger  from  the  enmity  of  the  senatorial  chiefs.  But  M.  Marcellus 
was  not  content  to  wait  to  try  the  matter  on  this  issue. '  On  his  mo- 
tion a  decree  was  passed,  by  which  the  consuls  of  the  next  year  were 
ordered  at  once  to  bring  before  the  senate  the  question  of  redistribut- 
ing the  provincial  governments  ;  and  clauses  were  added  providing, 
first,  that  no  tribune  should  be  allowed  to  interpose  his  veto  ;  sec- 
ondly, that  the  senate  would  take  upon  themselves  the  tusk  of  pro- 
viding for  Caesar's  veterans.  The  purpose  of  this  decree  was  mani- 
fest. It  was  intended  at  the  beginning  of  the  next  year  to  supersede 
Caesar,  though  the  law  gave  him  two  years  more  of  command  in 
Gaul  ;  it  was  intended  to  stop  the  mouth  of  any  tribune  in  Caesar's 
interest ;  it  was  intended  to  sap  the  fidelity  of  his  soldiers,  by  tempt- 
ing them  with  hopes  of  obtaining  lands  in  Italy. 

But  the  movement  was  too  open  and  unadvised.  Ser.  Sulpicius,  the 
other  consul,  though  a  member  of  the  senatorial  party,  opposed  it, 
and  it  was  allowed  to  full  to  the  ground.  Still  a  move  had  been 
made,  and  men's  minds  were  familiarized  with  the  notion  of  strip- 
ping Caesar  of  his  command. 

Caesar  felt  that  the  crisis  was  at  hand.  The  next  year  of  his  Gallic 
government  be  spent  in  organizing  Gaul.  All  symptoms  of  insurrec- 
tion in  that  country  were  at  an  end.  The  military  population  had 
suffered  too  terribly  to  be  able  to  resume  arms.  The  mild  and  equit- 
able arrangements  of  Caesar  gave  general  satisfaction.  The  Gallic  chiefs 
and  cities  begun  to  prefer  the  arts  of  Roman  civilization  to  then-  own 
rude  state.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  if  Caesar  had  been  reduce4 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS  (LESAB.  41 

to  play  the  part  of  Sertorius  in  Gaul,  he  would  have  been  able  to  do 
so  with  eminent  success. 

He  did  not,  however,  neglect  precautions  at  home.  Of  the  new 
consuls  (for  the  year  50  B.C.),  C.  Marcellus,  brother  of  Marcus,  the 
late  consul,  was  his  known  and  declared  enemy  ;  but  L.  ^milius 
Paullus  had  been  secretly  won  by  a  share  of  the  gold  which  the  con- 
queror had  collected  during  his  long  command.  Among  the  tribunes 
of  the  year  was  a  young  man  named  M.  Scribonius  Curio,  son  of  one 
of  Sylla's  most  determined  partisans.  His  talents  were  ready,  his 
eloquence  great,  his  audacity  incomparable.  He  had  entered  upon 
political  life  at  an  extremely  early  age,  and  was  a  leader  among  those 
young  nobles  who  had  hoped  to  profit  by  Catiline's  audacity,  and 
whom  Cicero  ten  years  before  designated  as  "  the  bloodthirsty 
youth."  Since  that  time  he  had  attached  himself  to  Cicero  ;  and  the 
credulous  orator  was  pleased  to  think  that  he  had  reclaimed  this  im- 
petuous and  profligate  young  man.  But  Cicero  was  not  the  only  per- 
son who  had  attempted  to  sway  the  pliant  will  of  Curio.  Caesar  also, 
or  his  Gallic  gold,  had  made  a  convert  of  him.  The  nobles,  ignorant 
of  this  secret,  promoted  his  election  to  the  tribunate,  and  thus  un- 
warily committed  power  to  a  bold  and  uncompromising  foe. 

M.  Coelius  Rufus,  another  profligate  youth  of  great  ability,  whom 
Cicero  flattered  himself  he  had  won  over  to  what  he  deemed  the  side 
of  honor  and  virtue,  was  also  secretly  on  Caesar's  side.  During  the 
whole  of  the  orator's  absence  in  Cilicia.  this  unprincipled  young  man 
kept  up  a  brisk  correspondence  with  him,  as  if  he  was  a  firm  adher- 
ent of  the  senatorial  party.  But  on  the  first  outbreak  of  the  quarrel 
he  joined  the  enemy. 

A  third  person,  hereafter  destined  to  play  a  conspicuous  part  in 
civil  broils,  now  appeared  at  Rome  as  the  avowed  friend  and  partisan 
of  Caesar.  This  was  young  M.  Autoiiius,  better  known  as  Mark  An- 
tony, sou  of  M.  Antouius  Creticus,  and  therefore  grandson  of  the 
great  orator.  His  uncle,  C.  Antonius,  had  been  consul  with  Cicero, 
and  had  left  a  dubious  reputation.  His  mother  was  Julia,  daughter 
of  L.  Caesar,  consul  in  the  year  before  Cicero  held  the  office,  a  dis- 
tant relation  of  the  great  Caesar.  Antony  had  served  under  Gabinius 
in  the  East,  and  for  the  last  two  years  had  been  one  of  Caesar's 
officers  in  Gaul.  He  now  Came  to  Rome  to  sue  for  the  augurate, 
vacant  by  the  death  of  the  orator  Hortensius  ;  and,  assisted  by 
Caesar's  influence  and  his  own  great  connections,  he  was  elected. 
He  was  thirty-three  years  of  age,  as  ready  of  tongue,  as  bold  and  un- 
scrupulous in  action  as  Curio,  and  appropriately  offered  himself  to 
be  elected  as  successor  to  that  young  adventurer  in  the  College  of 
Tribunes.  Thus,  for  the  year  50  B.C.  Caesar's  interests  were  watched 
by  Curio,  and  in  the  year  49  B.C.  Antony  succeeded  to  the  task. 

C.  Marcellus  did  not  venture  to  revive,  in  50  B.C.,  the  bold  attack 
which  had  been  made  by  M.  Marcellus  in  the  preceding  year.  But 
at  Pompey's  suggestion,  it  was  represented  that  a  Parthian  war  was 


42  LIFE   OF   JULIUS    CJESAR. 

imminent,  and  both  the  rivals  were  desired  to  furnish  one  legion  for 
service  in  the  East.  Caesar  at  once  complied.  Pompey  evaded  the 
demand  by  asking  Caesar  to  return  the  legion  which  had  been  lent  by 
himself  after  the  destruction  of  the  two  legions  by  Ambiorix.  This 
request  also  Caesar  obeyed,  so  that  in  fact  both  legions  were  with- 
drawn from  his  army.  Their  employment  in  the  East  proved  to  be 
a  mere  pretext.  They  were  both  stationed  at  Capua,  no  doubt  to 
overawe  the  Campanian  district,  which,  since  the  agrarian  law  of 
Caesar's  consulship,  had  been  completely  in  his  interest. 

Any  farther  assault  was  anticipated  by  a  proposal  made  by  Curk). 
It  was  that  both  Pompey  and  Caesar  should  resign  their  commands 
and  disband  their  armies  ;  "  this  was  but  fair,"  he  said,  "  for  both  ; 
nor  could  the  will  of  the  senate  and  people  of  Rome  be  considered 
free  while  Pompey  was  at  hand  with  a  military  force  to  control  their 
deliberations  and  their  votes. ' '  But  the  senate  turned  a  deaf  ear  to 
this  dexterous  proposal,  and  the  year  closed  as  it  began,  without  any 
approach  to  a  peaceful  settlement.  Curio  now  threw  off  all  disguise, 
and  openly  avowed  himself  the  agent  of  Caesar  in  the  senate. 

The  consuls  for  the  ensuing  year  (49  B.C.)  were  L.  Lentulus  Crus, 
and  another  C.  Marcellus,  cousin-gerinan  of  the  two  brothers  who 
had  preceded  him.  Both  were  in  the  interest  of  Pompey.  Scarcely 
had  they  entered  upon  office,  when  the  crisis  which  had  been  so  long 
suspended  arrived. 

On  the  calends  of  January,*  letters  from  Caesar  were  laid  before 
the  senate  by  Curio,  in  which  the  proconsul  expressed  his  readiness 
"  to  accept  the  late  tribune's  proposal  that  Pompey  and  himself 
should  both  resign  their  military  power  ;  as  soon  as  he  was  assured 
that  all  soldiers  were  removed  from  the  neighborhood  of  Rome,  he 
would  enter  the  gates  as  a  private  person,  and  offer  himself  candi-> 
date  for  the  consulship."  Warm  debates  followed,  in  which  Metel- 
lus  Scipio,f  Pompey's  father-in-law,  and  Cato  urged  that  Crcsar 
sh6uld  be  declared  a  public  enemy,  unless  he  laid  down  his  command 
by  a  certain  day.  But  even  this  did  not  satisfy  the  majority.  Not 
only  was  Caesar  outlawed,  but  on  the  6th  of  January  a  decree  was 
framed  investing  the  consuls  with  dictatorial  power,  in  the  same 
form  that  had  been  used  against  C.  Gracchus,  against  Saturninus, 
against  Catiline.  On  the  following  night,  Mark  Antony,  who  had 
vainly  essayed  to  stem  the  tide,  fled  from  the  city,  together  with  his 
brother  tribune,  Q.  Cassius  Longinus,  brother  of  the  more  famous 
C.  Cassius. 

The  die  was  now  cast.  Caesar  had  no  longer  any  choice.  He 
must  either  offer  an  armed  resistance  or  save  himself  by  flight. 

*  Strictly  speaking,  the  year  49  B.C.  had  not  yet  begun  ;  for  the  Koman  calendar 
was  now  nearly  two  months  in  advance  of  the  real  time:  Jau.  1st,  705  A.u.c.=Nov. 
13th,  50B.C.  See  Fischer' B Romische  Zeittafeln,  p.  221. 

t  He  was  a  Sctpio  by  birth,  being  great-grandson  of  Scipio  Nasica  (nicknamed 
S«rapio),  the  ilayer  of  Ti.  Gracchus,  aud,  was  adopted  by  Metellus  Pius, 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS   C^SAE.  43 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  both  parties  were  unprepared  for  imme- 
diate war.  Caesar  had  but  one  legion  in  Cisalpine  Gaul ;  for  the  long 
hesitation  of  his  enemies  made  him  doubt  whether  they  would  ever 
defy  him  to  mortal  conflict.  Pompey  knew  the  weakness  of  his 
rival's  forces.  He  also  knew  that  Labienus,  the  most  distinguished 
of  Caesar's  officers,  was  ready  to  desert  his  leader,  and  he  believed 
that  such  an  example  would  be  followed  by  many.  He  calculated 
that  Caesar  would  not  dare  to  move  forward,  or  that  if  he  did  he 
would  fall  a  victim  to  his  own  adventurous  rashness.  For  himself 
he  had  one  legion  close  to  Rome,  Caesar's  two  legions  at  Capua  ;  and 
Sylla's  veterans  were,  it  was  supposed,  ready  to  take  arms  for  the 
senate  at  a  moment's  notice.  "  I  have  but  to  stamp  my  foot,"  said 
the  great  commander,  "  and  armed  men  will  start  from  the  soil  of 
Italy." 

But  Caesar's  prompt  audacity  at  once  remedied  his  own  want  of 
preparation,  and  disconcerted  all  the  calculations  of  his  opponents. 
At  the  close  of  the  preceding  year,  after  a  triumphant  reception  in 
the  cities  of  Cisalpine  Gaul,  he  had  stationed  himself  with  the  single 
legion,  of  which  we  spoke  just  now,  at  Ravenna.  Here  lie  was  sur- 
prised by  letters  announcing  the  decree  of  the  Gth  of  January.  His 
resolution  was  at  once  taken.  He  reviewed  his  legion,  addressed 
them,  aud  without  betraying  what  had  happened,  ascertained  their 
readiness  to  follow  whithersoever  he  led.  At  nightfall  he  left  Ra- 
venna secretly,  crossed  the  Rubicon,  which  divided  his  provinces 
from  Italy,  and  at  daybreak  entered  Arimiuum.*  Here  he  met  the 
tribunes  Antony  and  Q.  Cassius,  on  their  way  from  Rome.  His  legion 
arrived  soon  after,  and  orders  were  sent  off  to  the  nearest  troops  in 
Transalpine  Gaul  to  follow  his  steps  with  all  speed.  But  he  waited 
not  for  them.  With  his  single  legion,  he  appeared  before  Picenum, 
Fanum,  Ancona,  Iguvium,  Auximum,  and  Asculum.  All  these 
towns  surrendered  without  a  blow,  and  thus  by  the  beginning  of 
February  Ca3sar  was  master  of  all  Umbria  and  Picenum.  By  the 
middle  of  that  montli  he  had  been  reinforced  by  two  additional 
legions  from  Gaul,  and  was  strong  enough  to  invest  the  fortress  of 
Corfinium,  in  the  Peligaian  Apennines.  But  this  place  was  vigor- 
ously defended  by  the  energetic  Domitius  Ahenobarbus,  accompanied 
by  a  number  of  senators.  At  the  close  of  a  week,  however,  news 
came  that  Pompey  and  the  consuls  had  marched  southward  from 
Capua  ;  and  Domitius,  finding  himself  utterly  unsupported,  surren- 
dered at  discretion.  Caesar  allowed  him  and  all  his  senatorial  friends 
to  go  their  way,  aud  to  take  with  them  a  large  sum  of  public  money, 
even  without  exacting  a  promise  that  they  would  take  no  further 
part  in  the  war.  On  entering  the  town  he  strictly  ordered  that  his 

*  This  in  Caesar's  simple  narrative.  The  dramatic  scene,  in  which  he  is  repre- 
sented as  pausing  on  the  banks  of  the  Rubicon,  and  anxiously  weighing  the  proba- 
ble consequences  of  one  irremediable  step,  is  due  to  rhetorical  writers  of  later 
tini«*. 


44  LIFE    OF   JULIUS    C.ESAK. 

men  should  abstain,  not  only  from  personal  violence,  but  even  from 
petty  pillage.  Reports  had  been  industriously  spread  that  the  pro- 
consul's troops  were  not  Romans  but  Gauls,  ferocious  barbarians, 
whose  hands  would  be  against  every  Italian  as  their  natural  enemy. 
The  politic  humanity  which  he  now  showed  produced  the  more  sur- 
prise, and  had  a  great  effect  in  reconciling  to  his  cause  many  who 
had  hitherto  stood  aloof.  Almost  all  the  soldiers  of  Domilius  took 
service  under  the  lenient  conqueror. 

After  the  fall  of  Corflnium,  Caesar  hastened  onward  through  Apulia 
in  pursuit  of  Pompey.  By  successive  reinforcements,  his  legions  had 
now  been  swelled  to  the  number  of  six.  But  when  he  arrived  at 
Brundusium,  on  the  9th  of  March,*  he  found  that  the  ccusuls  had 
sailed  for  Dyrrhachium,  though  Pompey  was  still  in  the  Italian 
port.  The  town  was  too  strong  to  be  taken  by  assault  ;  and  nine 
days  after  Caesar  appeared  before  its  walls,  Pompey  embarked  at 
leisure  and  carried  his  last  soldier  out  of  Italy.  Disappointed  of  his 
prey,  Caesar  returned  upon  his  steps,  and  reached  Rome  upon  the  1st 
of  April,  f  where  M.  Antony,  after  receiving  the  submission  of 
Etruria,  had  prepared  the  way  for  his  reception.  The  people,  on  the 
motion  of  the  same  tribune,  gave  Caesar  full  power  to  take  what  money 
he  desired  from  the  treasury,  without  sparing  even  the  sacred  hoard 
which  had  been  set  apart  after  the  invasion  of  the  Gauls,  and  had 
never  since  been  touched  except  in  the  necessities  of  the  Hannibalic 
war.  There  was  no  longer  any  need  of  a  reserve  fund  against  the 
Gauls,  it  was  argued,  now  that  the  Gauls  had  become  peaceful  sub- 
jects of  the  republic.  Notwithstanding  this  vote,  the  senatorial  tri- 
bune, L.  Metellus,  a  son  of  Metellus  Creticus,  refused  to  produce  the 
keys  of  the  treasury,  and,  when  Caesar  ordered  the  doors  to  be  broken 
open,  endeavored  to  bar  his  passage  into  the  sacred  chamber. 
"  Stand  aside,  young  man,"  said  Caesar,  "  it  is  easier  forme  to  do 
than  to  say."  J 

He  was  now  master  of  Italy,  as  well  as  Gaul.  To  pursue  Pompey 
to  Epirus  was  impossible,  because  the  senatorial  officers  swept  the 
sea  with  a  large  and  well-appointed  fleet,  and  Caesar  had  very  few 
ships  at  his  disposal.  Moreover,  in  Spain,  which  had  been  subject  to 
Pompey's  rule  for  the  last  five  years,  there  was  a  veteran  army,  ready 
to  enter  Italy  as  soon  as  he  left  it.  The  remainder  of  the  season,  there- 
fore, he  resolved  to  occupy  in  the  reduction  of  that  army. 

On  his  way  to  Spain,  he  found  that  Marseilles,  the  chosen  retreat 
of  Milo,  being  by  its  aristocratical  form  of  government  attached  to 
the  senatorial  party,  had  declared  for  Pompey.  Leaving  Dec.  Brutus 

*  I.e.,  the  9th  of  March  of  the  current  Roman  year  =  Jan.  17th.  49  B.C.,  of  our 
time. 

t  Feb.  9th,  of  our  time. 

j  Plut.  VU.  Cast.  c.  86,  Cicero  ad  Alt.  x.  4,  and  other  authors.  Cnesar  himself 
tells  us  that  Lentulus  the  consul  left,  the  treasury  open  (PM.  Civ.  i.  13).  Metellus, 
then,  must  have  locked  it  after  the  flight  of  Pompey. 


LIFE    OF   JULIUS   CJESAB.  45 

with  twelve  ships,  and  C.  Trebonius  with  a  body  of  troops,  to  block- 
ade the  town  both  by  sea  and  land,  he  continued  his  march,  and 
crossed  the  Pyrenees  early  in  the  summer.  Hither  Spain  was  h<  Id 
by  L.  Afranius,  an  old  officer  of  Pompey,  whom  he  had  raised  to  the 
consulship  in  60  B.C.,  and  M.  Petreius,  the  experienced  soldier  who 
had  destroyed  the  army  of  Catiline.  Farther  Spain  was  intrusted  to 
the  care  of  the  accomplished  M.  Terentius  Varro. 

Near  Ilerda  (Lerida),  on  the  river  Sicoris,  an  affluent  of  the  Ebro, 
Caesar  was  encountered  by  the  Pompeiau  leaders.  He  gives  us  a 
very  full  account  of  the  movements  which  followed,  from  which  it  ie 
pretty  clear  that  so  far  as  military  science  went,  Caesar  was  outsell 
eralled  by  Petreius.  At  one  time  he  was  in  the  greatest  peril  from  a 
sudden  rising  in  the  river,  which  cut  him  off  from  all  his  supplies. 
He  released  himself  by  that  fertility  of  resource  which  distinguished 
him.  He  had  seen  in  Britain  boats  of  wicker,  covered  with  hide, 
such  as  are  still  used  on  the  Severn  under  the  name  of  coracles  ;  a 
number  of  them  were  secretly  constructed,  and  by  their  help  he  re- 
established his  communications.  But  whatever  might  be  his  military 
inferiority,  yet  over  the  weak  Afranius  and  the  rude  Petreius  his  dex- 
terity in  swaying  the  wills  of  men  gave  him  an  unquestioned  superi- 
ority. Avoiding  a  battle  always,  he  encouraged  communications  be- 
tween his  own  men  and  the  soldiers  of  the  enemy  ;  at  length  the 
Pompeian  leaders,  finding  themselves  unable  to  control  their  own 
troops,  were  obliged  to  surrender  their  command.  Two  thirds  of  their 
force  took  service  with  the  politic  conqueror. 

Varro,  in  Farther  Spain,  by  dexterous  intrigue,  contrived  to  evade 
immediate  submission.  But  after  a  vain  attempt  to  collect  a  force, 
he  surrendered  to  the  conqueror  at  Corduba  (Cordova),  and  %yas  al- 
lowed to  go  where  he  pleased.  Before  autumn  closed,  all  Spain  was 
at  the  feet  of  Caesar,  and  was  committed  to  the  government  of  Q. 
.  Cassius,  the  tribune  who  had  supported  his  cause  at  Rome.  Being 
thus  secured  from  danger  in  the  West,  he  hastened  to  return  into  Italy. 

As  he  passed  through  Southern  Gaul  he  found  that  Marseilles  .still 
held  out  against  Dec.  JBrutUS  and  Trebonius.  The  defence  had  been 
most  gallant.  The  blockade  by  sea  had  been  interrupted  by  a  de- 
tachment from  Pompey's  fleet ;  and  the  great  works  raised  by  the 
besiegers  on  laud  had  been  met  by  counter-works  of  equal  magnitude 
on  the  part  of  the  besieged.  But  Trebonius  had  perseveringly  re- 
paired all  losses  ;  and  on  tlxe  arrival  of  Caesar,  the  Massilians  surren- 
dered themselves  with  a  good  grace.  As  in  all  other  cases,  he  treated 
them  with  the  utmost  clemency. 

On  reaching  Italy,  he  was  obliged  to  turn  aside  to  Placentia  for  the 
purpose  of  quelling  a  mutiny  that  had  arisen  in  a  legion  which  had 
been  left  there,  and  which  complained  that  promises  of  discharge  and 
reward  made  to  them  had  not  been  kept.  His  presence  at  once  sup, 
pressed  the  mutiny.  But  he  selected  twelve  of  the  ringleaders  for 
capital  punishment.  Among  these  twelve  was  one  who  proved  that 
A.B.— 13 


46  LIFE   OP  JULIUS   (LESAR. 

he  had  been  absent  when  the  mutiny  broke  out.     In  his  place  the 
centurion  who  accused  him  was  executed. 

During  his  absence  in  Spain,  M.  JEmilius  Lopidus,  whom  he  had 
left  as  prefect  of  the  city  to  govern  Italy,  had  named  him  dictator. 
From  Flaceutia  lie  hastened  to  Rome  and  assumed  the  great  dignity 
thus  conferred  upon  him.  But  he  held  it  only  eleven  days.  In  that 
period  he  presided  at  the  comitia,  and  was  there  elected  consul,  to- 
gether with  P.  Servilius  Isauricus,  one  of  his  old  competitors  for  the 
chief  pontificate.  He  also  passed  several  laws.  One  of  these  restored 
all  exiles  to  the  city,  except  Milo,  thus  undoing  one  of  the  last  rem- 
nants of  Sylla's  dictatorship.  A  second  provided  for  the  payment 
of  debts,  so  as  to  lighten  the  burdens  of  the  debtors  without  satisfy- 
ing the  democratic  cry  for  a  complete  abolition  of  all  contracts.  A 
third  conferred  the  franchise  on  the  citizens  of  Transpadane  Gaul, 
who  had  since  the  Social  war  enjoyed  the  Latin  right  only. 

Of  the  doings  of  his  lieutenants  in  other  quarters  during  this 
memorable  year,  Ca3sar  did  not  receive  accounts  at  all  commensurate 
with  his  own  marvellous  success.  In  Illyria,  P.  Cornelius  Dolabella, 
son-in-law  of  Cicero,  who  had  joined  the  conqueror,  had  been  dis- 
gracefully beaten,  and  Cains,  brother  of  Mark  Antony,  taken  pris- 
oner, so  that  all  the  eastern  coast  of  the  Adriatic  was  now  in  the 
hands  of  the  Pompeians. 

Curio  had  been  sent  to  orcupy  Sicily,  where  Cato  commanded  in 
the  name  of  the  senate.  The  philosopher,  having  no  force  adequate 
to  resist,  retired  from  the  unequal  contest,  and  joined  Pompey  in 
Epirus.  Curio  then  passed  over  to  Africa,  where  the  Pompeian  gen- 
eral Varus  held  command.  He  took  the  field,  and  was  at  first  de- 
feated by  Curio.  But  presrntly  Juba,  King  of  Mauritania,  appeared 
in  the  field  as  an  ally  of  the  senatorial  party  ;  and  Curio  was  obliged 
in  his  turn  to  retreat  before  the  combined  forces  of  the  eneni)',  till  he 
took  refuge  in  the  famous  *;amp  of  Scipio.  From  this  position  he 
was  drawn  out  by  a  feigned  retreat  of  the  African  prince  ;  and 
being  surprised  by  an  overpowering  force,  he  was  defeated  and  slain. 
Africa,  therefore,  as  well  PS  all  the  eastern  world,  remained  in  the 
hands  of  the  Pompeians,  tvhile  Italy,  Gaul,  and  Spain  owned  the 
authority  of  Caesar. 

Cicero  had  returned  frc'n  his  Cilician  province  to  Rome,  while  the 
debates  were  being  held  which  issued  in  the  decree  of  the  6th  of  Jan 
nary.  During  his  two  vears'  government  he  had  nearly  been  en- 
gaged in  very  serious  w?  .rfare  with  the  Parthians.  But  C.  Cassius, 
as  we  have  mentioned,  e  ive  them  so  severe  a  blow  that  Cicero's  mil- 
itary abilities  were  oulv  iested  in  reducing  some  of  the  wild  moun- 
tain tribes  who  infested  the  borders  of  his  province.  He  claimed  a 
triumph  for  these  achievements,  and  therefore  would  not  enter  the 
•walls  of  the  city  t.)  bf  present  at  the  termination  of  these  moment- 
ous debates.  Tho  ~>?r/,tion  of  his  triumph" was  soon  forgotten  in  the 
rapid  course  of  ever.V?  which  followed,  and  he  retired  to  his  Formian 


LIFE   OF   JULIUS   C.ESAR.  47 

villa,  still  attended  by  his  lictors  with  their  fasces  -wreathed  in  laurel. 
From  this  place  he  went  frequently  to  have  interviews  with  Pom- 
peian  leaders  on  their  retreat  through  Campania.  At  the  same  time 
many  of  his  personal  friends,  Curio,  Caelius,  DolabelJa,  Balbus,  Tre- 
batius,  and  others  had  joined  Caesar,  and  wrote  to  him  urging  him 
to  make  common  cause  with  their  generous  leader.  On  Ins  return 
from  Bnmdusiumlo  Rome,  Caesar  himself  visited  him.  But  the  orator 
could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  forsake  the  cause  of  the  senate  ;  and 
after  long  hesitation,  about  the  end  of  May  he  took  ship  and  joined 
Pompey  in  the  East. 

During  the  whole  of  the  preceding  year,  Pompey  had  been  actively 
engaged  in  levying  and  disciplining  an  army  for  the  ensuing  cam- 
paign. He  was  bitterly  censured  by  many  of  his  party  for  quitting 
Italy  without  a  blow.  But  it  may  be  concluded  that  when  he  was 
surprised  by  Cassar's  rapid  advance,  the  only  troops  besides  those 
under  Domitius  at  Corfmium  were  the  two  legions  lately  sent  from 
Gaul  by  Caesar  ;  and  these  (it  may  well  be  supposed)  he  dared  not 
trust  to  do  bailie  against  their  old  commander. 

It  is  probable,  therefore,  that  he  was  really  compelled  to  quit  Italy. 
But  his  fleet  was  now  so  large  that  it  would  have  been  easy  for  him 
to  have  regained  Italian  soil.  He  made  no  attempt  to  cross  the  sea  ; 
and  we  may  therefore  assume  that  he  purposely  chose  Epirus  as  tho 
ground  for  battle.  He  had  all  the  East  behind  him,  long  used  to 
reverence  his  name,  and  :.t  the  head  of  an  army  out  of  Italy  he  was 
less  likely  to  be  thwarted  by  Ihe  arrogant  senatorial  chiefs,who  hated 
him  while  they  used  him.  Such  especially  was  Domitius  Ahenobar- 
bus,  who  loudly  complained  that  he  had  been  deserted  at  Corfinium. 

His  headquarters  were  fixed  at  Thessalonica,  the  chief  city  of  the 
province  of  Macedonia.  Here  the  senators  who  had  fled  from  Italy 
met  and  formed  a  senate,  while  the  chief  officers  assumed  titles  of 
authority.  Pompey  had  employed  the  time  well.  The  provinces 
and  kings  of  the  East  filled  his  military  chest  with  treasure  ;  he  had 
collected  seven  Roman  legions,  with  a  vast  number  of  irregular 
auxiliaries  from  every  surrounding  monarchy,  and  a  powerful  force 
of  well-appointed  cavalry  ;  large  magazines  of  provisions  and  mili- 
tary stores  were  formed  ;  above  all,  a  fleet,  increasing  every  day  in 
numbers,  was  supplied  by  the  maritime  states  of  Illyria,  Greece,  Asia 
Minor,  Phoenicia,  and  Egypt.  Bibulus,  the  old  adversary  of  Caesar, 
took  the  command  as  admiral-in-chief ,  supported  by  able  lieutenants. 
With  this  naval  force  actively  employed,  it  was  hoped  that  it  would 
be  made  impossible  for  Caesar  to  land  in  Epirus.  But  here  again  his 
happy  audacity  frustrated  all  regular  opposition. 

Caesar  arrived  in  Brundusium  at  the  end  of  October,   49  B.C.* 

*  This  is  the  true  date,  according  to  our  reckoning.  By  the  Roman  calendar,  it 
was  December.  But,  1'or  the  military  operations  \vhicfi  follow,  it  is  so  important  to 
note  the  true  seasons,  that  \ve  shall,  'from  this  point,  give  the  dates  as  if  tne  Roman 
calendar  bad  already  been  corrected. 


48  LIFE   OF   JULIUS   C.SSAB. 

Twelve  legions  had  been  assembled  there.  So  much  had  their  num- 
bers been  thinned  by  war,  fatigue,  and  the  autumnal  fevers  prevalent 
in  Apulia,  that  each  legion  averaged  less  than  3000  men.  Ilia  trans- 
ports were  so  insufficient,  that  he  was  not  able  to  ship  more  than 
seven  of  these  imperfect  legions,  with  600  horse,  though  men  and 
officers  were  allowed  to  take  no  heavy  baggage  and  no  servants.  All 
the  harbors  were  occupied  by  the  enemy's  ships  ;  but  it  was  not  the 
practice  for  the  ancients  to  maintain  a  blockade  by  cruising  ;  and 
Caesar,  having  left  Brundusium  on  the  nth  November,  was  able  to 
land  his  first  corps  on  the  open  coast  of  Epirus,  a  little  south  of  the 
Acroccrauninn  headland.  He  sent  his  empty  ships  back  directly, 
and  marched  northward  to  Oricum  and  Apollonia,  where  he  claimed 
admission  in  virtue  of  his  consular  office.  The  claim  was  admitted, 
and  these  two  important  towns  fell  into  his  hands.  Pompey,  who  was 
still  at  Thessalonica,  on  the  first  tidings  of  his  movement  had  put 
his  army  in  motion,  and  succeeded  in  reaching  Dyrrhachium  in  time 
to  save  that  important  place.  He  then  pushed  his  lines  forward  to 
the  mouth  of  the  Apsus,  and  the  two  hostile  armies  lay  inactive  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  the  winter  with  this  stream  between  their 
camps — Caesar  occupying  the  left  or  southern  bank,  Pompey  the 
right  or  northern  side. 

As  the  winter  passed  away,  Caesar  was  rendered  extremely  anxious 
by  the  non-appearance  of  his  second  corps,  which  Antony  was 
charged  to  bring  across.  News  soon  reached  him  that  Bibulus, 
stung  to  the  quick  by  the  successful  landing  of  the  first  corps,  had 
put  to  sea  from  Corcyra  with  all  his  fleet,  had  overtaken  and  de- 
stroyed thirty  of  the  returning  transports,  and  had  ever  since,  not- 
withstanding the  winter  season,  kept  so  strict  a  watch  on  the  coast 
of  Italy,  that  Antony  did  not  dare  to  leave  Brundusium.  Intelli . 
gence  also  reached  him  that  Caalius,  now  raised  to  the  rank  of  prajkir, 
had  proclaimed  an  abolition  of  debts  at  Rome,  and  had  made  com- 
mon cause  with  the  reckless  Milo,  who  had  appeared  in  Italy  at  the 
head  of  a  gang  of  desperate  men.  This  bold  enterprise,  it  is  true, 
had  failed,  and  both  the  leaders  had  fallen  ;  but  it  quickened  Caesar's 
anxiety  to  bring  matters  to  issue.  Still  no  troops  arrived.  So  stub- 
born was  the  will  of  Bibulus,  that  he  fell  a  victim  to  his  own  vigilant 
exertions,  and  died  at  sea.  But  L.  Scribonius  Libo,  who  had  com- 
manded a  squadron  under  the  deceased  admiral,  appeared  at  Brun- 
dusium, and  occupied  an  island  off  the  harbor,  so  as  to  establish  a 
strict  blockade.  This,  however,  did  not  last ;  for  it  was  found  im- 
possible to  keep  the  men  supplied  with  fresh  water  and  provisions, 
and  Libo  was  obliged  to  resume  the  tactics  of  Bibulus.  Meantime, 
Caesar's  impatience  was  rising  to  the  height  He  had  been  lying  idle 
for  more  than  two  months,  and  complained  that  Antony  had  neglected 
several  opportunities  of  crossing  the  Ionian  Sea.  At  length  he  en- 
gaged a  small  boat  to  take  him  across  to  Italy  in  person.  The  sea 
ran  high,  and  the  rowers  refused  to  proceed,  till  the  general  revealed 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS  CJ2SAR.  49 

himself  to  them  in  the  famous  words  :  "  You  carry  Caesar  and  his 
fortunes."  All  night  they  toiled,  but  when  day  broke  they  had  made 
no  way,  and  the  general  reluctantly  consented  to  put  back  into  the 
Apsus.  But  presently  after  he  succeeded  in  sending  over  a  positive 
message  to  Antony  to  cross  over  at  all  risks  ;  and  if  Antony  dis- 
obeyed, the  messenger  carried  a  commission  to  his  chief  officers,  by 
which  they  were  ordered  to  supersede  their  commander,  and  dig. 
charge  the  duty  which  he  neglected  to  perform.  Stung  by  this  prac- 
tical rebuke,  Antony  shipped  his  troops,  and  resolved  to  attempt  the 
passage  at  all  risks.  As  he  neared  the  coast  of  Epirus,  the  wind 
shifted  to  the  south-east,  and  being  unable  to  make  the  port  of  Ori- 
cum,  he  was  obliged  to  run  northward  past  Pompey's  camp,  in  full 
view  of  the  enemy.  They  gave  chase  ;  but  he  succeeded  in  lauding 
all  his  men,  four  legions  and  eight  hundred  horse,  near  the  headland 
of  Nyrnplueum,  m  >re  than  fifty  miles  north  of  the  Apsus.  His 
position  was  critical,  for  Pompey's  army  lay  between  him  and 
CaBsar.  But  Caesar,  calculating  the  point  at  which  the  squadron 
would  reach  land,  had  already  made  a  rapid  march  round  Pompey's 
position,  and  succeeded  in  joining  Antony  before  he  was  attacked. 
Pompey  had  also  moved  northward,  but  finding  himself  too  late  to 
assail  Antony  alone,  he  took  a  new  position  some  miles  to  the  north 
of  Dyrrhachium,  and  here  formed  a  strongly  intrenched  camp  resting 
upon  the  sea.  These  intrenchments  ran  in  an  irregular  half  circle  of 
nearly  fifteen  miles  in  length,  the  base  of  which  was  the  coast-line  of 
Epirus.  The  camp  was  well  supplied  with  provisions  by  sea. 

The  spring  of  48  B.C.  was  now  beginning.  It  was  probably  in 
March  that  Cassar  effected  his  union  with  Antony.  Even  after  this 
junction,  he  was  inferior  in  numbers  to  Pompey  ;  and  it  is  not  with- 
out wonder  that  we  read  his  own  account  of  the  audacious  attempt 
with  which  he  began  tho  campaign.  His  plan  was  to  draw  lines 
round  and  outside  of  Pompey's  vast  intrenchments,  so  as  to  cut  him 
off  from  Dyrrhachium  ami  from  all  the  surrounding  country.  As 
Pompey's  intrehchments  formed  a  curve  of  nearly  fifteen  miles, 
Ca3sar's  lines  must  have  measured  considerably  more.  And  as  his  arm}' 
was  inferior  in  numbers,  it  might  have  been  expected  that  Pompey 
would  not  submit  to  be  shut  in.  But  the  latter  general  could  not 
interrupt  the  works  without  hazarding  a  general  action,  and  his 
troops  were  not  (he  thought)  sufficiently  disciplined  to  encounter 
Caesar's  veterans  :  the  command  of  the  sea  also  insured  him  supplies 
and  enabled  him  to  shift  his  army  to  another  position  if  necessary. 
He  therefore  allowed  Ctcsar  to  carry  on  his  lines  with  little  interrup- 
tion. 

During  the  winter  Cajsar's  men  had  suffered  terribly  for  want  of 
grain  and  vegetable  food.  But  as  spring  advanced,  and  the  crops 
began  to  ripen,  brighter  days  seemed  at  hand.  Pompey 'a  men, 
meanwhile,  though  supplied  from  the  sea,  began  to  be  distressed  by 
want  of  fresh  water,  and  their  animals  by  want  of  green  fodder 


50  LIFE   OF   JULIUS    C.ESAK. 

He  therefore  determined  to  assume  the  offensive.  At  each  extremity 
of  Caesar's  lines,  where  they  abutted  upon  the  sea,  a  second  line  of 
intrenchments  had  been  marked  out  reaching  some  way  inland,  so 
that  at  least  for  some  distance  from  the  sea  the  lines  might  be  pro- 
tected from  an  attack  in  rear  from  the  land.  But  this  pail  of  the 
work  was  as  yet  unfinished  ;  and,  in  particular,  no  attempt  had  been 
made  to  carry  any  defence  along  the  coast  between  the  extremities 
of  these  two  lines  of  intrenchment,  so  as  to  cover  them  from  an  as- 
sault by  sea.  Pompey  was  instructed  of  this  defect  by  some  Gallic 
deserters  ;  and  he  succeeded  in  landing  some  troops  at  the  southern 
extremity  of  the  works,  so  as  to  make  a  lodgment  between  Caesar's 
front  and  rearward  lines.  A  series  of  severe  and  .well -contested 
combats  followed.  But  the  Pompeians  maintained  their  ground,  and 
Caesar  at  once  perceived  that  his  works  were  completely  turned,  and 
that  all  his  labor  was  thrown  away.  Pompey  had  re-established  his 
land  communication  with  Dyrrhachium,  and  circumvallation  was 
made  impossible.  Under  these  circumstances  Caesar  determined  to 
shift  the  scene  of  action  without  delay. 

During  the  spring  he  had  detache'd  Cn.  Domitius  Calvinus  with 
two  legions  into  Macedonia,  where  he  possessed  considerable  influ- 
ence, for  the  purpose  of  intercepting  the  march  of  Metellus  Scipio, 
who  had  succeeded  Bibulus  in  the  government  of  Syria,  and  was  ex- 
pected every  day  to  bring  reinforcements  to  the  army  of  Pompey. 
Scipio  had  been  delayed  by  the  necessity  of  securing  his  province 
against  the  Parthians  ;  and  had  also  spent  much  time  in  levying 
heavy  contributions  on  his  line  of  march.  When  he  arrived  in  Mace- 
donia he  found  his  passage  westward  barred  by  Calviuus,  who  oc- 
cupied a  strong  camp  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pella.  He,  therefore, 
also  intrenched  himself,  and  awaited  succors. 

About  the  time  "of  Caesar's  defeat  at  Dyrrhachium,  Calvinus  had 
been  obliged  by  want  of  provisions  to  fall  back  toward  Epirus,  while 
Caesar  himself  marched  by  way  of  Apollonia  up  the  valley  of  the 
Aoiis.  Pompey  immediately  detached  a  strong  force  to  separate  Cal- 
vinus from  his  chief.  But  Calvinus,  informed  of  Caesar's  retreat, 
moved  \v  ith  great  rapidity  to  the  southward,  and  effected  a  union  with 
his  general  at  ^Egimium,  in  the  north-western  corner  of  Thessaly. 
The  Caesarian  army,  thus  skilfully  united,  advanced  to  Gomphi, 
which  was  taken  and  given  up  to  plunder.  All  other  Thessalian 
cities,  except  Larissa,  which  had  been  occupied  by  Scipio,  opened 
their  gates  ;  and  the  harvest  being  now  ripe,  the  Ccesarian  army  re- 
velled in  the  abundant,  supplies  of  the  rich  Thessalian  plain. 

Meanwhile  Pompey  had  entered  Thessaly  from  the  north  and 
joined  Scipio  at  Larissa.  The  Pompeian  leaders,  elated  by  victory, 
were  quarrelling  among  themselves  for  the  prize,  which  they  regarded 
as  already  won.  Lentulus  Spinther,  Domitius  Ahenobarbus,  and 
Metellus  Scipio,  all  claimed  Caesar's  pontificate.  Domitius  proposed 
that  all  who  had  remained  in  Italy  or  had  not  taken  an  active  part 


LIFE   OF   JULIUS    C^ESAK.  51 

in  the  contest  should  be  brought  to  trial  as  traitors  to  the  cause- 
Cicero,  who  was  at  Dyrrhachium  with  Cato,  being  the  person  hers 
chiefly  aimed  at.  Pompey  himself  was  not  spared.  Dornitius, 
angry  at  not  having  been  supported  at  Cornnium,  nicknamed  him 
Agamemnon  King  of  Men,  and  openly  rejected  his  authority.  The 
advice  of  the  great  general  to  avoid  a  decisive  battle  was  contemptu- 
ously set  at  naught  by  all  but  Cato,  who  from  first  to  last  advocated 
any  measure  which  gave  a  hope  of  avoiding  bloodshed.  Even  Fa- 
vonius,  a  blunt  and  simplo-minded  man,  who  usually  echoed  Cato's 
sentiments,  loudly  complained  that  Pompey's  reluctance  to  fight 
would  prevent  his  friends  from  eating  their  figs  that  summer  at  Tus- 
culum. 

From  Larissa  Pompey  had  moved  southward,  and  occupied  a 
strong  position  on  an  eminence  near  the  city  of  Pharsalus,  overlook, 
ing  the  plain  which  skirts  the  left  bank  of  the  river  Enipeus.  Cnesat 
followed  and  encamped  upon  the  plain,  within  four  miles  of  the  en- 
emy's position.  Here  the  hostile  armies  lay  watching  each  other  for 
some  time,  till  Caesar  made  a  movement  which  threatened  to  inter- 
cept Pompe3''s  communications  •  with  Larissa.  The  latter  now  at 
length  yielded  to  the  angry  impatience  of  the  senatorial  chiefs.  He 
resolved  to  descend  from  his  strong  position  and  give  battle  upon  the 
plain  of  Pharsalus  or  Pharsalia. 

The  morning  of  the  6th  of  June*  saw  both  armies  drawn  out  in 
order  of  battle.  The  forces  of  Pompey  consisted  of  about  44,000 
men,  and  were  (if  Coasar's  account  is  accurate)  twice  as  numerous  as 
the  army  opposed  to  them.  But  Caesar's  were  all  veteran  troops  ; 
the  greater  part  of  Pompey's  were  foreign  levies  recently  collected  in 
Macedonia  and  Asia,  far  inferior  to  the  soldiers  of  Gaul  and  Italy. 
Pompey's  army  faced  the  north.  His  right  wing,  resting  on  the 
river,  was  commanded  by  Scipio,  the  centre  by  Lentulus  bpinther, 
the  left  by  Domitius.  His  cavalry,  which  was  far  superior  to 
Cesar's,  covered  the  left  flank.  Cresar  drew  up  his  forces  in  three 
lines,  of  which  the  rearmost  was  to  act  in  reserve.  His  left  was 
upon  the  river  ;  and  his  small  force  of  cavalry  was  placed  upon  his 
right,  opposite  to  Pompey's  left  wing.  To  compensate  for  his  infe- 
riority in  this  arm,  he  picked  out  six  veteran  cohorts,  who  were  to 
charge  through  the  files  of  the  horse  if  the  latter  were  obliged  to  re- 
tire. Domitius  Calvinus  commanded  in  the  centre,  Antony  on  tho 
left,  Caesar  himself  upon  the  right,  where  he  kept  the  tenth  legion  in 
rear  to  act  in  reserve. 

The  attack  began  along  Caesar's  whole  line,  which  advanced  run. 
ning.  Pompey  ordered  his  men  to  wait  the  charge 'without  moving 
in  hopes  that  the  enemy  would  lose  breath  before  they  came  to  clos 
quarters.  But  the  experienced  veterans,  observing  that  the  Pom- 
peians  kept  their  ground,  halted  to  re-form  their  line  and  recover 

*  By  the  Roman  calendar,  it  wae  the  9th  of  August. 


52  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   CJESAfc. 

breath  before  they  closed  with  the  enemy.  A  desperate  conflict  fol- 
lowed. 

While  the  legions  were  engaged  along  the  whole  line,  Pompey's 
cavalry  attacked  the  weak  squadrons  of  Caesar's  horse  and  drove 
them  back.  But  the  veterans  who  vrere  ordered  to  support  them 
sallied  out  of  the  ranks  and  drove  their  formidable  pila  straight  at 
the  unarmed  faces  of  the  enemy.*  After  a  brave  struggle,  Pompey's 
cavalry  was  completely  broken  and  fled  in  disorder. 

Upon  this,  Caesar  brought  up  his  third  line,  which  was  in  reserve  ; 
and  the  infantry  of  Pompey  being  assailed  by  these  fresh  troops  in 
front,  and  attacked  in  flank  by  the  cavalry  and  cohorts  which  had 
triumphed  over  their  opponents,  gave  way  everywhere.  A  general 
order  was  now  issued  by  Caesar  to  spare  the  Romans  among  their  op- 
ponents, and  to  throw  all  their  strength  upon  the  Eastern  allies.  The 
Pompeian  legionaries,  on  hearing  of  this  politic  clemency,  offered 
no  further  resistance  ;  and  Pompey  himself  rode  off  the  field  to  his 
tent,  leaving  orders  for  the  troops  to  retreat  behind  their  intrench- 
ments. 

But  this  was  not  permitted.  His  legionaries,  instead  of  returning 
to  man  the  ramparts,  dispersed  in  all  directions.  The  Eastern  allies, 
after  a  terrible  slaughter,  fled  ;  and  Pompey  had  only  time  to  mount 
his  horse  and  gallop  off  through  the  decuman  or  rearward  gate  of 
his  camp,  as  the  soldiers  of  Ca3sar  forced  their  way  in  by  the  praeto- 
rian or  front  gate.  The  booty  taken  was  immense.  The  hardy  veter- 
ans of  Gaul  gazed  with  surprise  on  the  tent  of  Lentulus,  adorned 
with  festoons  of  Bacchic  ivy,  and  on  the  splendid  services  of  plate 
which  were  set  out  everywhere  for  a  banquet  to  celebrate  the  ex- 
pected victory. 

But  before  Ca?sar  allowed  his  tired  soldiers  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of 
the  victory  of  Pharsalia,  he  required  them  to  complete  the  conquest. 
The  pursuit  was  continued  during  the  remainder  of  the  day  and  on 
the  morrow.  But  the  task  was  easy.  The  clemency  of  the  con- 
queror induced  all  to  submit.  When  Caesar  entered  the  camp  and 
saw  the  dead  l>odies  of  many  Romans  lying  about,  he  exclaimed, 
"  They  would  have  it  so  :  to  have  laid  down  our  arms  would  have 
sealed  our  doom."  Yet  most  of  those  who  perished  wrere  foreigners 
or  freedmen.  The  only  distinguished  person  who  fell  was  Domitius 
Ahenobarbus.  Among  those  who  came  in  and  submitted  volunta- 
rily was  M.  Junius  'Brutus,  a  young  man  of  whom  we  shall  hear 
more. 

Pompey  fled  precipitately  to  Larissa,  and  thence  through  the  gorge 

*  The  common  story,  received  from  Plutarch,  is  that  the  order  was  given  because 
Pompey's  cavalry  consisted  chiefly  of  young  Romans,  who  were  afraid  of  having 
their  beauty  spoilt.  Caesar,  however,  mentions  that  Pompey's  cavalry  was  excel- 
lent, iiml  does  not  notice  that  he  pave  any  order  at  all  about  striking  at  the  face. 
The  foot-Bofdiora  would  naturally  strike  at  the  most  defenceless  part,  and  the  story 
of  the  "  spoiled  beauty  "  would  be  readily  added  by  some  scornful  Osarian. 


LIFE   OP  JULIUS  CJESAB.  53 

of  Teinpe  to  the  mouth  of  the  Peneus,  where  he  found  a  merchant 
vessel,  and  embarked  in  company  with  Lentulus  Spinther,  Lentulus 
Crus,  and  others.  He  dismissed  all  his  slaves.  Honest  Favoniui 
proved  his  fidelity  to  the  general  by  undertaking  for  him  such 
menial  offices  as  usually  were  left  to  slaves.  The  master  of  the  ship 
knew  the  adventurers,  and  offered  to  take  them  whithersoever  they 
would.  Pompey  first  directed  his  course  to  Lesbos,  where  his  wife 
Cornelia  and  his  younger  son  Sextus  had  been  sent  for  safety.  Hav- 
ing taken  them  on  board  he  sailed  round  to  Cilicia,  where  he  col- 
lected a  few  ships  and  a  small  company  of  soldiers.  With  these  he 
crossed  over  to  Cyprus,  where  he  stayed  a  short  time,  deliberating 
on  his  future  course  of  action.  He  still  had  a  powerful  fleet  at  sea, 
under  the  command  of  his  eldest  son  Cna3us,  assisted  by  C.  Cassius! 
Africa  was  still  his  own,  and  King  Juba  anxious  to  do  him  service. 
But  after  considering  and  rejecting  several  plans  proposed,  he  deter- 
mined to  seek  an  asylum  in  Egypt. 

Ptolemy  Auletes,  who  had  been  restored  by  Gabinius,  Pompey's 
friend,  had  died  some  time  before.  He  had  left  his  kingdom  to  the 
divided  sway  of  his  son  Ptolemy  Dionysus  and  his  daughter  Cleo- 
patra, under  the  guardianship  of  the  senate  ;  and  the  senate  had  dele, 
gated  this  trust  to  Pompey.  Hence  no  doubt  his  reason  for  choos- 
ing Egypt  as  his  place  of  retreat.  But  the  country  was  in  a  very 
unsettled  state.  Cleopatra,  who  was  older  than  her  brother,  had  been 
driven  from  Alexandria  by  the  people  ;  and  the  government  had 
been  seized  by  three  Greek  adventurers — Potheinus,  an  eunuch, 
Theodotus,  a  rhetorician,  and  Achillas,  an  officer  of  the  army.  When 
Pompey  appeared  off  Alexandria  with  a  few  ships  which  had  joined 
him  on  his  route,  and  a  small  force  of  about  2000  men,  these  minis 
ters  were  engaged  in  repelling  Cleopatra,  who  was  endeavoring  to 
return  by  means  of  force.  A  messenger  from  Pompey,  sent  to  sig- 
nify his  intention  of  landing,  tli re w  them  into  great  alarm.  In  the 
Egyptian  army  were  a  number  of  officers  and  soldiers  who  had  for- 
merly served  under  Pompey  in  the  East,  and  had  begn  left  there  by 
Gabinius.  It  was  feared  that  these  men  would  betray  Egypt  to  their 
old  general  ;  at  least  this  was  the  reason  afterward  given  for  tho 
way  in  which  he  was  treated.  All  was  left  to  the  conduct  of  Achil- 
las, a  bold  man,  troubled  by  no  scruples.  A  small  boat  was  sent  to 
receive  the  fugitive,  really  to  prevent  any  attendants  from  landing 
with  him,  but  under  the  false  pretence  that  the  water  was  too  shal- 
low to  allow  a  larger  vessel  to  reach  the  shore.  In  the  boat  were 
Achillas  himself,  a  Roman  olficer  named  Salvius,  and  another  named 
Septimius,  who  had  served  as  a  tribune  under  Pompey  in  the  war 
against  the  pirates.  The  great  general  recognized  and  saluted  his 
old  officer,  and  entered  the  boat  alone  amid  the  sad  bodings  of  his 
wife  and  friends.  They  anxiously  watched  it  as  it  slowly  made  its 
way  back  to  shore,  and  were  somewhat  comforted  by  seeing  a  num- 
ber of  persons  collected  on  the  beach  as  if  to  receive  their  friend  with 


54  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   CAESAR. 

honor.  At  length  the  boat  stopped,  and  Pompey  look  the  hand  of 
the  person  next  him  to  assist  him  in  rising.  At  this  moment  Septi- 
mius  struck  him  with  his  sword  from  behind.  He  knew  his  fate, 
submitted  without  a  struggle,  and  fell  pierced  by  a  mortal  thrust. 
His  head  was  then  cut  off  and  taken  away,  and  his  body  left  upon 
the  beach.  When  the  crowd  dispersed,  a  freedman  of  Pompey's, 
whose  name  ought  to  have  been  recorded,  assisted  by  an  old  soldier 
of  the  great  commander,  had  the  piety  to  break  up  a  fishing-boat  and 
form  a  rude  funeral-pile.  By  these  humble  obsequies  alone  was  the 
sometime  master  of  the  world  honored. 

So  died  Pompey.  He  had  lived  nearly  sixty  years,  and  had  enjoyed 
more  of  the  world's  honors  than  almost  any  Roman  before  him.  lu 
youth  he  was  cold,  calculating,  and  hard-hearted,  covetous  of  military 
fame,  and  not  slow  to  appropriate  what  belonged  to  others  ;  but  his 
affable  manners  and  generosity  in  giving  won  him  general  favor, 
which  was  increased  by  his  early  successes.  His  talents  for  war  were 
really  great,  greater  perhaps  than  any  of  Rome's  generals  except  Ma- 
rius,  as  was  fully  proved  by  his  campaigns  in  the  East.  In  the  war 
with  Caesar,  it  is  plain  that,  so  far  as  military  tactics  Avent,  Pompey 
was  superior  to  his  great  rival  ;  and  had  he  not  been  hampered  by 
haughty  and  impatient  colleagues,  the  result  might  have  been  differ- 
ent. In  politics  he  was  grasping  and  selfish,  but  irresolute  and  im- 
provident. He  imagined  that  his  military  achievements  gave  him 
a  title  to  be  acknowledged  as  the  virtual  sovereign  of  Rome  ;  and 
when  neither  senate  nor  people  seemed  willing  to  acquiesce  in  the 
claim,  he  formed  a  coalition  with  politicians  whose  principles  he  dis- 
liked, and  made  himself  responsible  for  the  acts  of  such  men  as  Clo- 
dius.  Lastly,  when  he  found  that  in  this  coalition  he  was  unable  to 
maintain  his  superiority  over  Ca;sar,  he  joined  the  oligarchy  who 
hated  him,  and  lost  even  the  glory  which  as  a  soldier  he  had  well 
deserved.  In  private  life  he  was  free  from  those  licentious  habits  in 
which  most  persons  of  that  day  indulged  without  scruple  or  reproach  ; 
and  the  affection  he  bore  toward  Julia  must  always  be  quoted  as  an 
amiable  -trait  in  a  character  that  has  in  it  little  else  of  attraction.  Hi? 
tragical  death  excited  a  commiseration  for  him  which  by  his  life  h< 
hardly  deserved. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ABSOLUTE  RULE  OP  C^ESAK.      (48-44  B.C.) 

ON  the  third  day  after  the  battle  of  Pharsalia,  Caesar  pursued 
Pompey  by  forced  marches.  He  arrival  at  Amphipolis  just  after  the 
fugitive  had  touched  there.  When  he  reached  the  Hellespont,  he  fell 
in  with  a  squadron  of  Pompey's  fleet  under  the  command  of  C.  Cas- 


LIFE   OF   JULIUS   C2ESA&.  55 

sius.  This  officer,  whose  military  skill  had  been  proved  in  the  Par- 
thian campaign,  might  have  intercepted  Caesar.  But,  whatever  were 
his  motives,  he  surrendered  his  ships  to  Caesar  in  token  of  full  and 
unreserved  submission,  and  was  received  by  the  conqueror  with  the 
same  favor  which  he  had  shown  to  Brutus,  and  to  all  who  had  either 
fallen  into  his  hands  or  yielded  of  free  will.  Caesar  now  immediately 
crossed  the  Hellespont  in  boats  ;  and  in  Asia  Minor,  where  he  was 
delayed  at  several  places  by  business,  he  heard  that  Pompey  had  taken 
ship  from  Cyprus,  and  immediately  concluded  that  Egypt  must  be 
his  destination.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  sailed  from 
Rhodes  for  this  country,  though  it  was  as  yet  an  independent  king- 
dom, though  he  was  unable  to  carry  with  him  more  than  4000  men, 
and  though  he  incurred  imminent  risk  of  being  intercepted  by  the 
Pompeian  fleet.  As  soon  as  his  arrival  off  Alexandria  was  known, 
Theodotus  came  off,  bearing  Pompey 's  head  and  ring.  The  con- 
queror accepted  the  ring,  but  turned  with  tears  in  his  eyes  from  the 
ghastly  spectacle  of  the  head,  and  ordered  it  to  be  burned  with  due 
honors.  Over  the  place  of  the  funeral-pyre  he  raised  a  shrine  to 
Nemesis,  the  goddess  assigned  by  the  religion  of  the  Greeks  to  be  the 
punisher  of  arrogant  prosperity.  He  then  landed  and  entered  Alex- 
andria with  his  consular  emblems  displayed,  followed  by  his  small 
army.  Immediately  after  his  arrival,  Cleopatra  secretly  resorted  to 
the  capital  city,  and  introduced  herself  in  disguise  into  the  palace 
where  Caesar  had  fixed  his  residence.  The  conqueror,  from  his 
earliest  youth,  had  been  notorious  for  unrestrained  indulgence  in  sen- 
sual pleasures,  and  he  yielded  readily  to  the  blandishments  of  the 
young  and  fascinating  princess.  But  the  ministers  of  the  youthful 
king,  Potheinus  and  Achillas,  had  no  wish  to  lose  their  importance 
by  agreeing  to  a  compromise  between  their  master  and  his  imperious 
sister.  The  people  of  Alexandria  were  alarmed  at  Caesar's  assump- 
tion of  authority,  especially  when  he  demanded  payment  of  a  debt 
•which  he  alleged  was  due  from  the  late  king  to  Rome.  A  great 
crowd,  supported  by  Achillas  with  his  army,  assaulted  Caesar  sud- 
denly. His  few  troops  were  overmatched,  and  he  escaped  with  diffi- 
culty to  Pharos,  the  quarter  of  the  city  next  the  sea.  In  vain  he  en- 
deavored to  ruin  the  cause  of  Achillas  by  seizing  the  person  of  young 
Ptolemy.  Arsinoe",  another  daughter  of  the  blood-royal,  was  set  up 
by  the  army  ;  and  Caesar  was  completely  blockaded  in  Pharos.  An 
attempt  was  made  to  reduce  him  by  turning  the  sea  into  the  vast 
tanks  constructed  to  supply  that  quarter  of  the  city  with  fresh  water. 
But  by  sinking  pits  in  the  beach,  the  Romans  obtained  a  supply  of 
water  sufficient,  though  not  good.  Constant  encounters  took  place 
by  land  and  water  ;  and  in  one  of  these  Caesar  was  in  so  much  dan- 
ger, that  he  was  obliged  to  swim  for  his  life  from  a  sinking  ship, 
holding  his  coat-of-mail  between  his  teeth,  and  his  note-book  above 
•water  in  his  left  hand. 
He  was  shut  up  in  Pharos  about  August,  and  the  blockade  cou- 


50  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   C.&SAR. 

tiuued  till  the  winter  was  far  spent.  But  at  the  beginning  of  the  new 
year  he  was  relieved  by  the  arrival  of  considerable  forces.  Achillas 
was  obliged  to  raise  the  siege  of  Pharos,  and  a  battle  in  the  open  field 
resulted  in  a  signal  triumph  to  Caesar.  Vast  numbers  of  the  fugi- 
tives were  drowned  in  attempting  to  cross  the  Nile  :  among  them  the 
young  king  himself.  Caesar  now  formally  installed  Cleopatra  as  sov- 
ereign of  Egypt,  and  reserved  Arsinoe"  to  grace  his  triumph. 

During  the  half  year  that  followed  Pharsalia,  the  Pompeian  chiefs 
Bad  in  some  measure  recovered  from  their  first  consternation.  Cnaeus, 
Ihe  eldest  son  of  the  great  Pompey,  had  joined  Cato  at  Corcyra  ; 
and  in  this  place  also  were  assembled  Cicero,  Labienus,  Afranius, 
and  others.  The  chief  command  was  offered  to  Cicero,  as  the  oldest 
consular.  But  the  orator  declined  a  dangerous  post,  for  which  he  had 
neither  aptitude  nor  inclination,  and  was  nearly  slain  upon  the  spot 
by  the  impetuous  Cnaeus.  Scipio  soon  after  arrived,  and  to  him  the 
command  was  given.  C.  Cassius,  with  the  greater  portion  of  the 
fleet,  had  surprised  and  destroyed  a  number  of  Caesar's  ships  in 
Sicily,  and  was  proceeding  to  make  descents  upon  the  coast  of  Italy 
when  the  news  of  the  great  defeat  at  Pharsalia  reached  him.  He 
immediately  sailed  for  the  East,  and  fell  in  with  Caesar  (as  we  have 
narrated)  on  the  Hellespont.  His  defection  was  a  heavy  blow  to  the 
hopes  of  the  Pompeian  party. 

Still,  notwithstanding  Pompey 's  disappearance  and  the  defection 
of  Cassius,  a  considerable  fleet  was  assembled  at  Corcyra.  Scipio 
and  the  rest  embarked  with  the  troops  that  they  had  rallied,  and 
steered  for  Egypt,  in  the  hope  of  learning  news  of  their  chief.  They 
reached  the  coast  of  Africa,  and  were  steering  eastward  along  the 
coast,  when  they  fell  in  with  Pompey 's  ships,  in  which  were  Cornelia 
and  young  Sextus,  with  their  friends,  full  of  the  tragic  scene  they 
had  just  witnessed  on  the  beach  of  Alexandria.  The  disheartened 
leaders  returned  to  Cyrene,  which  refused  to  admit  any  one  within  its 
walls  except  Cato  and  such  men  as  he  would  be  answerable  for. 
The  fleet,  therefore,  with  Scipio,  Labienus,  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  troops,  pursued  its  course  across  the  great  gulf  of  the  Syrtes  to 
the  province  of  Africa,  where  the  Pompeian  cause  was  upheld  by 
Varus  and  his  ally  Juba.  Cato  and  his  followers  were  left  to  follow 
by  land.  He  accomplished  an  arduous  march  across  the  desert  in 
safety,  and  by  the  beginning  of  the  next  year  all  the  Pompeian  lead- 
ers were  assembled  in  the  province  of  Africa.  Dissensions  arose  be- 
tween Varus  and  Scipio  for  the  command  ;  to  compromise  the  mat- 
ter it  was  offered  to  Cato.  The  disinterested  philosopher  declined  it, 
on  the  plea  that  he  held  no  official  position,  and  persuaded  all  the  rest 
to  acquiesce  in  the  appointment  of  Scipio.  It  was  then  proposed  to 
destroy  the  city  of  Utica,  as  being  favorable  to  Caesar.  But  Cato,  with 
rare  humanity,  offered  to  assume  the  government  of  the  town,  and 
be  responsible  for  its  fidelity,  thus  finally  separating  himself  from  the 
active  warfare,  which  from  the  first  he  had  deprecated  and  disavowed. 


LIFE  OF  JULIUS  C^SAR.  5t 

In  other  parts  of  the  empire  also,  affairs  were  in  a  disquiet  state. 
Pharnaccs,  sou  of  Mitliridates,  was  daily  gathering  strength  in 
Pontus.  In  Farther  Spain,  the  oppressive  rule  of  Q.  Cassius,  brother 
of  Cains,  had  excited  a  mutiny  in  the  army,  and  discontent  every- 
where. In  Illyricum,  Gabinius,  who  had  deserted  his  patron  Pom- 
pey  on  occasion  of  the  flight  from  Italy,  had  been  ignominiously  worst- 
ed by  the  Pompeian  leader,  M.  Octavius,  and  had  died  at  Salona. 
In  Italy,  P.  Cornelius  Dolabella,  elected  tribune,  hud  renewed  the 
propositions  of  Caelius  and  Milo  to  abolish  all  debts  ;  and  two  legions 
stationed  at  Capua,  one  of  which  was  the  favored  Tenth,  had  risen 
in  open  mutiny  against  their  officers,  declaring  that  they  had  been 
kept  under  their  standards  long  enough,  and  demanding  their 
promised  reward. 

We  know  not  when  the  news  of  these  threatening  events  reached 
Caesar's  ears  at  Alexandria.  Early  in  the  year  47  B.C.  he  had  been 
proclaimed  dictator  for  the  second  time,  and  had  named  Mark  An- 
tony master  of  the  horse.  This  officer  was  intrusted  with  the  gov- 
ernment of  Italy.  But  the  peninsula  seemed  to  be  exposed  by 
mutiny  and  discontent  to  a  descent  of  the  Pompeians  from  Africa, 
and  the  presence  of  the  dictator  himself  seemed  to  be  imperiously 
demanded.  Still  he  lingered  in  Egypt,  detained  (as  his  enemies  say) 
by  the  blandishments  of  Cleopatra,  or  (as  his  admirers  contend)  by 
the  necessitj-  of  confirming  Roman  influence  in  that  country.-  It  was 
not  for  the  space  of  four  months  after  his  victory  on  the  Nile  that  he 
left  Egypt,  having  remained  there  altogether  for  not  less  than  three 
quarters  of  a  year. 

But  when  once  he  had  shaken  off  this  real  or  apparent  lethargy, 
all  his  startling  rapidity  of  action  returned.  He  left  Egypt  at  the 
end  of  May  (47  B.C.),  and  marched  northward  through  Syria  to  crush 
the  rising  power  of  Phtirnaces.  On  his  way  he  received  the  hearty 
congratulations  of  the  Jews,  who  hated  the  memory  of  Pompey  ; 
accepted  the  excuses  of  Deiotarus,  chief  of  Galatia,  who  had  .fought 
against  him  at  Plmrsalia  ;  and  in  a  few  days  appeared  in  Pontus. 
Pharnaces,  proud  of  a  victory  over  Caesar's  lieutenant,  ventured  to 
attack  Caesar  himself  near  Zela,  where  his  father  Mitliridates  had 
once  defeated  the  Romans.  The  victory  gained  by  the  Romans  was 
easy  but  decisive  ;  and  was  announced  at  Rome  m  the  famous  dis- 
patch,  "  Veni,  vidi,  vici.  "*  The  kingdom  of  Bosphorus  was  con- 
ferred on  a  friendly  chief,  bearing  the  name  of  Mithridates.  Caesar 
now  devoted  a  short  time  to  the  task  of  settling  the  affairs  of  Asia. 
This  province  had  been  warmly  attached  to  the  senatorial  cause  by 
the  mild  rule  of  Lucullus  and  Pompey.  Lately,  however,  the  exac- 
tions of  Metellus  Scipio,  on  his  march  to  join  Pornpey  in  Epirus,  had 

*  This  inscription  was  certainly  placed  upon  the  spoils  taken  from  the  Pontia 
king  when  carried  in  triumphal  procession  ;  and  Plutarch  represents  it  as  forming 
the  dictator's  dispatch. 


58  LIFE   OF   JULIUS   CAESAR. 

caused  great  discontent  ;  and  Caesar  found  it  easy  to  win  popularity 
by  remitting  a  portion  of  the  moneys  due  to  the  imperial  treasury. 

Before  this,  also,  Octavius  had  been  expelled  from  Illyria.  Vati- 
nius,  who  was  in  command  at  Brundusium,  hearing  of  the  defeat  and 
death  of  Gabinius,  immediately  crossed  the  Adriatic,  and  attacked  the 
fleet  of  Octavius  wilh  so  much  success  that  the  Pompeian  leader  was 
glad  to  make  his  escape  and  join  his  fellows  in  misfortune  in  Africa. 

Two  mouths  after  Caesar  left  Alexandra,  all  parts  of  the  East 
were  again  restored  to  tranquil  submission  ;  and  early  in  July  Rome 
was  astonished  to  see  the  great  conqueror  enter  her  gates  for  the  third 
time  since  he  had  crossed  the  Rubicon. 

He  had  been  again  named  dictator,  as  we  have  said  ;  and,  on  his 
arrival  at  Rome,  he  applied  himself  with  his  usual  industry  and 
rapidity  to  settle  the  most  pressing  difficulties.  The  disturbances 
raised  by  the  profligate  promises  of  Cselius  and  Dolabella  had  been 
quelled  by  Antony  ;  and  the  dictator  in  some  degree  gratified  those 
who  had  clamored  for  an  abolition  of  debts  by  paying  a  year's  house- 
rent  for  all  poor  citizens  out  of  the  public  purse — an  evil  precedent, 
which  in  the  present  emergency  he  deemed  necessary. 

The  mutiny  of  the  soldiers  at  Capua  was  more  formidable.  But 
Caesar,  as  was  his  wont,  overcame  the  danger  by  facing  it  boldly. 
He  ordered  the  two  legions  to  meet  him  in  the  Campus  Martins  un- 
armed. They  had  demanded  their  discharge,  thinking  that  thus  they 
would  extort  a  large  donation,  for  they  considered  themselves  indis- 
pensable to  the  dictator.  He  ascended  the  tribunal,  and  they  ex- 
pected a  speech.  "You  demand  your  discharge,"  he  simply  said, 
"I  discharge  you."  A  dead  silence  followed  these  unexpected 
words.  Caesar  resumed  :  "  The  rewards  which  I  have  promised  you 
shall  have,  when  I  return  to  celebrate  my  triumph  with  my  other 
troops."  Shame  now  filled  their  hearts,  mingled  with  vexation  at 
the  thought  that  they  who  had  borne  all  the  heat  and  burden  of  the 
day  would  be  excluded  from  the  triumph.  They  passionately  be- 
sought him  to  recall  his  words,  but  lie  answered  not.  At  length,  at 
the  earnest  entreaty  of  his  friends,  he  again  rose  to  speak.  "  Quiri- 
tes" — he  began,  as  if  they  were  no  longer  soldiers,  but  merely  private 
citizens.  A  burst  of  repentant  sorrow  broke  from  the  ranks  of  the 
veterans  ;  but  Caesar  turned  away  as  if  he  w*re  about  to  leave  the 
tribunal.  The  cries  rose  still  louder :  they  besought  him  to  punish 
them  in  any  way,  but  not  to  dismiss  them  from  his  service.  After 
long  delay,  he  said  that  "  he  would  not  punish  any  one  for  de- 
manding his  due  ;  but  that  he  could  not  conceal  his  vexation  that 
the  Tenth  Legion  could  not  bide  his  time.  That  legion  at  least 
he  must  dismiss."  Loud  applause  followed  from  the  rest;  the 
men  of  the  Tenth  hung  their  heads  in  (fluime,  and  begged  him  to  dec- 
imate them,  and  restore  the  survivors  to  his  favor.  At  length,  Caesar, 
deeming  them  sufficiently  humbled,  accepted  their  repentance.  The 
whole  scene  is  a  striking  illustiation  of  the  cool  and  dauntless 


LIFE    OF   JULIUS   C.ESAB.  53 

resolution  of  the  man.     We  at  once  say,  here  was  one  born  for  com- 
mand. 

Having  completed  all  pressing  business  in  little  more  than  two 
months,  ho  again  left  Rome  to  take  measures  for  reducing  the  for- 
midable  force  which  the  Pompeiau  leaders  had  assembled  in  Africa. 
At  Lilybaeum  six  legions  and  2000  horse  had  been  collected  ;  and 
about  the  middle  of  October  (47  B.C.)  he  reached  Africa.  An  inde- 
cisive combat  took  place  soon  after  he  landed,  and  then  he  lay  en- 
camped  waiting  for  reinforcements  till  near  the  beginning  of  Decem- 
ber. When  he  took  the  field,  a  series  of  manoeuvres  followed  ;  till, 
on  the  4th  of  February  (46  B.C.),  he  encamped  near  Thapsus,  and  two 
days  after  fought  the  battle  which  decided  tlie  fate  of  the  campaign. 
After  a  long  and  desperate  conflict,  which  lasted  till  evening,  the 
senatorial  army  was  forced  to  give  way  ;  and  Cyesar,  who  always 
pressed  an  advantage  to  the  utmost,  followed  them  so  closely  that 
they  could  not  defend  their  camp.  The  leaders  fled  in  all  directions. 
Varus  and  Labienus  escaped  into  Spain.  Scipio  put  to  sea,  but  be 
ing  overtaken  by  the  enemy's  ships  sought  death  by  his  own  hands. 
Such  also  was  the  fate  of  Afranius.  Juba  fled  with  old  Petreius  ; 
and  these  two  rude  soldiers,  after  a  last  banquet,  heated  with  wine, 
agreed  to  end  their  life  by  single  combat.  The  Roman  veteran  was 
slain  by  the  nimble  African  prince,  and  Juba  sought  death  at  the 
hand  of  a  faithful  slave. 

Meanwhile,  Cato  at  Utica  had  received  news  of  the  ruin  of  his  party 
by  the  battle  of  Thapsus.  lie  calmly  resolved  on  self-slaughter,  and 
discussed  the  subject  both  in  conversation  with  his  friends  and  in 
meditation  with  himself.  After  a  conversation  of  this  kind  he  retired 
to  rest,  and  for  a  moment  forgot  his  philosophic  calm  when  he  saw 
that  his  too  careful  friends  had  removed  his  sword.  Wrathfully  re- 
proving them,  he  ordered  it  to  be  brought  back  and  hung  at  his  bed's 
head.  There  he  lay  down,  and  turned  over  the  pages  of  Plato's 
Phsedo  till  he  fell  asleep.  In  the  night  ha  awoke,  and  taking  his 
sword  from  the  sheath  he  thrust  it  into  his  body.  His  watchful 
friends  heard  him  utter  an  in  voluntary  groan,  and,  entering  the  room, 
found  him  writhing  in  acjony.  They  procured  surgical  aid,  and  the 
wound  was  carefully  dressed,  Cato  lay  down  again,  apparently 
insensible  ;  but,  as  soon  as  he  was  left  'alone,  he  quietly  removed  the 
dressings  and  tore  open  the  wound,  so  that  his  bowels  broke  out,  and 
after  no  long  time  he  breathed  his  last.  The  Romans,  one  and  all, 
even  Cicero,  admired  and  applauded  his  conduct.  It  is  true  that  the 
Stoics,  though  on  principles  different  from  Christianity,  recommended 
the  endurance  of  all  evils  as  indifferent  to  a  philosopher.  But  life 
had  become  intolerable  to  one  who  held  the  political  opinions  of 
Cato  ;  and  while  Christian  judgment  must  condemn  his  impatience, 
it  must  be  confessed  that  from  his  own  point  of  view  the  act  was  at 
least  excusable. 

After  this  miserable  end  of  the  most  upright  and   most  eminent 


60  LIFE   OF   JULIUS    CJESAR. 

among  the  senatorial  chiefs,  Caesar  busied  himself  in  regulating  the 
countries  he  had  conquered.  Juba's  kingdom  of  Numidia  he 
formed  into  a  new  province,  and  gave  it  into  the  care  of  the  historian 
Salhist,  who  with  others  had  been  expelled  from  the  senate  in  the 
year  50  B.C.,  professedly  because  of  his  profligate  manners,  but  really 
because  of  his  devoted  attachment  to  Caesar's  cause.  His  subsequent 
life  justified  both  the  real  and  the  alleged  cause.  He  proved  an 
oppressive  ruler,  and  his  luxurious  habits  were  conspicuous  even  in 
that  age.  In  the  terse  and  epigrammatic  sentences  of  his  two  im- 
mortal works  were  immortalized  the  merits  of  Marius  and  of  Caesar, 
the  vices  and  errors  of  their  senatorial  antagonists. 

After  some  delay  in  Sardinia,  where  his  presence  also  was  required, 
Caesar  returned  to  Rome  for  the  fourth  time  since  the  civil  war 
broke  out,  about  the  end  of  May,  46  B.C.  At  length  he  had  found 
time  to  celebrate  the  triumphs  which  he  had  earned  since  his  first 
consulship,  and  to  devote  his  attention  to  those  internal  reforms, 
which  long  years  of  faction  and  anarchy  had  made  necessary. 

His  triumphs  were  four  in  number,  over  Gaul,  Egypt,  Pontus,  and 
Numidia  ;  for  no  mention  was  made  of  the  civil  conflicts,  which  had 
been  most  dangerous  and  most  difficult  of  all.  A  Roman  could  not 
triumph  over  fellow -citizens  ;  therefore  the  victories  of  llerda  and 
Pharsalia  were  not  celebrated  by  public  honors  ;  nor  would  Thapsus 
have  been  mentioned  had  it  not  been  observed  that  here  Juba  was 
among  the  foes.  These  triumphs  were  made  more  attractive  by 
splendid  gladiatorial  shows  and  combats  of  wild  beasts.  But  what 
gave  much  more  real  splendor  was  the  announcement  of  a  gen- 
eral amnesty  for  all  political  offences  committed  against  the  party  of 
the  dictator.  The  memory  of  the  Marian  massacres  and  the  Syllan 
proscriptions  were  still  present  to  many  minds.  Domitius  Ahenobar- 
bus  and  the  chief  senatorial  leaders  had  denounced  all  who  took  part 
against  the  senate,  or  even  those  who  remained  neutral,  with  the 
severest  penalties.  Men  could  not  believe  that  the  dictator's  clemency 
was  real  ;  they  could  not  rid  themselves  of  the  belief  that  when  all 
fear  of  the  enemy  had  ceased  he  would  glut  his  vengeance  by  a 
hecatomb.  The  certainty  that  no  more  blood  would  flow  was  so 
much  the  more  grateful. 

After  the  triumphs  all  his  soldiers  were  gratified  by  a  magnificent 
donation  ;  nay,  every  poor  citizen  received  a  present  both  of  grain  and 
money. 

The  veterans  now  at  length  received  their  rewards  in  lands,  which 
were  either  public  property  or  were  duly  purchased  with  public  money. 
But  no  Julian  military  colonies  were  planted  on  lauds  wrested  by  force 
from  citizens,  to  emulate  the  Cornelian  military  colonies  and  main- 
tain a  population  of  turbulent  agitators.  Here  also  the  example  of 
Sylla,  who  confiscated  private  property  to  reward  his  troops,  was 
carefully  avoided. 

After  the  triumphs  every  kind  of  honor  was  bestowed  upon  him. 


LIFE   OF  JULIUS  CAESAR.  61 

Above  all,  he  was  named  dictator  for  the  third  time  ;  but  now  it 
was  for  a  space  of  ten  yeans.  He  was  also  invested  with  censorial 
authority  for  three  years  ;  and  in  virtue  of  Ihese  combined  offices  he 
was  declared  absolute  master  of  the  lives  and  fortunes  <J"  all  the  cit 
izens  and  subjects  of  Hume.  For  several  months  he  remained  at 
Rome  busily  occupied  in  measures  intended  to  remedy  the  evH  effects 
of  the  long  continued  civil  discords  and  to  secure  order 'for  the 
future.  But  in  the  middle  of  his  work  he  was  compelled  to  quit 
Rome  by  the  call  of  another  war.  It  will  be  well  to  dispose  of  this 
before  we  give  a  brief  summary  of  his  great  legislative  measures. 

Spain  was  the  province  that  required  his  presence.  There  the  two 
sons  of  Pompcy,  with  Labieuus  and  Varus,  had  rallied  the  scanty 
relics  of  the  African  army.  The  province  was  already  in  a  state  of 
revolt  against  Caesar.  Q.  Cassius — whom  he  had  left  as  governor — 
had  so  irritated  all  minds,  that  even  the  legions  rose,  mutinied,  and 
expelled  the  Ciesarian  commanders.  Bocchus,  King  of  Mauritania, 
lent  aid,  and  thus  the  malcontents  in  Spain  were  able  to  present  a 
formidable  front.  Caj.sar  arrived  in  Spain  late  in  September  (40  B.C.), 
after  a  journey  of  extraordinary  rapidity,  and  found  that  young  Cu. 
Pompeius  had  concentrated  his  forces  near  Corduba  (Cordova).  But 
an  attack  of  illness  compelled  the  dictator  to  delay  operations,  and  it 
was  not  till  the  first  month  of  the  next  year  that  he  was  able  to  take 
the  field.  He  then  began  offensive  measures  with  his  usual  rapidity. 
He  was  extremely  anxious  to  farce  the  enemy  to  a  battle,  but  this 
they  cautiously  declined,  till  several  strong  towns  being  taken  by 
storm  and  others  having  surrendered,  the  Pompeiaus  found  them- 
selves obliged  to  retreat  toward  the  coast  of  the  Mediterranean. 
Here  Caesar  found  them  in  a  strong  position  near  Munda,  a  small 
town  about  five  and  twenty  miles  west  of  Malaga,  and  as  they  offered 
him  battle,  he  determined  on  attacking,  notwithstanding  the  difficul- 
ties of  the  ground.  Success  was  for  some  time  doubtful.  But 
C;esar  exerted  himself  to  lead  his  troops  again  and  again  to  the  des- 
perate  conflict,  and  their  dauntless  courage  at  length  prevailed.  So 
desperate  was  it  that  C;esar  is  reported  to  have  said,  "  On  other  oc- 
casions I  have  fought  for  victory,  here  I  fought  for  life."  But  the 
Little  of  Muuda  was  decisive.  More  than  80,000  men  fell.  Among 
them  were  Varus  and  Labieuus,  whose  heads  were  brought  to  Ca'sar 
as  tokens  of  th  -ir  fate.  Cn.  Pompeius  tied  to  the  coast.  Here  as  he 
was  getting  on  board  a  small  boat  he  entangled  his  foot  in  a  rope  ; 
and  a  friend  endeavoring  to  cut  away  the  rope  struck  the  foot  in- 
stead. The  unfortunate  young  man  landed  again,  hoping  to  lie  hid 
till  his  wound  was  healed.  Finding  his  lurking-place  discovered,  he 
limped  wearily  up  a  mountain-path,  but  was  soon  overtaken  and 
slain.  His  head  also  was  carried  to  the  conqueror,  who  ordered  it  to 
receive  honorable  burial.  Sext.  Pompeius  escaped  into  Northcni 
Spain,  whence  he  reappeared  at  a  later  time  to  vex  the  peace  of  the 
Roman  world.  Corduba,  Ilispalis  (Seville),  and  other  places  garri 


6*2  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   C^SAE. 

soned  by  the  last  desperate  relics  of  the  Pompeian  party,  held  out  for 
some  time  after  the  battle  of  Munda.  So  important  did  Caesar  con- 
sider it  to  quench  the  last  spark  of  disaffection  in  a  province  -which 
for  several  years  had  been  under  Pompey's  government  that  he 
stayed  in  Spain  till  August,  and  did  not  return  t<5  Rome  till  Septem- 
ber or  October  (45  B.C.),  having  been  absent  from  the  capital  nearly 
a  year.  On  this  occasion  he  was  less  scrupulous  than  before,  for  he 
celebrated  a  fifth  triumph  in  honor  of  his  successes  in  Spain,  though 
these  were  as  much  won  over  Roman  citizens  as  his  former  victories 
in  that  same  country,  or  his  crowning  glory  of  Pharsalia. 

From  his  last  triumph  to  his  death  was  somewhat  more  than  five 
months  (October,  45  B.C. — March,  44  B.C.)  :  from  his  quadruple  tri- 
umph to  the  Spanish  campaign  was  little  more  than  four  months 
(June — September,  46  B.C.).  Into  these  two  brief  periods  were  com- ' 
pressed  most  of  the  laws  which  bear  his  name,  and  of  which  we  will 
now  give  a  briof  account.  Most  of  the  evils,  however,  which  he  en- 
deavored to  remedy  were  of  old  standing.  His  long  residence  at 
Rome,  and  busy  engagements  in  all  political  matters  from  early  youth 
to  the  close  of  his  consulship,  made  him  familiar  with  every  sore 
place,  and  with  all  the  proposed  remedies.  His  own  clear  judgment, 
his  habits  of  rapid  decision,  and  the  unlimited  power  which  he  held 
in  virtue  of  the  dictatorship,  made  it  easier  for  him  to  legislate  than 
for  others  to  advise. 

The  long  wars,  and  the  liberality  with  which  he  had  rewarded  his 
soldiers  and  the  people  at  his  triumphs,  had  reduced  Ihe  sums  in  the 
treasury  to  a  low  ebb.  We  may  believe  that  no  needs  were  more 
pressing  than  these. 

Together  with  the  dictatorship  he  had  been  invested  with  censorial 
power  under  the  new  title  of  prsefectus  morum.  He  used  this  power 
to  institute  a  careful  revision  of  the  list  of  citizens,  principally  for  the 
purpose  of  abridging  the  list  of  those  who  were  receiving  monthly 
donations  of  grain  from  the  treasury.  Numbers  of  foreigners  had 
been  irregularly  placed  on  the  lists,  and  so  great  had  been  the  temp- 
tations held  out  by  the  pernicious  poor-law  originally  passed  by  C. 
Gracchus,  and  made  still  worse  by  Saturninus  and  Clodius,  that  he 
was  able  to  reduce  the  list  of  state-paupers  resident  in  or  near  Rome 
from  320,000  to  about  half  that  number.  The  treasury  felt  an  Im- 
mediate and  a  permanent  relief. 

But  though,  for  this  purpose,  Caesar  made  severe  distinctions  be- 
tween Roman  citizens  and  those  subjects  of  the  republic  who  were 
not  admitted  to  the  franchise,  no  ruler  ever  showed  himself  so  much 
alive  to  the  claims  of  all  classes  of  her  subjects.  Other  popular  lead- 
ers had  advocated  the  cause  of  the  Italians,  and  all  free  people  of  the 
Peninsula  had  for  the  last  thirty  years  been  made  Romans  ;  but  ex- 
cept the  measure  of  Pompcius  Strabo,  by  which  the  free  people  of 
Transpadane  Gaul — who  were  almost  Italians— had  been  invested 
with  the  Latin  rights,  no  popular  statesman  had  as  yet  shown  any  in- 


LIFE   OF   JULttTS   C^ESAtl.  63 

terest  in  the  claims  of  the  provincial  subjects  of  Rome.  Sertorius,  in- 
deed, had  endeavored  to  raise  &  Roman  government  in  Spain  ;  but 
this  was  forced  upon  him  by  the  necessity  of  the  case,  and  was  a 
transference  of  power  from  Italians  to  Spaniards,  rather  than  an  in- 
corporation of  Spain  with  Italy.  Caesar  was  the  first  acknowledged 
ruler  of  the  Roman  State  who  extended  his  views  beyond  the  politics 
of  the  city  and  took  a  really  imperial  survey  of  the  vast  dominions 
subject  to  her  sway.  Toward  those  who  were  at  war  with  Rome  he 
was  relentless  and  illiberal  as  the  sternest  Roman  of  them  all ;  but  no 
one  so  well  as  he  knew  how  "  to  spare  the  submissive  ;"  hardly  any 
one  except  himself  felt  pleasure  in  so  sparing.  All  the  cities  of 
Transpaclane  Gaul,  already  Latin,  were  raised  to  the  Roman  fran- 
chise. The  same  high  privilege  was  bestowed  on  many  communities 
of  Transalpine  Gaul  and  Spain.  The  Gallic  legion  which  he  had 
raised,  called  Aulada  from  the  lark  which  was  the  emblem  on  their 
arms,  was  rewarded  for  its  services  by  the  same  gift.  Medical  prac- 
titioners and  scientific  m<m,  of  whatever  origin,  were  to  be  allowed 
to  claim  the  Rjman  franchise.  After  his  death  a  plan  was  found 
among  his  papers  for  raising  the  Sicilian  communities  to  the  rank  of 
Latin  citizens— a  design  which  seems  to  prove  that  a  truly  imperial 
idea  gave  character  to  his  whole  government. 

Nothing  proved  this  more  than  the  unfultille.i  projects  of  the  great 
dictator,  which  were  afterward  completed.  Among  these  were  the 
draining  of  the  Routine  marshes,  the  opening  of  lakes  Lucrinus  and 
Avernus  to  form  a  harbor,  a  complete  survey  and  map  of  the  whole 
empire — plans  afterward  executed  by  Agrippa,  the  great  minister  of 
Augustus.  Another  and  more  memorable  design  was  that  of  a  code 
of  laws  embodying  and  organizing  the  scattered  judgments  and  pre- 
cedents which  at  that  tima  regulated  the  courts.  It  was  several  cen- 
turies before  this  great  work  was  accomplished,  by  which  Roman  law 
became  the  law  of  civilize;!  Europe. 

The  liberal  tendency  of  the  dictator's  mind  was  shown  by  the  man- 
ner in  which  lie  supplied  the  great  gaps  which  the  civil  war  had 
made  in  the  benches  of  the  senate.  Of  late  years  the  number  of  that 
assembly  had  been  increased  from  its  original  three  hundred.  We 
find  so  many  as  four  hundred  and  fifteen  taking  part  in  its  votes  ;* 
and  many  of  course  were  absent.  But  Caesar  raised  it  to  no  Lss  than 
nine  hundred,  thus  probably  doubling  the  largest  number  that  had 
ever  been  counted  in  its  ranks.  Many  of  the  new  senators  were  for- 
tunate soldiers  who  had  served  him  well.  In  raising  such  men  to 
senatorial  rank  he  followed  the  example  of  Sylla.  But  many  of  the 
new  nobles  were  enfranchised  citizens  of  the  towns  of  Cisalpine  Gaul. 
The  old  citizens  were  indignant  at  this  invasion  of  the  barbarians 
Pasquinades,  rife  in  ancient  as  in  modern  Rome,  abounded.  "The 
Gauls,"  said  one  wit,  "had  exchanged  the  trews  for  the  toga,  and 


*  Cicero  ad  All.  i.  14,  5. 


fU  LIFE   OF   JULIUS 

nad  followed  the  conqueror's  triumphal  car  into  the  senate."  "It 
were  a  good  deed,"  said  another,  "  if  no  one  would  show  the  new 
senators  the  way  to  the  house." 

The  offices  of  consul,  prastor,  and  other  high  magistracies,  however, 
were  still  conferred  on  men  of  Italian  birth.  The  first  foreigner  who 
readied  the  consulship  was  L.  Cornelius  Balbus,  a  Spaniard  of  Gades, 
the  friend  of  Caesar  and  of  Cicero  ;  hut  this  was  not  till  four  years 
after  the  dictator's  death,  when  the  principles  of  his  government  were 
more  fully  carried  out  by  his  successors. 

To  revive  a  military  population  in  Italy  was  not  so  much  the  ob- 
ject of  Caesar  as  that  of  former  leaders  of  the  people.  His  veterans 
received  comparatively  few  assignments  of  land  in  Italy.  Only  six 
small  colonies  in  the  neighborhood  of  Rome  were  peopled  by  these 
men.  The  principal  settlements  by  which  he  enriched  them  were  in 
the  provinces.  Corinth  and  Carthage  were  made  military  colonies, 
and  rapidly  regained  somewhat  of  their  ancient  splendor  and  renown. 

He  endeavored  to  restore  the  wasted  population  of  Italy  by  more 
peaceful  methods  than  military  settlements.  The  marriage-tie  which 
had  become  exceedingly  lax  in  these  profl'gite  times  was  encouraged 
by  somewhat  singular  means.  A  married  matron  was  allowed  a 
greater  latitude  of  ornament  and  the  use  of  more  costly  carriages  than 
the  sumptuary  laws  of  Home  permitted  to  women  generally.  A 
married  man  with  three  children  born  in  lawful  wedlock  at  Rome, 
with  four  born  in  Italy,  with  five  born  in  the  provinces,  enjoyed 
freedom  from  certain  duties  and  charges. 

The  great  abuse  of  slave-labor  was  difficult  to  correct.  It  was 
attempted  to  apply  remedies  familiar  to  despotic  governments  in  all 
ages.  An  ordinance  was  issued  that  no  citizens  between  twenty  and 
forty  years  of  age  should  be  absent  from  Italy  for  more  than  three 
years.  And  an  ancient  enactment  was  revived  that  on  all  estates  at 
least  one  third  of  the  laborers  should  be  freemen.  No  doubt  these 
measures  were  of  little  effect. 

Caesar's  great  designs  for  the  improvement  of  the  city  were  shown 
by  several  facts.  Under  his  patronage  the  first  public  library  was 
opened  at  Rome  by  hisfrieudC.  AsiniusPollio,  famous  as  a  poet,  and 
in  later  years  as  the  historian  of  the  civil  war.  For  the  transaction  of 
public  business,  he  erected  the  magnificent  series  of  buildings  called 
the  Basilica  Julia,  of  which  we  will  say  a  few  words  in  a  later  page. 

Of  all  his  reforms,  that  by  which  his  name  is  best  remembered  is 
the  reform  of  the  calendar.  The  Roman  year  had  hitherto  consisted 
Df  355  days,  with  a  month  of  30  days  intercalated  every  third  year, 
so  that  the  average  length  of  the  year  was  365  days.  If  the  intercala- 
tions had  been  regularly  made,  the  Romans  would  have  lost  a  day's 
reckoning  in  every  period  of  four  years  :  since  the  real  length  of  the 
solar  year  is  about  365  i  days.  But  the  business  was  so  carelessly 
executed,  that  the  difference  between  the  civil  year  and  the  «>lar  year 
sometimes  amounted  to  several  months,  and  all  dates  weiu  mast 
uncertain- 


_  IIFE   OF  JULIUS   C.ESAR.  6& 

Caesar,  himself  not  unacquainted  with  astronomy,  called  in  the 
assistance  of  the  Greek  sosigenes  to  rectify  the  present  error,  and 
prevent  error  for  the  future.  It  was  determined  to  make  the  1st  of 
January  of  the  Roman  year  709  A.U.C.  coincide  with  the  1st  of  Jan- 
uary of  the  solar  year  which  we  call  45  B.C.  But  it  was  calculated 
that  this  1st  of  January  of  the  year  709  A.U.C.  would  be  07  days  in 
advance  of  the  true  time  ;  or,  in  other  words,  would  concur  not  with 
the  1st  of  January  45  B.C.,  but  with  the  22d  of  October  4(5  B.C.  And 
therefore  two  intercalary  mouths,  making  together  67  days,  were 
inserted  between  the  last  day  of  November  and  the  1st  of  December 
of  the  year  708.  An  intercalary  month  of  23  days*  had  already  been 
added  to  February  of  that  year,  according  to  the  old  method.  There- 
fore, on  the  whole,  the  Roman  year  708  consisted  in  all  of  the  prodi- 
gious number  of  445  days.f  It  was  scoffingly  called  in  the  pasquinades 
"  the  year  of  confusion."  More  justly  should  it  be  called,  as  Macro- 
bius  observes,  "  the  last  year  of  confusion." 

Thus  the  past  error  was  corrected,  and  the  1st  of  January  709  A.U.C. 
became  the  same  with  the  1st  of  January  45  B.C. 

To  prevent  future  errors,  the  year  was  extended  from  355  to  365 
days,  each  month  being  lengthened,  except  February,  according  to 
the  rule  which  we  still  observe.  But  as  the  solar  year  consists  of 
about  865  i  days,  it  is  manifest  that  it  was  necessary  to  add  one  day 
in  every  four  years,  and  this  was  done  at  the  end  of  February,  as  at 
present  in  our  leap  year. 

Such  was  the  famous  Julian  Calendar,  which,  with  a  slight  altera- 
tion, continues  to  date  every  transaction  and  every  letter  of  the 
present  day 4 

The  constant  occupation  required  for  these  and  other  measures  of 
reform,  all  executed  in  the  space  of  nine  or  ten  months,  necessarily 
absorbed  the  chief  part  of  the  dictator's  day,  and  prevented  the  free 
access  which  at  Rome  was  usually  accorded  to  suitors  and  visitors  by 
the  consuls  and  great  men.  Caesar  himself  lamented  this.  The  true 
reason  for  his  seclusion  was  not  understood,  and  the  fact  diminished 
his  popularity.  Yet  his  affability  was  the  same  as  ever,  and  a  letter 
of  Cicero,  in  which  he  describes  a  visit  he  received  from  the  great 

*  Called  Mercedonius.  t  I.e.,  355  +  23  +  67=445. 

t  The  addition  of  one  day  in  every  four  years  would  be  correct  if  the  solar  year 
consisted  exactly  of  365  %  days,  or  365  days  6  hours.  In  fact,  it  consists  of  365 
days,  5  hours,  48  minutes,  51  X  seconds,  so  that  the  Julian  year  is  longer  than  the 
erne  solar  year  by  about  11  minutes.  Cfesar's  astronomers  knew  this  error,  but 
leglected  it.  Accordingly  in  the  year  1582  A.D.  the  beginning  of  the  Julian  year 
was  about  13  days  behind  the  true  time.  Pope  Gregory  XIII.  shortened  that  year 
by  10  days,  still  leaving  the  year  3  days  behind  the  true  time ;  and  to  prevent  error 
for  the  future,  ordered  the  aaditioual  day  of  February  to  be  omitted  three  times  in 
400  years.  Protestant  England  refused  to  adopt  this  reform  till  the  year  1752  A.D., 
when  11  days  were  dropped  b  'tween  the  ,2d  and  14th  of  September,  which  gave 
rise  to  the  vulgar  cry,—1'  Give  us  back  our  11  days."  Russia,  through  the  jealousy 
of  the  Greek  Church,  still  keeps  the  old  style,  and  her  reckoning  is  now  12  days 
behind  that  of  the  rest  of  Europe. 


6C  LIFE)  OF  JULIUS 

conqueror  m  his  villa  at  Puteoli,  leaves  a  pleasing  impression  of  both 
host  and  guest.  Cicero  indeed  had  fully  bowed  to  circumstances.  lie 
spoke  in  defence  of  the  Pompeian  partisans.  M.  Marcellus  and  Q. 
Ligarius,  and  introduced  into  his  speeches  compliments  to  Caesar  too 
fulsome  to  be  genuine.  In  his  enforced  retirement  from  public  life 
after  the  battle  of  Pharsalia,  he  composed  some  of  those  pleasing 
dialogues  which  we  still  read.  Both  to  him  aud  to  every  other 
senatorial  chief  Caesar  not  only  showed  pardon  but  favor. 

Yet  the  remnant  of  the  nobles  loved  him  not.  And  with  the  people 
at  large  he  suffered  still  more,  from  a  belief  that  he  wished  to  be 
made  king.  On  his  return  from  Spain,  he  had  been  named  dictator 
and  imperator  for  life.  His  head  had  been  for  some  time  placed  on 
the  money  of  the  republic,  a  regal  honor  conceded  to  none  before 
him.  Quintilis,  the  fifth  month  of  the  calendar,  received  from  him 
the  name  which  it  still  bears.  The  senate  took  an  oaUi  to  guard  the 
safety  of  his  person.  He  was  honored  with  sacrificial  offerings,  and 
other  honors,  which  had  hitherto  been  reserved  for  the  gods.  But 
Caesar  was  not  satisfied.  He  was  often  heard  to  quote  the  sentiment 
of  Euripides,  that  "  if  any  violation  of  law  is  excusable,  it  is  excus- 
able for  the  sake  of  gaining  sovereign  power."  The  craving  desire 
to  transmit  power  to  an  heir  occupied  him  as  it  occupied  Cromwell 
and  Napoleon  ;  and  no  title  yet  conferred  upon  him  was  hereditary. 
It  was  no  doubt  to  ascertain  the  popular  sentiments  that  various  prop- 
ositions were  made  toward  an  assumption  of  the  style  and  title  of 
king.  His  statues  in  the  forum  were  found  crowned  with  a  diadem  ; 
but  two  of  the  tribunes  tore  it  off,  and  the  mob  applauded.  On  the 
26th  of 'January,  at  the  great  Latin  festival  on  the  Alban  Mount, 
voices  in  the  crowd  saluted  him  as  king  :  but  mutterings  of  discon- 
tent reached  his  ear,  and  he  promptly  said;  "I  am  no  king,  but 
Caesar."  Yet  the  tribunes  who  punished  those  who  were  detected 
in  raising  the  cry  were  deposed  by  the  dictator's  will.  The  final 
attempt  was  made  at  the  Lupercalia  on  the  15th  of  Febiuary.  Antony, 
in  the  character  of  one  of  the  priests  of  Pan,  approached  the  dictator 
as  he  sat  presiding  in  his  golden  chair,  and  offered  him  an  embroidered 
band,  such  as  was  worn  on  the  head  by  oriental  sovereigns.  The 
applause  which  followed  was  partial,  and  the  dictator  put  the  offered 
gift  aside.  Then  a  burst  of  genuine  cheering  gieeted  him,  which 
waxed  louder  still  when  he  rejected  it  a  second  time.  Old  traditional 
feeling  was  too  strong  at  Home  even  for  Caesar's  daring  temper  l<; 
brave  it.  The  people  would  submit  to  the  despotic  rule  of  a  dictator, 
'nit  would  not  have  a  king. 

Disappointed  no  doubt  he  was  :  and  one  more  attempt  was  made  to 
i-iveSt  himself  with  hereditary  title.  A  large  camp  had  for  some  time 
been  formed  at  Apollonia  in  Illyricum  ;  in  it  was  present  a  young 
man,  who  had  long  been  the  declared  heir  of  the  dictator.  This  was  C. 
Octavius,  son  of  his  niece  Atia,"  and  therefore  his  grand-nephew, 
He  was  born,  as  we  have  noted,  in  the  memorable  year  of  Catiline's 


LIFE    OF   JULIUS   CAESAR.  67 

conspiracy,  and  was  now  in  his  nineteenth  year.  From  the  time  that 
he  had  assumed  the  garb  of  manhood  his  health  had  been  too  delicate 
for  military  service.  Notwithstanding  this,  he  had  ventured  to 
demand  a  mastership  of  the  horse  from  his  uncle.  But  he  was  quietly 
refused,  and  sent  to  take  his  first  lessons  in  the  art  of  war  at  Apollonia, 
where  a  large  and  well-equipped  army  had  been  assembled.  Th« 
destination  of  this  powerful  force  was  not  publicly  announced.  But 
general  belief  pointed,  no  doubt  rightly,  to  Parthia  ;  for  the  death  of 
Crassus  was  unavenged,  and  the  Roman  eagles  were  still  retained  as 
trophies  by  the  barbaric  conqueror.  This  belief  was  confirmed  by 
the  fact  of  a  Sibylline  oracle  being  produced  about  this  time,  saying, 
"  that  none  but  a  king  could  conquer  Parthia."  And  soon  after  a 
decree  was  moved  in  the  senate,  by  which  Caesar  was  to  be  enabled, 
not  at  Rome,  but  in  the  provinces,  to  assume  the  style  of  king.  With- 
out the  well-known  emblems  and  permanent  power  of  royalty,  it  was 
argued,  a  Roman  commander  could  not  expect  the  submissive  homage 
of  orientals.  But  subsequent  events  prevented  this  decree  from  being 
carried  into  effect. 

Meanwhile  other  causes  of  discontent  had  been  agitating  various 
classes  at  Rome.  Cleopatra  appeared  at  Rome  with  a  boy  whom  she 
named  Caesarion  and  declare  1  to  be  her  son  by  Caesar.  It  was  her 
ambition  to  be  acknowledged  as  his  wife,  and  to  obtain  the  dictator's 
inheritance  for  the  boy — a  thing  hateful  even  to  the  degenerate 
Romans  of  that  day.  Tlien,  the  more  fiery  partisans  of  Cajsar  dis- 
approved of  his  clemency  ;  they  did  not  understand  his  wish  no 
longer  to  be  the  unscrupulous  leader  of  a  party,  but  the  impartial 
ruler  of  the  empire.  Many  of  the  more  prodigal  sort  were  angry  at 
the  regulations  he  made  to  secure  the  provincials  from  extortion 
and  oppression.  Antony  himself,  who,  in  considerati  m  of  his 
services,  expected  the  same  extravagance  of  license  that  had  been 
granted  by  Sylla  to  his  favorites,  was  indignant  at  being  obliged  to 
pay  its  full  price  for  the  house  of  Pompey  in  the  Carinae,  of  which 
he  had  taken  possession.  The  populace  of  the  city  complained — the 
genuine  Romans  at  seeing  so  much  favor  extended  to  provincial*;, 
those  of  foreign  origin  because  they  had  been  excluded  from  the  corn- 
bounty.  Caesar  no  doubt  was  eager  to  return  to  his  army,  and  escape 
from  the  increasing  difficulties  which  beset  his  civil  government. 
But  it  seemed  likely  that  as  soon  as  he  joined  the  army,  he  would 
assume  monarchical  power,  in  virtue  of  the  late  decree  ;  and  this 
consideration  urged  on  to  hasty  determination  the  remains  of  the  old 
senatorial  party,  who  owed  their  lives  to  Caesar's  clemency,  who  had 
accepted  favors  from  his  bounty,  and  scrupled  not  to  turn  his  own 
gifts  to  his  destruction. 

The  great  difficulty  was  to  find  a  leader.  C.  Cassius  was  a  good 
soldier,  but  of  temper  so  fickle  and  uncertain,  that  few  were  willing 
to  confide  in  him.  It  was  upon  M.  Junius  Brutus  that  all  the  dis- 
contented turned  their  eyes.  This  young  nephew  a  man,  of  Cato, 
had  taken  his  uncle  as  an  example  for  his  public  life.  But  he  wa» 


68  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   C^SAR. 

fonder  of  platonic  speculations  than  of  political  action.  His  habits 
were  cold  and  reserved,  rather  those  of  a  student  than  a  statesman. 
He  had  reluctantly  joined  the  cause  of  Pompey,  for  he  could  ill 
forget  that  is  was  by  Pompey  that  his  father  had  been  put  to  death 
in  cold  blood  ;  but  he  yielded  to  the  arguments  of  Calo,  and  mastered 
his  private  feud  by  what  he  considered  zeal  for  the  public  good. 
After  Pharsalia,  he  was  received  by  Caesar  with  the  utmost  kindness, 
and  treated  by  him  almost  like  a  son.  He  seems  to  have  felt  this, 
and  lived  quietly  without  harboring  any  designs  against  bis  benefactor. 
In  the  present  year  he  had  been  proclaimed  praetor  of  the  city,  with 
the  promise  of  the  consulship  presently  after.  But  the  discontented 
remnants  of  the  old  senatorial  party  assailed  him  with  constant  re- 
proaches. The  name  of  Brutus,  dear  to  all  Roman  patriots,  was 
made  a  rebuke  to  him.  "  His  ancestor  expelled  the  Taiquins  ;  and 
could  he  sit  quietly  under  a  new  king's  rule  ?"  At  the  foot  of  the  statue 
of  that  famous  ancestor,  or  on  his  own  praetorian  tribunal,  notes  were 
placed,  containing  phrases  such  as  these  :  "  Thou  art  not  Brutus  : 
would  thou  wert."  "  Brutus,  thou  sleepest."  "Awake,  Brutus." 
Gradually  his  mind  was  excited  ;  and  he  was  brought  to  Ihink  that 
it  was  his  duty  as  a  patriot  to  put  an  end  to  Caesar's  rule  even  by 
taking  his  life.  The  most  notable  of  those  who  arrayed  themselves 
under  him  was  Cassius  himself.  What  was  this  nail's  motive  is 
unknown,  He  had  never  taken  much  part  in  politics  ;  and  the 
epicurean  philosophy  which  he  professed  gave  him  no  strong  reasons 
for  hating  a  despotic  government.  He  had  of  his  OWD  accord  made 
submission  to  the  conqueror,  and  had  been  received  with  marked 
favor.  Some  personal  reason  probably  actuated  his  unquiet  spirit. 
More  than  sixty  persons  were  in  the  secret.  All  of  whom  we  know 
anything  were,  like  Cassius,  under  obligations  to  the  dictator.  P. 
Servilius  Casca  was  by  his  grace  tribune  of  the  pkbs.  L.  Tillius 
Cimber  was  promised  the  government  of  Bithynia.  Dec.  Brutus, 
one  of  his  old  Gallic  officers  was  piaator-elect,  and  was  to  bt  Ratified 
with  the  rich  province  of  Cisalpine  Gaul.  C.  Trebonius,  another  of 
his  most  trusted  officers,  had  received  every  favor  which  the  dictator 
could  bestow  ;  he  had  just  laid  down  the  consulship,  and  was  on 
I  lie  eve  of  departure  for  the  coveted  government  of  Asia.  Q.  Li- 
garius,  who  had  lately  accepted  a  free  pardon  from  the  dictator, 
rose  from  a  sick-bed  to  join  the  conspirators. 

A  meeting  of  the  senate  was  called  for  the  Ides  of  March,  at  whHi 
Caesar  was  to  be  present.  This  was  the  day  appointed  for  the  murder. 
The  secret  had  oozed  out.  Many  persons  warned  Caesar  that  some 
danger  was  impending.  A  Greek  soothsayer  told  him  of  the  very 
day.  On  the  morning  of  the  Ides  his  wife  arose  so  disturbed  by 
dreams,  that  she  persuaded  him  to  relinquish  his  purpose  of  presiding 
in^the  senate,  and  he  sent  Antony  in  his  stead. 

This  change  of  purpose  was  reported  in  the  senate  after  the  house 
was  formed.  The  conspirators  were  in  despair.  Dec.  Brutus  at  once 
went  to  Csesar,  told  him  that  the  fathers  were  only  waiting  to  confer 


LIFE   OP  JULIUS   C^SAR.  09 

upon  him  the  sovereign  power  which  he  desired  in  the  provinces, 
and  begged  him  not  to  listen  to  auguries  and  dreams.  C;esar  was 
persuaded  to  change  his  purpose,  and  was  carried  forth  in  bis  litter. 
On  his  way,  a  slave  who  had  discovered  the  conspiracy  tried  to 
attract  the  dictator's  notice,  but  was  unable  to  reach  him  from  the 
crowd.  A  Greek  philosopher,  named  Artemidorus,  succeeded  in 
putting  a  roll  of  paper  into  his  hand,  containing  full  information  of 
the  conspiracy  ;  but  Caesar,  supposing  it  to  be  a  petition,  laid  it  in 
the  litter  by  his  side  for  a  more  convenient  season.  Meanwhile  the 
conspirators  liad  reason  to  think  that  their  plot  had  been  discovered. 
A  friend  came  up  to  Casca  and  said,  "  Ah,  Casca,  Brutus  has  told  me 
your  secret !"  The  conspirator  started  back,  but  was  relieved  by  the 
next  sentence  :  "  Where  will  you  lind  money  for  the  expenses  of  the 
sedileship  ?"  More  serious  alarm  was  felt  when  Popillius  Laeuas 
remarked  to  Brutus  and  Cassius,  "  You  have  my  good  wishes  ;  but 
what  you  do,  do  quickly" — especially  when  the  same  senator  stepped 
up  to  Caesar  on  his  entering  the  house,  and  began  whispering  in  his 
ear.  So  terrified  was  Cassius,  that  he  thought,  of  stabbing  himself 
instead  of  Caesar,  till  Brutus  quietly  observed  that  the  gestures  of 
Popillius  indicated  that  he  was  asking  a  favor,  not  revealing  a  fatal 
secret.  Caesar  took  his  seat  without  further  delay. 

As  was  agreed,  Cimber  presented  a  petition,  praying  for  his  brother's 
recall  from  banishment  ;  ami  all  the  conspirators  pressed  round  the  dic- 
tator, urging  his  favorable  answer.  Displeased  at  their  thronging  round 
him,  Caesar  attempted  to  rise.  At  that  moment,  Cimber  seized  the 
lappet  of  his  robe  and  pulled  him  down  ;  and  immediately  Casca 
struck  him  from  the  side,  but  inflicted  only  a  slight  wound.  Then  all 
drew  their  daggers  and  assailed  him.  Ceesar  for  a  time  defended 
himself  with  the  gown  folded  over  his  left  arm,  and  the  sharp-pointed 
stile  which  he  held  in  his  right  hand  for  writing  on  the  wax  of  his 
tablets.  But  when  he  saw  Brutus  among  the  assassins  he  exclaimed, 
"  You  too,  Brutus  !"  and,  covering  his  face  with  his  gown,  offered  no 
further  resistance.  In  their  eagerness  some  blows  intended  for  their 
victim  fell  upon  themselves.  But  enough  reached  Ca'sar  to  do  the 
bloody  work.  Pierced  by  threc-and-twenty  wounds,  he  fell  at  the 
base  of  Pompey's  statue,  which  had  been  removed  after  Pharsalia  by 
Antony,  but  had  been  restored  by  the  magnanimity  of  Caesar  to  be 
i-he  witness  of  his  bloody  end. 

Thus  died  "  the  foremost  man  in  all  the  world,"  a  man  who  failed 
in  nothing  that  he  attempted.  He  might,  Cicero  thought,  have  been 
a  great  orator  ;  his  Commentaries  remain  to  prove  that  he  was  a  great 
writer.  As  a  general  he  had  few  superiors  ;  as  a  statesman  and 
politician  no  equal.  That  which  stamps  him  as  a  man  of  true 
greatness,  is  the  entire  absence  of  vanity  and  self-conceit  from  his 
character."  If  it  were  not  known  that  C;esar  was  the  narrati  r  of  his 
wu  campaigns,  no  one  could  guess  that  cold  and  dispassionate 
narrative  to  be  from  his  pen.  His  genial  temper  and  easy,  unaffected 
manners  bear  testimony  to  the  same  point.  It  is  well  known  indeed 


70  LIFE   OF  JULIUS   C.ESAR. 

that  he  paid  great  attention  to  his  personal  appearance— a  foible 
which  he  shared  in  common  with  many  great  men  equally  free  from 
other  vanity.  -In  youth  he  was  strikingly  handsome,  and  was  the 
welcome  lover  of  many  dissolute  Roman  dames.  His  hard  life  and 
unremitting  activity  had  furrowed  his  face  with  lines,  and  left  him 
with  that  meagre  visage  which  is  made  familiar  to  us  from  his  coins. 
To  the  same  cause  is  to  be  attributed  his  liability,  in  later  life,  to  fits 
of  an  epileptic  nature.  But  even  in  these  days  he  was  sedulous  in 
arranging  his  robes,  and  was  pleased  to  have  the  privilege  of  wearing 
a  laurel  crown  to  hide  the  scantiness  of  his  hair.  His  morality  in 
d  )mestic  life  was  not  better  or  worse  than  commonly  prevailed  in 
faose  licentious  days.  He  indulged  in  profligate  amours  freely  and 
without  scruple.  But  public  opinion  reproached  him  not  for  this. 
When  it  was  sought  to  blacken  his  character,  crimes  of  a  deeper  dye 
were  imputed  to  him  ;  bat  they  were  never  proved,  and  he  always 
indignantly  denied  them.  He  seldom,  if  ever,  allowed  pleasure  to 
interfere  with  business,  and  here  his  character  forms  a  notable  con- 
trast to  that  of  Sylla.  In  other  respects  the  men  were  not  unlike. 
Both  were  men  of  real  genius,  and  felt  their  strength  without  vanity. 
But  Sylla  loved  pleasure  more  than  power  ;  Caesar  valued  power 
above  all  things.  As  a  general,  .Caesar  was  probably  no  less  inferior 
to  Pompey  than  Sylla  to  Marius.  Yet  his  successes  in  war, 
achieved  by  a  man  who,  in  his  forty-ninth  year,  had  hardly  seen  a 
camp,  add  to  our  conviction  of  his  real  genius.  Those  successes 
were  due  not  so  much  to  scientific  and  calculated  manoeuvres  as  to 
rapid  audacity  of  movement  and  perfect  mastery  over  the  wills  of 
men.  That  he  caused  the  death  or  captivity  of  some  million  of^Gauls, 
to  provide  treasure  and  form  an  army  for  his  political  purposds,  is 
shocking  to  us  ;  but  it  was  not  so  to  Roman  moralists.  Any  Roman 
commander  with  like  powers,  except,  perhaps,  Cato,  would  have  acted 
in  like  manner.  But  the  clemency  with  which  Caesar  spared  the  lives  of 
his  opponents  in  the  civil  war,  and  the  easy  indulgence  with  which 
he  received  them  into  favor,  were  peculiarly  his  own.  His  political 
career  was  troubled  by  no  scruples  :  to  gain  his  end  he  was  utterly 
careless  of  the  means.  But  before  we  judge  him  severely,  we  must 
remember  the  manner  in  which  the  Marian  party  had  been  trampled 
under  foot  by  Sylla  and  the  senate.  If,  however,  the  mode  in  which 
he  rose  to  power  was  questionable,  the  mode  in  which  he  exercised 
it  was  admirable.  By  the  action  of  constant  civil  broils  the  consti- 
tutional system  of  Rome  had  given  way  to  anarchy,  and  there  seemed 
no  escape  except  by  submission  to  the  strong  domination  of  one 
capable  man.  The  only  effect  of  Caesar's  fall  was  to  cause  a 
renewal  of  bloodshed  for  another  half  generation  ;  and  then  his  Work 
was  finished  by  a  far  less  noble  and  generous  ruler.  Those  who  slew 
Cffisar  were  guilty  of  a  great  crime,  and  a  still  greater  blunder. 

THE  KND. 


LIFE   OF   CROMWELL. 

(A.D.    1599-1658.) 


THE  name  of  Cromwell  up  to  the  present  period  has  been  identified 
with  ambition,  craftiness,  usurpation,  ferocity,  and  tyranny  ;  we  think 
that  his  true  character  is  that  of  a  fanatic.  History  is  like  the  sibyl, 
and  only  reveals  her  secrets  to  time,  leaf  by  leaf.  Hitherto  she  has 
not  exhibited  the  real  nature  and  composition  of  this  human  enigma. 
He  has  been  thought  a  profound  politician  ;  he  was  only  an  eminent 
sectarian.  Far-sighted  historians  of  deep  research,  such  as  Hume, 
Lingard,  Bossuet,  and  Voltaire,  have  all  jbeen  mistaken  in  Cromwell. 
The  fault  was  not  theirs,  but  belonged  to  the  epoch  in  which  they 
wrote.  Authentic  documents  had  not  then  seen  the  light,  and  the 
portrait  of  Cromwell  had  only  been  painted  by  his  enemies.  His 
memory  and  his  body  have  been  treated  with  similar  infamy  ;  by  the 
restoration  of  Charles  the  Second,  by  the  royalists  of  both  branches, 
by  Catholics  and  Protestants,  by  Whigs  and  Tories,  equally  interest- 
ed in  degrading  the  image  of  the  republican  Protector. 

But  error  lasts  only  for  a  time,  while  truth  endures  for  ages.  Its 
turn  was  coming,  hastened  by  an  accident. 

One  of  those  men  of  research,  who  are  to  history  what  excavators 
are  to'  monuments,  Thomas  Carlyle,  a  Scotch  writer,  endowed  with 
the  combined  qualities  of  exalted  enthusiasm  and  enduring  patience, 
dissatisfied  also  with  the  conventional  and  superficial  portrait  hither- 
to depicted  of  Cromwell,  resolved  to  search  out  and  restore  his  true 
lineaments.  The  evident  contradictions  of  the  historians  of  his  own 
and  other  countries  who  had  invariably  exhibited  him  as  a  fantastic 
tyrant  and  a  melodramatic  hypocrite,  induced  Mr.  Carlyle  to  think, 
with  justice,  that  beneath  these  discordant  components  there  might 
be  found  another  Cromwell,  a  being  of  nature,  not  of  the  imagina- 
tion. Guided  by  that  instinct  of  truth  and  logic  in  which  is  com- 
prised the  genius  of  erudite  discovery,  Mr.  Carlyle,  himself  possess- 
ing the  spirit  of  a  sectary,  and  delighting  in  an  independent  course, 
undertook  to  search  out  and  examine  all  the  correspondence  buried 
in  the  depths  of  public  or  private  archives,  and  in  which,  at  the 
different  dates  of  his  domestic,  military,  and  political  life,  Cromwell, 


4  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

without  thinking  that  he  should  thus  paint  himself,  has  in  fact  done 
so  for  the  study  of  posterity.  Supplied  with  these  treasures  of  truth 
and  revelation,  Mr.  Oarlyle  shut  himself  up  for  some  years  in  the 
solitude  of  the  country,  that  nothing  might  distract  his  thoughts  from 
his  work.  Then  having  collected,  classed,  studied,  commented  on, 
and  rearranged  these  voluminous  letters  of  his  hero,  and  having  re- 
suscitated, as  if  from  tliQ  tomb,  the  spirit  of  the  man  and  the  age,  he 
committed  to  Europe  this  hitherto  unpublished  correspondence,  say- 
ing, with  more  reason  than  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  "  Receive,  and 
read  ;  behold  the  true  Cromwell  !"  It  is  from  these  new  and  incon- 
testable documents  that  we  now  propose  to  wiite  the  life  of  this  dic- 
tator. 

Cromwell,  whom  the  greater  number  of  historians  (echoes  of  the 
pamphleteers  of  his  day)  state  to  have  been  the  son  of  a  brewer,  or 
butcher,  was  in  reality  born  of  an  ancient  family  descended  from 
some  of  the  first  English  nobility.  His  great-uncle,  Thomas  Crom- 
well, created  Earl  of  Essex  by  Henry  the  Eighth,  and  afterward 
beheaded  in  one  of  those  ferocious  revulsions  of  character  in  which 
that  monarch  frequently  indulged,  was  one  of  the  most  zealous  de- 
spoilers  of  Romish  churches  and  monasteries,  after  Protestantism 
had  been  established  by  his  master.  The  great  English  dramatist, 
Shakespeare,  has  introduced  Thomas  Cromwell,  Earl  of  Essex,  in 
one  of  his  tragedies.  It  is  to  him  that  Cardinal  Wolsey  says,  when 
sent  to  prison  and  death  by  the  fickle  Henry, 

"  Cromwell,  I  charge  thoe,  fling  away  ambition  ! 
Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  served  my  king,  he  wonld  not  in  mine  age 
IJavc  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies." 

This  Cromwell,  Earl  of  Essex,  was  for  a  brief  space  Henry  the 
Eighth's  minister  ;  he  employed  one  of  his  nephews,  Richard  Crom- 
well, in  the  persecution  of  the  Catholics,  enriching  him  with  the 
•spoils  of  churches  and  convents.  Richard  was  the  great-grandfatker 
of  Oliver  the  Protector. 

His  grandfather,  known  in  the  country  by  the  name  of  the 
"Golden  Knight,"  in  allusion  to  the  great  riches  which  were  be- 
stowed on  his  family  at  the  spoliation  of  the  monasteries,  Avas  called 
Henry  Cromwell.  He  lived  in  Lincolnshire,  on  the  domain  of  Hin- 
chinbrock,  formerly  an  old  convent  from  which  the  nuns  had  been 
expelled,  and  which  was  afterward  changed  by  the  Cromwells  into 
a  M'ignoi-ial  manor-house.  His  eldest  son,  Richard,  married  a 
daughter  of  one  of  the  branches  of  the  house  of  Stuart,  who  resided 
in  the  same  county.  This  Elizabeth  Stuart  was  the  aunt  of  Oliver 
Cromwell,  who  afterward  immolated  Charles  the  First.  It  appears 
as  if  destiny  delighted  thus  to  mingle  in  the  same  veins  the  blood  of 
the  victim  and  his  executioner. 

King  James  the  First,  when  passing  through  Lincolnshire,  OB  his 
\vuy  to  take  possession  of  the  English  crown,  honored  the  dwelling 


OLIVER   CKOMWELL.  5 

of  the  Cromwells  by  his  presence,  on  account  of  his  relationship  to 
Elizabeth  Stuart,  aunt  of  the  future  Protector.  The  child,  born  in 
1599,  was  then  four  years  old,  and  in  after  years,  when  he  himself 
reigned  in  the  palace  of  the  Stuarts,  he  might  easily  remember  hav- 
ing seen  under  his  own  roof  and  at  the  table  of  his  family  this  king, 
father  of  the  monarch  he  had  dethroned  and  beheaded  ! 

It  was  not  long  before  the  family  lost  its  wealth.  The  eldest  of 
the  sons  sold  for  a  trifling  sum  the  manor  of  Hinchinbrook,  and  re- 
tired to  a  small  estate  that  he  possessed  in  the  marshes  t>f  Hunting- 
donshire. His  youngest  brother,  Robert  Cromwell,  father  of  the 
future  sovereign  of  England,  brought  up  his  family  in  poverty  on  a 
small  adjoining  estate  upon  the  banks  of  the  river  Ouse,  called  Ely. 
The  poor,  rough,  and  unyielding  nature  of  this  moist  country,  the 
unbroken  horizon,  the  muddy  river,  cloudy  sky,  miserable  trees, 
scattered  cottages,  and  rude  manners  of  the  inhabitants,  were  well 
calculated  to  contract  and  sadden  the  disposition  of  a  child.  The 
character  of  the  scenes  in  which  we  are  brought  up  impresses  itself 
upon  our  souls.  Great  fanatics  generally  proceed  from  sad  and 
Sterile  countries.  Mahomet  sprang  from  the  scorching  valleys  of 
A-rabia  ;  Luther  from  the  frozen  mountains  of  Lower  Germany  ; 
Calvin  from  the  inanimate  plains  of  Picardy  ;  Cromwell  from  the 
{stagnant  marshes  of  the  Ouse.  As  is  the  place,  so  is  the  man.  The 
miii! I  is  a  mirror  before  it  becomes  a  home. 

Oliver  Cromwell,  whose  history  we  are  writing,  was  the  fifth  child 
.if  his  father,  who  died  before  he  attained  maturity.  Sent  to  the 
University  of  Cambridge,  a  town  adjoining  his  paternal  residence,  he 
lliere  received  a  liberal  education,  and  returned  at  the  age  of  eigh- 
teen, after  the  death  of  his  father,  to  be  the  support  of  his  mother 
and  a  second  parent  to  his  sisters  He  conducted,  with  sagacity  beyond 
his  years,  the  family  estate  and  establishment,  under  his  mother's 
eye.  At  twenty-one  he  married  Elizabeth  Bourchier,  a  young  and 
beautiful  heiress  of  the  county,  whose  portraits  show,  under  the 
chaste  and  calm  figure  of  the  North,  an  enthusiastic,  religious,  and 
contemplative  soul.  She  was  the  first  and  only  love  of  her  husband. 

Cromwell  took  up  his  abode  with  his  wife  in  the  house  of  his 
mother  and  sisters  at  Huntingdon,  and  lived  there  ten  years  in  do- 
mestic felicity,  occupied  with  the  cores  of  a  confined  income,  the 
rural  employments  of  a  gentleman  farmer  who  cultivates  his  own 
estate,  and  those  religious  contemplations  of  reform  which  at  that 
period  agitated  almost  to  insanity  Scotland,  England,  and  Europe. 

His  family,  friends,  and  neighbors  were  devotedly  attached  to  the 
new  cause  of  puritanic  Protestantism  ;  a  cause  which  had  always 
been  opposed  in  England  by  the  remnant  of  the  old  conquered 
church,  ever  ready  to  revive.  -The  celebrated  patriot  Hampden,  who 
iras  destined  to  give  the  signal  for  a  revolution  on  the  throne,  by  re- 
fusing to  pay  the  impost  of  twenty  shillings  to  the  crown,  was  the 
young  Cromwell's  cousin,  and  a  puritan  like  himself.  The  family, 


6  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

revolutionists  in  religion  and  politics,  mutually  encouraged  each 
other  in  their  solitude,  by  the  prevailing  passion  of  the  times  then 
concentrated  in  a  small  body  of  faithful  adherents.  This  passion, 
in  the  ardent  and  gloomy  disposition  of  Cromwell,  almost  produced 
£>  disease  of  the  imagination.  He  trembled  for  his  eternal  salvation, 
and  dreaded  lest  he  should  not  sacrifice  enough  for  his  faith.  He 
reproached  himself  for  an  act  'of  cowardly  toleration  in  permitting 
Catholic  symbols,  such  as  the  cross  on  the  summit,  and  other  relig- 
ious ornaments,  left  by  recent  Protestantism,  to  remain  upon  the 
church  at  Huntingdon.  He  was  impressed  with  the  idea  of  an  early 
death,  and  lived  under  the  terror  of  eternal  punishment.  Warwick, 
one  of  his  contemporaries,  relates  that  Cromwell,  seized  on  a  particu- 
lar occasion  with  a  fit  of  religious  melancholy,  sent  frequently  dur- 
ing the  night  for  the  physician  of  the  neighboring  village,  that  he 
might  talk  to  him  of  bis  doubts  and  terrors.  He  assisted  assiduously 
at  the  preachings  of  those  itinerant  puritan  ministers  who  came  to 
stir  up  polemical  ardor  and  antipathies.  He  sought  solitude,  and 
meditated  upon  the  sacred  texts  by  the  banks  of  the  river  which 
traversed  his  fields.  The  disease  of  the  times,  the  interpretation  of 
the  Bible,  which  had  then  taken  possession  of  every  mind,  gave  a 
melancholy  turn  to  his  reflections. 

He  felt  within  himself  an  internal  inspiration  of  the  religious  and 
political  meaning  of  these  holy  words.  He  acknowledged,  in  com- 
mon with  his  puritanic  brethren,  the  individual  and  enduring  reve- 
lation shown  in  the  pages  and  verses  of  a  divine  and  infallible  book, 
but  which,  without  the  Spirit  of  God,  no  prompting  or  explanation 
can  enable  us  to  understand.  The  puritanism  of  Cromwell  consisted 
in  absolute  obedience  to  the  commands  of  Sacred  Writ,  and  the 
right  of  interpreting  the  Scriptures  according  to  his  own  conviction 
— a  contradictory  but  seductive  dogma  of  his  sect,  which  commands 
on  the  one  hand  implicit  belief  in  the  divinity  of  a  book,  and  on  the 
other  permits  free  license  to  the  imagination,  to  bestow  its  own 
meaning  on  the  inspired  leaves. 

From  this  belief  of  the  faithful  in  true  and  permanent  inspiration, 
there  was  but  one  step  to  the  hallucination  of  prophetic  gifts.  The 
devout  puritans,  and  even  Cromwell  himself,  fell  naturally  into  this 
extreme.  Each  became  at  the  same  time  the  inspirer  and  the  in- 
spired, the  devotee  and  the  prophet.  This  religion,  ever  audibly 
speaking  in  the  soul  of  the  believer,  was  in  fact  the  religion  of 
diseased  imaginations,  whose  piety  increased  with  their  fanati- 
cism. Cromwell,  in  his  retreat,  was  led  away  by  these  miasmas  of 
the  day,  which  became  the  more  powerfully  incorporated  with  his 
nature  from  youth,  natural  energy,  and  isolation  of  mind. 

He  had  no  diversion  for  his  thoughts  in  this  solitude,  beyond  the 
increase  of  his  family,  the  cultivation  of  his  fields,  the  multiplying 
and  disposing  of  his  flocks.  Like  an  economical  farmer,  lie  fre- 
quented fairs  that  he  might  there  purchase  young  cattle,  which  h$ 


OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

fattened  and  sold  at  a  moderate  profit.  He  disposed  of  a.  portion  ot 
his  paternal  estate  for  2000  guineas,  to  enable  him  to  buy  one  neare/ 
the  river,  and  with  more  pasture  land,  close  to  the  little  town  of  St 
Ives,  a  few  miles  from  Huntingdon.  He  settled  there  with  his  al 
ready  numerous  family,  consisting  of  two  sons  and  four  daughters, 
in  a  small  manor-house,  buried  under  the  weeping-willows  which 
bordered  the  meadows,  and  called  "  Sleep  Hall."  He  was  tbeo 
thirty-six  years  old.  His  correspondence  at  that  time  was  filled  with 
affection  for  his  family,  praises  of  his  wife,  satisfaction  in  his  chil 
dren,  domestic  details,  and  the  solicitude  of  his  soul  for  those  mis- 
sionary puritans  whose  preaching  he  encouraged,  and  whose  zeal  he 
promoted  by  voluntary  contributions.  His  exemplary  life,  careful 
management  of  his  household,  his  assiduous  and  intelligent  attention 
to  all  the  local  interests  of  the  county,  gained  for  him  that  rural 
popularity  which  points  out  an  unobtrusive  man  as  worthy  of  the 
esteem  and  confidence  of  the  people,  and  their  proper  representative 
in  the  legislative  councils  of  the  country.  Cromwell,  who  felt  that 
he  possessed  no  natural  eloquence,  and  whose  ambition  at  that  time 
went  no  further  than  his  own  domestic  felicity,  moderate  fortune, 
and  limited  estate,  solicited  not  the  suffrages  of  the  electors  of  Hunt- 
ingdon and  St.  Ives  ;  but  in  the  cause  of  religion,  which  was  all- 
powerful  with  him,  he  thought  himself  bound  in  conscience  to  accept 
them.  He  was  elected,  on  the  17th  of  March,  1627,  a  member  of 
parliament  for  his  county.  His  public  career  commenced  witt 
those  political  storms  which  consigned  a  king  to  the  scaffold  and 
raised  a  country  gentleman  to  the  throne. 

To  understand  well  the  conduct  of  Cromwell  in  that  position  if 
which,  without  his  own  connivance,  destiny  had  placed  him,  let  UF 
examine  the  state  of  England  at  the  period  when  he  entered,  un- 
known and  silently,  upon  the  scene. 

Henry  the  Eighth,  the  Caligula  of  Britain,  in  a  fit  of  anger  againsS 
the  Church  of  Rome,  changed  the  religion  of  his  kingdom.  This  was 
the  greatest  act  of  absolute  authority  ever  exercised  by  one  man  ovei 
an  entire  nation.  The  caprice  of  a  king  became  the  conscience  of 
the  people,  and  temporal  authority  subjugated  their  souls.  The  old 
Catholicism,  repudiated  by  the  sovereign,  was  abandoned  to  indis- 
criminate pillage  and  derision,  with  its  dogmas,  hierarchy,  clergy, 
monks,  monasteries,  ecclesiastical  possessions,  territorial  fiefs,  hoarded 
riches,  and  temples  of  worship.  The  Roman  Catholic  faith  became 
a  crime  in  the  kingdom,  and  its  name  a  scandal  and  reproach  to  its 
followers.  JSTational  apostasy  was  as  sudden  and  overwhelming  as 
a  clap  of  thunder  :  the  Catholic  nation  had  disappeared  beneath  the 
English  nation.  Henry  the  Eighth  and  his  councillors,  nevertheless, 
wished  to  preserve  the  ancient  religion  of  the  state,  so  far  as  it  was 
favorable  to  the  interests  of  the  king,  useful  to  the  clergy,  and  delu- 
sive for  the  people.  In  other  words,  the  king  was  to  possess  supreme 
authority  as  head  of  tk«  Skurch,  over  the  souls  of  his  subjects  ;  eccie- 


8  OLIVER    CROMWELL. 

slastical  dignities,  honors,  and  riches  were  to  be  secured  to  the 
bish'ops  ;  the  liturgy  and  ceremonial  pomp  to  the  people.  Selecting 
a  politic  medium  between  the  Church  of  Rome  and  the  church  of 
Luther,  England  constituted  her  own.  This  church,  rebellious 
against  Rome,  whom  she  imitated  while  opposing  her,  submitted  to 
Luther,  whom  she  restrained  while  she  encouraged  his  tenets.  It 
was  a  civil  rather  than  a  religious  arrangement,  which  cared  for  the 
bodies  before  the  souls  of  the  community,  and  gave  an  appearance 
more  of  show  than  reality  to  the  formal  piety  of  the  nation. 

The  people,  proud  of  having  thrown  off  the  Romish  yoke,  and  dis- 
liking the  ancient  supremacy  which  had  so  long  bent  and  governed 
the  island  ;  recoiling  in  horror  from  the  name  of  the  Papacy,  a  word 
in  which  was  summed  up  all  that  was  superstitious  and  all  that  re- 
lated to  foreign  domination,  readily  attached  themselves  to  the  new 
church.  They  beheld  in  her  the  emblem  of  their  independence,  a 
palladium  against  Rome,  and  the  pledge  ot'  their  nationality.  Every 
king  since  Henry  the  Eighth,  whatever  may  have  been  his  personal 
creed,  has  been  obliged  to  protect  and  defend  the  worship  of  the 
Church  of  England.  An  avowal  of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  would 
be  his  signal  of  abdication.  The  people  would  not  trust  their  civil 
liberties  to  the  care  of  a  prince  who  professed  spiritual  dependence 
on  the  Church  of  Rome. 

The  right  of  liberty  of  conscience  had  naturally  followed  this 
change  in  the  minds  of  Englishmen.  Having  revolted,  at  the  com- 
mand of  their  sovereign,  against  the  ancient  and  sacred  authority  of 
the  Romish  Church,  it  was  absurd  to  think  that  the  conscience  of  the 
nation  would  submit  without  a  murmur  to  the  unity  of  the  new  in- 
stitution, the  foundations  of  which  had  been  planted  before  their 
eyes  in  debauchery  and  blood,  by  the  English  tyrant,  too  recently 
for  them  to  believe  in  its  divine  origin.  Every  conscience  wished  to 
profit  by  its  liberty,  and  different  sects  sprang  up  from  this  religious 
anarchy  ;  they  were  as  innumerable  as  the  ideas  of  man  delivered  up 
to  his  own  fancies,  and  fervent  in  proportion  to  their  novelty.  To 
describe  them  would  exceed  our  limits.  The  most  wridely -extended 
were  the  puritans,  who  may  be  called  the  Jansenists  of  the  Reforma- 
tion ;  an  extreme  sect  of  Protestants,  logical,  practical,  and  republi- 
can. Once  entered  into  the  region  of  liberal  and  individual  creeds, 
they  saw  no  reason  why  they  should  temporize  with  what  they  culled 
the  superstitious  idolatries,  abominations,  symbols,  ceremonies,  and 
infatuations  of  the  Romish  Church.  They  admitted  only  the  author- 
ity of  the  Bible  and  the  supremacy  of  Sacred  Writ,  of  which  they 
would  receive  no  explanation  or  application  but  that  which  was  com- 
municated to  them  from  the  Spirit ;  in  other  words,  from  the  arbi- 
trary inspiration  of  their  own  thoughts.  They  carried  their  oracle 
within  their  own  bosoms,  and  perpetually  consulted  it.  In  order  to 
invest  it  with  more  power,  they  held  religious  meetings  and  estab- 
lished conventicles  and  churches,  where  each,  as  the  Spirit 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  9 

him,  spoke  ;  and  the  incoherent  ravings  of  the  faithful  passed  as  the 
word  of  God. 

Such  was  the  sect  which,  from  the  time  of  Henry  the  Eighth, 
struggled  at  the  same  time  against  the  power  of  the  Anglican  Church 
and  the  remains  of  the  proscribed  Romanism. 

Three  reigns  had  been,  disturbed  by  religious  dissensions — that 
of  Mary,  the  Catholic  daughter  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  who  had  fa- 
vored the  return  of  her  subjects  to  their  original  faith,  and  whose 
memory  the  puritans  abhorred  as  that  of  a  papistical  Jezebel ;  that 
of  Elizabeth,  the  Protestant  daughter  of  the  same  king  by  another 
wife,  who  persecuted  the  Catholics,  sacrificed  Mary  Stuart,  and  or- 
dained recantation,  imprisonment,  and  even  death  to  those  who  re- 
fused to  sign  at  least  once  in  six  months  their  profession  of  the  re- 
formed creed  ;  and,  finally,  that  of  James  the  First,  son  of  Mary 
Stuart,  who  had  been  educated  in  the  Protestant  faith  by  the  Scotch 
puritans.  This  prince  succeeded  to  the  English  throne,  by  right  of 
inheritance  from  the  house  of  Tudor,  upon  the  death  of  Elizabeth  ; 
a  mild,  philosophical,  and  indulgent  monarch,  who  wished  to  tolerate 
both  faiths  and  make  the  rival  sects  live  peaceably  together,  although 
they  trembled  with  ill-suppressed  animosity  at  this  imposed  truce. 

Charles  the  First,  his  son,  succeeded  to  the  throne  in  his  twenty- 
sixth  year.  He  was  endowed  by  nature,  character,  and  education 
with  all  the  qualities  necessary  for  the  government  of  a  powerful  and 
enlightened  nation  in  ordinary  times.  He  was  handsome,  brave, 
faithful,  eloquent,  honest  and  true  to  the  dictates  of  his  conscience  ; 
ambitious  of  the  love  of  his  people,  solicitous  for  the  welfare  of  his 
country,  incapable  of  violating  the  laws  or  liberty  of  his  subjects, 
and  only  desirous  of  preserving  to  his  successors  that  unlimited  and 
ill-defined  exercise  of  the  royal  prerogative  which  the  constitution, 
in  practice  rather  than  in  true  essence,  affected  to  bestow  upon  its 
kings. 

Upon  ascending  the  throne,  Charles  found  and  retained  in  the 
ofnce  of  prime  minister,  out  of  respect  to  the  memory  of  his  father, 
his  former  favorite,  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  a  man  of  no  merit, 
whose  personal  beauty,  graceful  manners,  and  overbearing  pride 
were  his  sole  recommendations  ;  and  who  furnishes  a  remarkable  in- 
stance of  the  caprice  of  fortune  and  the  foolish  partiality  of  a  weak 
king,  which  could  transform  him  into  a  powerful  noble,  while  it 
failed  to  render  him  an  able  statesman.  He  was  more  qualified  to  fill 
the  place  of  favorite  than  minister.  Buckingham,  having  repaid  with 
ingratitude  the  kindness  of-  the  father,  against  whom  he  secretly  ex- 
cited a  parliamentary  cabal,  endeavored  to  continue  his  habitual 
sway  under  the  new  reign  of  the  son.  The  diffidence  of  Charles 
allowed  Buckingham  for  several  years  to  agitate  England  and  eoi- 
broil  the  state.  By  turns',  according  to  the  dictates  of  his  own  inter- 
ests, he  caused  his  new  master  to  increase  or  lessen  that  relationship 
between  the  crown  and  parliament,  be}'ond  or  below  the  limits  which 

A.B.—14 


10  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

right  or  tradition  attributed  to  these  two  powers.  He  created  thus  a 
spirit  of  resistance  and  encroachment  on  the  pa-t  of  the  parliament, 
in  opposition  to  the  spirit  of  enterprise  and  preponderance,  on  that 
of  the  royal  authority.  Buckingham  affected  the  absolute  power  of 
Cardinal  Richelieu,  without  possessing  either  his  character  or  genius. 
The  poniard  of  a  fanatic  who  slabbed  him  at  Portsmouth,  in  revenge 
for  an  act  of  private  injustice  which  had  deprived  him  of  his  rank  in 
the  army,  at  length  delivered  Charles  from  this  presumptuous  fa- 
vorite. 

From  this  time  the  King  of  England,  like  Louis  the  Fourteenth 
of  France,  resolved  to  govern  without  a  prime  minister.  But  the 
unfortunate  Charles  had  neither  a  Richelieu  to  put  down  opposition 
by  force  nor  a  Mazarin  to  silence  it  by  bribery.  Besides,  at  the 
moment  when  Louis  the  Fourteenth  ascended  the  throne,  the  civil 
wars  which  had  so  long  agitated  France  were  just  concluded,  and 
those  of  England  were  about  to  commence.  We  cannot,  therefore, 
reasonably  attribute  to  the  personal  insufficiency  of  Charles  those 
misfortunes  which  emanated  from  the  times  rather  than  from  his 
own  character. 

In  a  few  years  the  struggles  between  the  young  king  and  his  par- 
liament, struggles  augmented  by  religious  more  than  political  fac- 
tions, threw  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland  into  a  general  ferment, 
which  formed  a  prelude  to  the  long  civil  wars  and  calamities  of  the 
state.  The  parliament,  frequently  dissolved  from  impatience  at 
these  revolts,  and  always  reassembled  from  the  necessity  cf  further 
grants,  became  the  heart  and  active  popular  centre  of  the  different 
parties  opposed  to  the  king.  All  England  ranged  herself  behind  her 
orators.  The  king  was  looked  upon  as  the  common  enemy  of  every 
religious  sect,  of  public  liberty,  and  the  foe  of  each  ambitious  mal- 
content who  expected  to  appropriate  a  fragment  of  the  crown  by  the 
total  subversion  of  the  royal  authority.  Charles  the  First  energeti- 
cally struggled  for  some  time,  first  with  one  ministry  then  with  an- 
other. The  spirit  of  opposition  was  so  universal  that  all  who  ven- 
tured into  the  royal  council  became  instantly  objects  of  suspicion, 
incompetence,  and  discredit,  in  the  estimation  of  the  public. 

A  bolder  and  mor«  able  minister  than  any  of  his  predecessors,Thomas 
Wentworth,  Earl  of  Straff  ord,  a  man  who  had  acquired  a  high  reputa- 
tion with  the  opposition  party  by  his  eloquence,  and  whose1  fame  had 
pointed  him  out  to  the  notice  of  the  king,  devoted  his  popularity  and 
talents  to  the  service  of  his  sovereign. 

Straff  ord  appeared  for  a  time,  by  the  force  of  persuasion,  wisdom, 
and  intrepid  firmness,  to  support  the  tottering  throne,  but  the  parlia- 
ment denounced,  and  the  king,  who  loved  was  unable  to  defend 
him.  Straff  ord,  threatened  with  capital  punishment,  more  for  actual 
services  than  for  imaginary  crimes,  was  summoned  by  the  parlia- 
ment, after  a  long  captivity,  to  appear  before  a  commission  of  judges 
•omposed  of  his  enemies.  The  king  could  only  obtain  the  favor  of 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  11 

being  present  in  a  grated  gallery,  at  the  trial  of  his  minister.  He  was 
struck  to  the  heart  by  the  blows  levelled  through  the  hatred  of  the 
parliament  against  his  friend.  Never  did  an  arraigned  prisoner  reply 
with  greater  majesty  of  innocence  than  did  Straft'ord  in  his  last  de- 
fence before  his  accusers  and  his  king.  Neither  Athens  nor  Rome 
record  any  incident  of  more  tragic  sublimity  in  their  united  annals. 

"  Unable  to  find  in  my  conduct,"  said  Strafford  to  his  judges, 
"  anything  to  which  might  be  applied  the  name  or -punishment  of 
treason,  my  enemies  have  invented,  in  defiance  of  all  law,  a  chain  of 
constructive  and  accumulative  evidence,  by  which  my  actions, 
although  innocent  and  laudable  when  taken  separately,  viewed  in  thii 
collected  light,  become  treasonable.  It  is  hard  to  be  questioned  on  a 
law  which  cannot  be  shown.  Where  hath  this  fire  lain  hid  so  many 
hundreds  of  years,  without  smoke  to  discover  it  till  it  thus  bursts  forth 
to  consume  me  and  my  children  ?  It  is  better  to  be  without  laws 
altogether  than  to  persuade  ourselves  that  we  have  laws  by  which  to 
regulate  our  conduct,  and  to  find  that  they  consist  only  in  the  enmity 
and  arbitrary  will  of  our  accusers.  If  a  man  sails  upon  the  Thames 
in  a  boat,  and  splits  himself  upon  an  anchor,  and  no  buoy  be  floating 
to  discover  it,  he  who  owneth  the  anchor  shall  make  satisfaction  ; 
but  if  a  buoy  be  set  there,  every  one  passeth  it  at  his  own  peril. 
Now  where  is  the  mark,  where  the  tokens  upon  this  crime,  to  declare 
it  to  be  high  treason  ?  It  has  remained  hidden  under  the  water  ;  no 
human  prudence  or  innocence  could  preserve  me  from  the  ruin  with 
which  it  menaces  me. 

"  For  two  hundred  and  forty  years,  every  species  of  treason  has 
been  defined,  and  during  that  long  space  of  time  I  am  the  first,  I  am 
the  only  exception  for  whom  the  definition  has  been  enlarged,  that  I 
may  be  enveloped  in  its  meshes.  My  Lords,  we  have  lived  happily 
within  the  limits  of  our  own  land  ;  we  have  lived  gloriously  beyond 
them,  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole  world.  Let  us  be  satisfied  with  what 
our  fathers  have  left  us  ;  let  not  ambition  tempt  us  to  desire  that  we 
may  become  more  acquainted  than  they  were  with  these  destructive 
and  perfidious  arts  of  incriminating  innocence.  In  this  manner,  my 
Lords,  you  will  act  wisely,  you  will  provide  for  your  own  safety  anJ 
the  safety  of  your  descendants,  while  you  secure  that  of  the  whole 
kingdom.  If  you  throw  into  the  fire  these  sanguinary  and  mysteri. 
ous  selections  of  constructive  treason,  as  the  first  Christians  consumed 
their  books  of  dangerous  art,  and  confine  yourselves  to  the  simple 
meaning  of  the  statute  in  its  vigor,  who  shall  say  that  you  have  done 
wrong  ?  Where  will  be  your  crime,  and  how,  in  abstaining  from 
error,  can  you  incur  punishment.  Beware  of  awakening  these  sleep- 
ing lions  for  your  own  destruction.  Add  not  to  m}'  other  afflictions 
that  which  I  shall  esteem  the  heaviest  of  all — that,  for  my  sins  as  a 
man,  and  not  for  my  offences  as  a  minister.  I  should  be  the  unfortu- 
nate means  of  introducing  such  a  precedent,  such  an  example  of  a 
proceeding  so-opposed  to  the  laws  and  liberties  of  my  country. 


12  OLIVER   CKOMWELL. 

"  My  Lords,  I  have  troubled  you  longer  than  I  should  have  done 
were  if  not  for  the  interest  of  these  dear  pledges  a  saint  in  heaven 
hath  left  me."  [Here  he  stopped,  letting  fall  some  tears,  and  then 
resumed  :]  "  What  I  forfeit  myself  is  nothing,  but  that  my  indiscre- 
tion should  extend  to  my  posterity,  woundeth  me  to  the  very  soul. 
You  will  pardon  my  infirmity,  something  I  should  have  added,  but 
am  not  able,  therefore  let  it  pass.  And  now,  my  Lords,  for  myself, 
1  have  been,  by  the  blessing  of  Almighty  God,  taught  that  the  aulic- 
tions  of  this  present  life  are  not  to  be  compared  to  the  eternal  weight 
of  glory  which  shall  be  revealed  hereafter.  And  so,  my  Lords,  even 
so,  with  all  tranquillity  of  mind,  1  freely  submit  myself  to  your  judg- 
ment ;  and  whether  that  judgment  be  for  life  or  death — '  Te  Deum 
Laudamus  ! '  "  Sentence  of  death  was  the  reply  to  this  eloquence  and 
virtue. 

The  warrant  was  illegal  without  the  signature  of  the  king ;  to 
sign  it  was  to  be  false  .to  conviction,  gratitude,  friendship,  and  dig- 
nity ;  to  refuse  to  do  so  would  be  to  defy  the  parliament  and  people, 
and  draw  down  upon  the  throne  itself  the  thunderbolt  of  popular 
indignation,  which  the  death  of  the  minister  would  tor  a  time  divert. 
Charles  tried  by  every  means  of  delay  to  avoid  the  shame  or  danger  ; 
he  appeared  more  as  a  suppliant  than  as  a  king  before  the  parliament, 
and  besought  them  to  spare  him  this  pun  shment.  Urged  by  the 
queen,  who  disliked  Strafford,  and  whose  heart  could  not  hesitate  for 
an  instant  between  the  death  of  Charles  or  his  minister,  the  king 
acknowledged  that  he  did  not  think  Strafford  quite  innocent  of  some 
irregularities  and  misuse  of  the  public  money,  and  added,  that  if  the 
parliament  would  confine  the  sentence  to  the  crime  of  embezzlement, 
he  would  give  his  sanction  conscientiously  to  the  punishment  ;  but 
for  high  treason,  his  own  internal  conviction  and  honor  forbade  his 
confirming  calumny  and  iniquity  by  signing  the  death-warrant  of 
Strafford. 

The  parliament  was  inflexible  ;  the  queen  wept  ;  England  was  in  a 
ferment.  Charles,  although  ready  to  yield,  still  hesitated.  The 
Queen  Henrietta,  of  France,  daughter  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  a  beauti- 
ful and  accomplished  princess,  for  whom  until  his  death  the  king  pre- 
served the  fidelity  of  a  husband  and  the  passion  of  a  lover,  presented 
herself  before  him  in  mourning,  accompanied  by  her  little  children. 
She  besought  him  on  her  knees  to  yield  to  the  vengeance  of  the  IR-V- 
ple,  which  he  could  not  resist  without  turning  upon  the  innocent 
pledges  of  their  love,  that  death  which  he  was  endeavoring  vainly  to 
avert  from  a  condemned  head.  "  Choose,"  said  she,  "  between  your 
own  life,  mine,  thesg  dear  children's,  and  the  life  of  this  minister  so 
hateful  to  the  nation." 

Charles,  struck  with  horror  at  the  idea  of  sacrificing  his  beloved 
wife  and  infant  children,  the  hopes  of  the  monarchy,  replied  that  he 
cared  not  for  his  own  life,  for  he  would  willingly  give  it  to  save  his 
minister ;  but  to  endanger  Henrietta  and  her  children  was  beyond 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  13 

his  strength  and  desire.  He,  however,  still  delayed  to  sign  the  war 
rant.  Strafford,  yielding  probably  to  the  secret  solicitations  of  the 
queen,  wrote  a  letter  himself  to  his  unhappy  master,  to  ease  the  con- 
science and  affection  of  the  king  as  being  the  cause  of  his  death. 

"  Sire,"  said  he  in  this  letter— a  sublime  effort  of  that  virtue  which 
triumphed  over  the  natural  love  of  life  that  he  might  lessen  the  re- 
morseful feelings  of  his  numterers— "  Sire,  hesitate  not  to  sacrifice 
me  to  the  malignity  of  the  times,  and  to  public  vengeance  which 
thirsts  for  my  life.  My  voluntary  consent  to  the  signature  of  my 
own  death  warrant  which  they  require  of  you  will  acquit  you  before 
God  more  than  the  opinion  of  the  whole  world.  There  is  no  injustice 
in  consenting  to  that  which  the  condemned  desires  and  himself  de- 
mands. . 

"  Since  Heaven  has  granted  me  sufficient  grace  to  enable  me  to  for- 
give  my  enemies  with  a  tranquillity  and  resignation  which  impart  an 
indescribable  contentment  to  my  soul,  now  about  to  change  its  dwell- 
ing-place, I  can,  Sire,  willingly  and  joyfully  resign  this  earthly  life, 
filled  with  a  just  sense  of  gratitude  for  all  those  favors  with  which 
your  Majesty  has  blessed  me." 

This  letter  overcame  the  last  scruples  of  the  king  ;  he  thought  that 
the  consent  of  the  victim  legalized  his  murder,  and  that  God  would 
pardon  him  as  the  condemned  had  done.  He  accepted  the  sacrifice 
of  the  life  offered  him  in  exchange  for  the  lives  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren, perhaps  for  his  own,  and  the  safety  of  the  monarchy.  Love 
for  his  family,  the  hope  of  averting  civil  .war,  and  of  bringing  back 
the  parliament  to  a  sense  of  reason  and  justice  from  gratitude  for 
this  sacrifice,  completely  blinded  his  eyes.  He  thought  to  lessen  the 
horror  and  ingratitude  of  the  act  by  appointing  a  commission  of  three 
members  of  his  council,  and  delegating  to  them  the  power  of  signing 
the  parliamentary  death-warrant  against  Strafford.  The  commission- 
ers ratified  the  sentence,  and  the  king  shut  himself  up  to  weep,  and 
avoid  the  light  of  that  morning  which  was  to  witness  the  fall  of  his 
faithful  and  innocent  servant.  He  thought  that  by  obliterating  this 
day  from  his  life  he  would  also  expunge  it  from  the  memory  of  heav- 
en and  man.  He  passed  the  whole  time  in  darkness,  in  prayers  for 
the  dying  and  in  tears  ;  but  the  sun  rose  to  commemorate  the  injus- 
tice of  the  monarch,  the  treachery  of  the  friend,  and  the  greatness  of 
soul  of  the  victim. 

"I  have  sinned  against  my  conscience, "  wrote  the  king  several 
years  after  to  the  queen,  when  reproaching  himself  for  that  signature 
drawn  from  him  by  the  love  he  bore  his  wife  and  children. 
"  It  warned  me  at  the  time  ;  1  was  seized  with  remorse  at  the  instant 
when  I  signed  this  base  and  criminal  concession." 

"God  grant,"  cried  the;  archbishop,  his  ecclesiastical  adviser,  on 
seeing  him  throw  down  his  pen  after  signing  the  nomination  of  the 
commissioners  ;  "  God  grant  that  your  Majesty's  conscience  may  not 
reproach  you  for  this  act  " 

•* 


14  OLIVER   CKOMWELL. 

"'Ah  !  Strafford  is  happier  than  I  am,"  replied  the  prince,  conceal- 
ing his  eyes  with  his  hands.  "  Tell  him  that,  did  it  not  concern  the 
safety  of  the  kingdom,  I  would  willingly  give  my  life  for  his  !" 

The  king  still  flattered  himself  that  the  House  of  Commons,  satis- 
fied with  his  humiliation  and  deference  to  their  will,  would  spare  the 
life  of  his  friend  and  grant  a  commutation  of  the  punishment.  He 
did  not  know  these  men,  who  were  more  implacable  than  tyrants — for 
factions  are  governed  by  the  mind,  not  the  heart,  and  are  inaccessible 
to  emotions  of  sympathy.  Men  vote  unanimously  with  their  party, 
from  fear  of  each  other,  for  measures  which,  when  taken  singly, 
they  would  abhor  to  think  of.  Man  in  a  mass  is  no  longer  man — he 
becomes  an  element.  To  move  this  deaf  and  cruel  element  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  Charles  used  every  effort  to  flatter  the  pride  and 
touch  the  feeling  of  these  tribunes  of  the  people.  He  wrote  a  most 
pathetic  letter,  bedewed  with  his  tears,  and  sent  it  to  the  parliament, 
to  render  it  more  irresistible,  by  the  hand  of  a  child,  his  son,  the 
Prince  of  "Wales,  whose  beauty,  tender  age,  and  innocence  ought  to 
have  made  refusal  impossible  from  subjects  petitioned  by  such  a  sup- 
pliant. 

The  king  in  this  letter  laid  bare  his  whole  heart  before  the  Com- 
mons, displayed  his  wounded  feelings,  described  the  agony  he  felt  in 
sacrificing  his  kingly  honor  and  his  personal  regard  for  the  wishes 
of  his  subjects.  He  enlarged  upon  the  great  satisfaction  he  had  at 
length  given  to  the  Commons,  and  only  demanded  in  return  for 
such  submission  the  perpetual  imprisonment,  instead  of  the  death,  of 
his  former  minister.  But  at  the  end,  as  if  he  himself  doubted  the 
success  of  his  petition,  he  conjured  them  in  a  postscript  at  least  to 
defer  until  the  Saturday  following  the  execution  of  the  condemned, 
that  he  might  have  time  to  prepare  for  death. 

All  remained  deaf  to  the  voice  of  tile  father  and  the  intercession 
of  the  child.  The  parliament  accorded  neither  a  commutation  of  the 
punishment  nor  an  additional  hour  of  life  to  the  sentenced  criminal. 
Their  popularity  forced  them  to  act  before  the  people  with  the  same 
inexorable  promptness  that  they  exacted  from  the  king.  The  beautiful 
Countess  of  Carlisle,  a  kind  of  English  Cleopatra,  of  whom  Strafford 
in  the  season  of  his  greatness  had  been  the  favored  lover,  used  every 
effort  with  the  parliament  to  obtain  the  life  of  the  man  whose  love 
had  been  her  pride.  The  fascinating  countess  failed  to  soften  their 
hearts. 

As  if  it  were  the  fate  of  Strafford  to  suffer  at  the  same  time  the 
loss  of  both  love  and  friendship,  this  versatile  beauty,  more  attached 
to  the  power  than  to  the  persons  of  her  admirers,  transferred  her 
affections  quickly  from  Strafford  to  Pym,  and  became  the  mistress  of 
the  murderer,  who  succeeded  to  the  victim. 

"Pym,"  says  the  English  history  so  closely  examined  by  M. 
Ohasles,  "  was  an  ambitious  man  who  acted  fanaticism  without  con- 
Fiction.  Homo  ezluto  et  argilla  Epicurea  faclus,"  according  to  the 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  15 

energetic  phrase  of  Racket,  "A  man  moulded  from  the  mud  and 
clay  of  sensuality."  Such  men  are  often  seen  in  popular  or  in  mon- 
archical factions  ;  servants  and  flatterers  of  their  sect,  who  in  their 
turn  satisfy  their  followers  by  relieving  the  satiety  of  voluptuousness 
with  the  taste  of  blood. 

Strafford  was  prepared  for  every  extremity  after  being  abandoned 
by  the  two  beings  he  had  most  loved  and  served  on  earth.  Neverthe- 
less, when  it  was  announced  to  him  that  the  king  had  signed  the 
death-warrant,  nature  triumphed  over  resignation,  and  a  reproach 
escaped  him  in  his  grief.  "  Nolitefldere  principibus  etJUiis  lunninum," 
cried  he,  raising  his  hands  in  astonishment  toward  the  vaulted  ceil- 
ing of  his  prison,  "  quid  non  est  salus  in  illis." 

"  Put  not  your  trust  in  princes,  nor  in  any  child  of  man,'  for  In 
them  is  no  salvation." 

He  requested  to  be  allowed  a  short  interview  with  the  Archbishop 
of  London,  Laud,  imprisoned  in  the  Tower  on  a  similar  charge  with 
himself.  Laud  was  a  truly  pious  prelate,  with  a  mind  superior  to 
the  age  in  which  he  lived.  This  interview,  in  which  the  two  royal- 
ists hoped  to  fortify  each  other  for  life  or  death,  was  refused. 
"  Well,"  said  Straff ord  to  the  governor  of  the  Tower,  "  at  least  tell 
the  archbishop  to  place  himself  to-morrow  at  his  window  at  the  hour 
when  1  pass  to  the  scaffold,  that  I  may  bid  him  a  last  farewell." 

The  next  day  it  was  pressed  upon  Straff  ord  to  ask  for  a  carriage  to 
convey  him  to  the  place  of  execution,  fearing  that  the  fury  of  the 
people  would  anticipate  the  executioner  and  tear  from  his  hands  the 
victim,  denounced  by  Pym  and  the  orators  of  the  House  of  Commons 
as  the  public  enemy.  "No,"  replied  Strafford,  "I  know  how  to 
look  death  and  the  people  in  the  face  ;  whether  I  die  by  the  hand  of 
the  executioner  or  by  the  fury  of  the  populace,  if  it  should  so  please 
them,  matters  little  to  me." 

In  passing  under  the  archbishop's  window  in  the  prison-yard, 
Strafford  recollected  his  request  of  the  previous  night,  and  raised  his 
eyes  toward  the  iron  bars,  which  prevented  him  from  seeing  Laud 
distinctly.  He  could  only  perceive  the  thin  and  trembling  hands  of 
the  old  man  stretched  out  between  the  bars,  trying  to  bless  him  as  he 
passed  on  to  death. 

Strafford  knelt  in  the  dust,  and  bent  his  head.     "  My  lord,"  said 
he  to  the  archbishop,  "  let  me  have  your  prayers  and  benediction." 
•  The  heart  of  the  old  man  sank  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  em( 
tion,  and  he  fainted  in  the  arms  of  his  jailers  while  uttering  a  parting 
prayer. 

"  Farewell,  my  lord,"  cried  Strafford,  "  may  God  protect  your  in- 
nocence." He  then  walked  forward  with  a  firm  step,  although 
suffering  from  the  effects  of  illness  and  debility,  at  the  >,_iad  of  the 
soldiers  who  appeared  to  follow  rather  than  to  escort  hv,«. 

According  to  the  humane  custom  of  England  and  Rome,  which 
permits  the  condemned,  whoever  he  may  be,  to  go  to  Lie  scaffold  sur 


10  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

rounded  by  his  relations  and  friends,  Strafford's  brother  accompa- 
nied him,  weeping.  "  Brother,"  said  he,  "  why  do  you  grieve  thus  ; 
do  you  see  anything  in  my  life  or  death  which  can  cause  you  to  feel 
any  shame?  Do  I  tremble  like  a  criminal,  or  boast  like  an  atheist? 
Come,  be  firm,  and  think  only  that  this  is  my  third  marriage,  and 
that  you  are  my  bridesman.  This  block,"  pointing  to  that  upon 
which  he  was  about  to  lay  his  head,  "  will  be  my  pillow,  and  I  shall 
repose  there  well,  without  pain,  grief,  or  fear." 

Having  ascended  the  scaffold  with  his  brother  and  friends,  he 
knelt  for  a  moment  as  if  to  salute  the  place  of  sacrifice  ;  he  soon 
arose,  and  looking  around  upon  the  innumerable  and  silent  multitude, 
which  covered  the  hill  and  Tower  of  London,  the  place  of  execu- 
tion, he-raised  his  voice  in  the  same  audible  and  firm  tone  which  he 
was  accustomed  to  use  in  the  House  of  Commons,  that  theatre  of  his 
majestic  eloquence. 

"  People,"  said  he,  "  who  are  assembled  here  to  see  me  die,  bear 
Witness  that  I  desire  for  this  kingdom  all  the  prosperity  that  God  can 
bestow.  Living,  I  have  done  my  utmost  to  secure  the  happiness  of 
England  ;  dying,  it  is  still  my  most  ardent  wish  ;  but  I  beseech  each 
one  of  those  who  now  hear  me  to  lay  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and 
examine  seriously  if  the  commencement  of  a  salutary  reform  ought 
to  be  written  in  characters  of  blood.  Ponder  this  well  upon  your  re- 
turn  home.  God  grant  that  not  a  drop  of  mine  may  be  required  at 
your  hands.  I  fear,  however,  that  you  cannot  advance  by  such  a 
fatal  path." 

After  Strafford  had  spoken  these  words  of  anxious  warning  to  his 
country,  he  again  knelt  and  prayed,  with  all  the  signs  of  humble  and 
devout  fervor,  for  upward  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  The  revolution- 
ary fanaticism  of  the  English,  at  least,  did  not  interrupt  the  last  mo- 
meats  of  the  dying  man  ;  but  Strafford,  hearing  a  dull  murmur  either 
of  pity  or  impatience  in  the  crowd,  rose,  and  addressing  those  who 
immediately  surrounded  him,  said,  "  All  will  soon  be  over.  One 
blow  will  render  my  wife  a  widow,  my  dear  children  orphans,  and 
deprive  my  servants  of  their  master.  God  be  with  them  and  you  ! 

"  Thanks  to  the  internal  strength  that  God  has  given  me,"  added 
he,  while  removing  his  upper  garment  and  tucking  up  his  hair  that 
nothing  might  interfere  with  the  stroke  of  the  axe  upon  his  neck, 
"  I  take  this  off  with  as  tranquil  a  spirit  as  I  have  ever  felt  when 
taking  it  off  at  night  upon  retiring  to  rest." 

He  then  made  a  sign  to  the  executioner  to  approach,  pardoned  him 
for  the  blood  he  was  about  to  shed,  and  laid  his  head  upon  the 
block,  looking  up  and  praying  to  heaven.  His  head  rolled  at  the 
feet  of  his  friends.  "  God  save  the  king  !"  cried  the  executioner, 
holding  it  up  to  exhibit  it  to  the  people. 

The  populace,  silent  and  orderly  until  this  instant,  uttered  a  cry 
of  joy,  vengeance,  and  congratulation,  which  demonstrated  the 
frenzy  of  the  times.  They  rejoiced  like  madmen  at  the  fall  of  their 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  17 

greatest  citizen,  and  rushed  through  the  streets  of  London  to  order 
public  illuminations. 

The  king,  during  this,  shut  himself  xip  in  his  palace,  praying  to 
God  to  forgive  him  his  consent  to  a  murder  forced  from  his  weak- 
ness. The  ecclesiastic  who  had  accompanied  Strafford  to  the  scaf- 
fold was  the  only  person  admitted  into  Charles's  apartment,  that  he 
might  give  an  account  of  the  last  moments  of  his  minister.  "  Noth- 
ing could  exceed,"  said  the  clergjman  to  the  king,  "  the  calmness 
and  majesty  of  his  end.  I  have  witnessed  many  deaths,  but  never 
have  I  beheld  a  purer  or  more  resigned  soul  return  to  Him  who 
gave  it."  At  these  wards  the  king  turned  away  his  head  and  wept. 

Repentance  for  his  yielding,  and  a  presentiment  of  the  inutility  of 
this  concessian  to  purchase  the  welfare  and  peace  of  the  kingdom, 
were  mingled  with  agonizing  grief  in  his  soul.  He  saw  clearly  that 
the  same  blow  which  he  hud  permitted  to  fall  upon  his  friend  and 
servant  would  sooner  or  later  recoil  upon  himself,  and  that  the  ex- 
ecution of  Strafford  was  only  a  rehearsal  of  his  own.  With  subdued 
spirit,  but  awakened  conscience,  Charles  no  longer  defended  himself 
with  sophistry  from  the  feelings  of  remorse.  He  ceased  to  excuse 
himself  inwardly,  politically,  or  before  G-od  ;  but  blamed  himself 
with  the  same  severity  that  subsequent  historians  have  bestowed  on 
this  act  of  weakness.  He  deeply  lamented  his  fault,  and  vowed  that 
it  should  be  the  first  and  last  deed  by  which  he  would  sanction  the 
iniquity  of  his  enemies  ;  and  he  derived  from  the  bitterness  of  his  re- 
gret, strength  to  live,  to  fight,  and  die,  for  his  own  rights,  for  the 
rights  of  the  crown,  and  for  the  rights  of  his  last  adherents. 

The  parliament  saw  only  in  the  death  of  Strafford  a  victory  over 
the  royal  power  and  the  heart  of  the  king.  The  conflicts  between 
the  crown  and  the  House  of  Commons  recommenced  instantly,  upon 
other  pretences  and  demands.  The  king  in  vain  selected  his  minis- 
ters from  the  bosom  of  the  parliament ;  he  was  unable  to  discover 
another  Strafford — nature  had  not  made  a  duplicate.  Charles  could 
only  choose  between  faithful  mediocrity  or  implacable  enmity  ;  and 
again  his  enemies,  summoned  by  the  king  to  his  council  that  ho 
might  place  the  government  in  their  hands,  refused  to  attend.  The 
spirit  of  faction  was  so  irresistible  and  irreconcilable  against  the 
crown  that  the  popular  members  of  parliament  felt  themselves  more 
powerful  as  the  heads  of  their  parties  in  the  House  of  Commons 
.  than  they  could  become  as  ministers  of  a  suspected  and  condemned 
sovereign.  The  puritan  party  in  the  Commons  held  Charles  the 
First  of  England  as  isolated  as  the  Gironclins  afterward  held  Louis 
the  Sixteenth  of  France,  in  1791  ;  eager  tor  government,  yet  refus- 
ing to  be  ministers,  that  they  might  have  the  right  of  attacking  tho 
royal  power,  offered  to  them  in  vain,  or  only  consenting  to  accept 
that  they  might  betray  it  ;  from  adulation  giving  it  into  the  hands  of 
the  people,  or  from  complicity  surrendering  it  into  those  of  the  re- 
publican*. 


18  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

Such  was  the  relative  positions  of  the  king  and  the  parliament 
during  the  first  years  when  Cromwell  sat  as  a  member  of  the  House 
of  Commons. 

Parliamentary  disputes  had  no  interest  for  Cromwell,  and  purely 
political  agitations  affected  him  but  little.  He  was  not  naturally  fac- 
tious, but  had  become  a  sectarian.  Religious  motives  induced  him 
to  aid  the  triumph  of  the  puritan  party  ;  not  a  desire  to  triumph  over 
the  crown  itsell,  but  over  the  Anglican  and  Roman  Catholic 
Churches  which  the  crown  was  suspected  of  favoring.  All  other 
motives  were  strangers  to  his  austere  nature.  His  feelings,  cold  in 
all  that  related  not  to  religion,  his  just  but  .ill-understood  mind,  his 
abrupt  elocution,  without  imagery  or  clearness,  hisambition  bounded 
by  the  success  of  his  co-religionists,  and  actuated  by  no  prospect  of 
personal  advantage  beyond  the  salvation  of  his  soul,  and  the  service 
of  his  cause,  made  him  abstain  from  taking  a  part  in  anj7  of  the 
debates.  A  silent  member  for  many  sessions,  he  was  only  remark- 
able in  the  House  of  Commons  for  his  abnegation  of  all  personal  im- 
portance, for  his  disdain  of  popular  applause,  and  the  fervor  of  his 
zeal  to  preserve  liberty  of  conscience  to  his  brethren  in  the  faith. 

There  was  certainly -nothing  either  in  Cromwell's  personal  appear- 
ance or  genius  to  excite  the  attention  of  an  assembly  occupied  by  the 
eloquence  of  Strafford  and  Pym.  His  face  was  ordinary,  combining 
the  features  of  a  peasant,  a  soldier,  and  a  priest.  There  might  be 
seen  the  vulgarity  of  the  rustic,  the  resolution  of  the  warrior,  and  the 
fervor  of  the  man  of  prayer  ;  but  not  one  of  these  characteristics  pre- 
dominated sufficiently  to  announce  a  brilliant  orator  or  to  convey  the 
presage  of  a  future  ruler. 

He  was  of  middle  height,  square-chested,  stout-limbed,  with  a 
heavy  and  unequal  gait, .a  broad,  prominent  forehead,  blue  eyes,  a 
large  nose,  dividing  his  face  unequally,  somewhat  inclining  to  the 
left,  and  red  at  the  tip,  like  the  noses  attributed  to  those  addicted  to 
drink  ;  but  which  in  Cromwell  indicated  only  the  asperity  of  his 
blood  heated  by  fanaticism.  His  lips  were  wide,  thick,  and  clum- 
sily formed,  indicating  neither  quick  intelligence,  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment, nor  the  fluency  of  speech  indispensable  to  persuasive  elo- 
quence. His  face  was  more  round  than  oval,  his  chin  was  solid  and 
prominent,  a  good  foundation  for  the  rest  of  his  features.  His  like- 
nesses, as  executed  either  in  painting  or  sculpture,  by  the  most  re- 
nowned Italian  artists,  at  the  order  of  their  courts,  represent  only  a 
vulgar,  commonplace  individual,  if  they  were  not  ennobled  by  the 
name  of  Cromwell.  In  studying  them  attentively,  it  becomes  im- 
possible for  the  most  decided  partiality  to  discover  either  the  traces  or 
organs  of  genius.  We  acknowledge  there  a  man  elevated  by  the 
choice  of  his  party  and  the  combination  of  circumstances  rather  than 
one  great  by  nature.  We  might  even  conclude  from  the  close  in- 
spection of  tliis  countenance  that  a  loftier  and  more  developed  intel- 
lect would  have  interfered  with  his  exalted  destiny  ;  for  if  Cromwell 


OLIVER   CKOMWELL.  19 

bad  been  endowed  with  higher  qualities  of  mind  he  would  have 
been  less  of  a  sectarian,  and  had  he  been  so,  his  party  would  not 
have  been  exactly  personified  in  a  chief  who  participated  in  all  its 
passions  and  credulities.  The  greatness  of  a  popular  character  is  k-ss 
according  to  the  ratio  of  his  genius  than  the  sympathy  he  shows  with 
the  prejudices  and  even  the  absurdities  of  his  times.  Fanatics  do 
not  select  the  cleverest,  but  the  most  fanatical  leaders  ;  as  was  evi* 
denced  in  the  choice  of  Robespierre  by  the  French  Jacobins,  and  in 
that  of  Cromwell  by  the  English  Puritans. 

The  only  traces  of  the  presence  of  Cromwell  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons  for  ten  years,  which  the  parliamentary  annals  retain,  are  a  few 
Wx>rds  spoken  by  him,  at  long  intervals,  in  defence  of  his  brethren, 
the  puritanic  missionaries,  and  in  attack  of  the  dominant  Anglican 
church  and  the  Roman  Catholics,  who  were  again  struggling  for  su- 
premacy. It  might  be  seen,  from  the  attention  paid  by  his  colleague.  6 
to  the  sentences  uttered  with  such  religious  fervor  by  the  repre- 
sentative of  Huntingdon,  that  this  gentleman  farmer,  as  restrained  in 
speech  as  in  his  desire  of  popularity,  was  treated  in  the  House  with 
that  consideration  which  is  always  shown  in  deliberative  assemblies 
to  those  men  who  are  modest,  sensible,  silent,  and  careless  of  appro- 
bation, but  faithful  to  their  cause. 

A  justice  of  the  peace  for  his  county,  Cromwell  returned  after 
each  session  or  dissolution  of  parliament  to  fortify  himself  in  the  re- 
ligious opinions  of  his  puritan  neighbors,  by  interviews  with  the  mis- 
sionaries of  his  faith,  by  sermons,  meditations,  and  prayers,  the  sole 
variations  from  his  agricultural  pursuits. 

The  gentleness,  piety,  and  fervor  of  his  wife,  devoted  like  himself 
to  domestic  cares,  country  pursuits,  the  education  of  her  sons,  and 
affection  for  her  daughters,  banished  from  his  soul  every  other  am- 
bition than  that  of  spiritual  progress  in  virtue  and  the  advancement 
of  his  faith  in  the  consciences  of  men. 

In  the  whole  of  his  confidential  correspondence  during  these  long 
years  of  domestic  seclusion  there  is  not  one  word  which  shows  that 
he  entertained  any  other  passion  than  that  of  his  creed,  or  any  am- 
bition distinct  from  heavenly  aspirations.  What  advantage  could  it 
have  been  to  this  man  thus  to  conceal  that  hypocrisy  which  histori- 
ans have  described  as  the  foundation  and  master  spring  of  his  char- 
acter? "When  the  face  is  unknown  to  all,  of  what  use  is  the  mask? 
No  !  Cromwell  could  not  dissemble  so  long  to  his  wife,  his  sister,  his 
daughters,  and  his  God.  History  has  only  presented  him  in  disguise, 
because  his  life  and  actions  were  distinctly  revealed. 

Let  us  give  a  few  extracts  from  the  familiar  letters  which  throw 
some  light  upon  this  obscure  period  of  his  life  : 

"  My  very  dear  good  friend,"  wrote  he  from  St.  Ires,  Jan.  llth, 
1635,  to  one  of  his  confidants  in  pious  labors  ;  "  to  build  material 
Umples  and  hospitals  for  the  bodily  comfort,  and  assembling 


20  OLIVER   CROMWELL 

gether  of  the  faithful,  is  doubtless  a  goo;!  work  ;  but  those  who  build 
up  spiritual  temples,  and  afford  nourishment  to  the  souls  of  their 
brethren,  my  friend,  are  the  truly  pious  men.  Such  a  work  have 
you  performed  in  establishing  a  pulpit,  and  appointing  Doctor  Wells 
to  fill  it  ;  an  able  and  religious  man,  whose  superior  I  have  never 
•een.  I  am  convinced  that  since  his  arrival  here,  the  Lord  has  done 
much  among  us.  I  trust  that  He  who  has  inspired  you  to  lay  this 
foundation  will  also  inspire  you  to  uphold  and  finish  it. 

"  Raise  your  hearts  to  Him.  You  who  live  in  London,  a  city  cel- 
ebrated for  its  great  luminaries  of  the  Gospel,  know  that  to  stop  the 
salary  of  the  preacher  is  to  cause  the  pulpit  to  fall.  For  who  will  go 
to  war  at  his  own  expense  ?  I  beseech  you  then,  by  the  bowels  of 
Jesus  Christ,  put  this  affair  into  a  gpod  train  ;  pay  this  worthy  min- 
ister, and  the  souls  of  God's  children  will  bless  you,  as  I  shall  bless 
you  myself. 

"  I  remain,  ever  your  affectionate 

"  Friend  in  the  Lord, 

"  OLIVER  CROMWELL.  " 

It  was  not  alone  by  words,  but  by  contributions  from  his  small  for- 
tune, the  produce  of  hard  and  ungrateful  agricultural  labor,  that 
Cromwell  sustained  the  cause  of  his  faith.  We  read,  three  years 
after  the  date  of  the  above  lines,  in  a  confidential  letter  written  to 
Mr.  Hand,  one  of  his  own  sect  : 

"  I  wish  you  to  remit  forty  shillings"  (then  a  considerable  sum) 
"  to  a  poor  farmer  who  is  struggling  to  bring  up  an  increasing  fam- 
ily, to  remunerate  the  doctor  for  his  cure  of  this  man  Benson.  If 
our  friends,  when  we  come  to  settle  accounts,  do  not  agree  to  this 
disposal  of  the  money,  keep  this  note,  and  I  will  repay  you  out  of 
my  private  purse. 

"  Your  friend, 

"  OLIVER  CROMWELL." 

"  I  live, "  wrote  he,  severa.  years  after,  but  always  in  the  same 
spirit  of  compunction,  to  his  cousin,  the  wife  of  the  Attorney-Gen- 
eral St.  John  ;  "  I  live  in  Kcdar,  a  name  which  signifies  shudmc  and 
d<irkne*is ;  nevertheless  the  Lord  will  not  desert  me,  and  will  finally 
conduct  me  to  his  chosen  place  of  repose,  his  tabernacle.  My  heart 
rests  upon  this  hope  with  my  brethren  of  the  first-born  ;  and  if  I  can 
show  forth  the  glory  of  the  Lord,  either  by  action  or  endurance,  I 
shall  be  greatly  consoled.  Truly  no  creature  has  more  reason  to  de- 
vote himself  to  the  cause  of  God  than  I  have  ;  I  have  received  so 
many  chosen  graces  that  I  feel  I  can  never  make  a  sufficient  return  for 
all  these  gifts.  That  the  Lord  may  be  pleased  to  accept  me  for  the 
sake  of  his  Son,  Jesus  Christ,  and  that  he  may  give  us  grace  to  walk 
in  the  light,  for  it  is  light  indeed.  I  cannot  say  that  he  has  alto- 


OLIVER  CROMWELL.  21 

gether  hid  his  face  from  me,  for  he  has  permitted  me  to  see  the  light 
at  least  in  him,  and  even  a  single  ray  shed  upon  this  dark  path  is 
most  refreshing.  Blessed  be  his  name  that  shines  even  in  such  a 
dark  place  as  my  soul.  Alas  !  you  know  what  my  life  has  been.  I 
loved  darkness  ;  I  lived  in  it  ;  I  hated  the  light  ;  I  was  the  chief  of 
sinners  :  nevertheless  God  has  had  mercy  on  me.  Praise  him  for 
me,  pray  for  me,  that  he  who  has  commenced  such  a  change  in  my 
soul  may  finish  it  for  Jesus  Christ'^  sake.  The  Lord  be  with  you,  i* 
the  prayer  of 

"  Your  affectionate  cousin, 

1       "  OLIVEK  CROMWELB.  " 

All  that  we  find  written  by  the  hand  of  Cromwell  during  this  long 
examination  of  his  life  from  the  age  of  twenty  to  forty,  bears  the 
same  stamp  of  mysticism,  sincerity,  and  excitement.  A  profound 
melancholy,  enlivened  sometimes  by  momentary  flashes  of  active 
faith,  formed  the  basis  of  his  character.  This  melancholy  was  in- 
creased by  the  monotony  of  his  rural  occupations  and  by  the  som- 
bre sky  and  situation  of  the  district  in  which  fortune  had  placed 
him. 

His  house,  still  shown  to  travellers  in  the  low  country  which  sur- 
rounds the  little  hamlet  of  St.  Ives,  bears  the  appearance  of  a  desert- 
ed cloister.  The  shadows  of  the  trees,  planted  like  hedges  on  the 
borders  of  his  fields  in  the  marshes,  intercept  all  extent  of  view  from 
the  windows.  A  lowering  and  misty  sky  weighs  as  heavily  on  the 
imagination  as  on  the  roofs  of  houses.  Tradition  still  points  out  an 
oratory,  supported  by  broken  arches,  built  of  brick  by  the  devout 
puritan  behind  his  house,  adjoining  the  family  sittiug-ropm,  where 
Cromwell  assembled  the  peasants  of  the  neighborhood  to  listen  to  the 
Word  of  God  from  the  mouths  of  the  missionaries,  and  where  he 
often  prayed  and  preached  himself,  when  the  spirit  moved  him. 
Long  and  deCp  lines  of  old  trees,  the  habitations  of  ill-omened  crows, 
bound  the  view  on  all  sides.  These  trees  hide  even  the  course  of 
the  river  Ouse,  whose  black  waters,  confined  between  muddy  banks, 
look  like  the  refuse  from  a  manufactory  or  mill.  Above  them 
appears  only  the  smoke  of  the  wood  fires  of  the  little  town  of  St.. 
Ives,  which  continually  taints  the  sky  in  this  sombre  valley.  Such  A 
spot  is  calculated  either  to  confine  the  minds  of  its  inhabitants  to  the 
vulgar  ideas  of  traffic,  industry,  or  grazing,  or  to  cause  them  to  raise 
their  thoughts  above  the  earth  in  the  ecstasy  of  pious  contemplation. 

It  was  there,  nevertheless,  that  Cromwell  and  his  young  wife,  \vlm 
modelled  her  own  character  upon  the  simplicity  and  piety  of  her  hus- 
band's, brought  up  in  poverty  and  seclusion  their  seven  children. 
They  sought  not  the  world — the  world  sought  them. 

It  may  be  seen  from  all  that  has  been  discovered  relating  to  the  life 
of  Cromwell  at  that  period,  how  much  the  report  of  the  religious 
controversies  in  England,  Irehmd,  e,nd  Scotland,  and  th«  political 


23  OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

pamphlets  which  increased  with  the  passion  of  the  public,  occupied 
his  solitude,  and  with  what  avidity  he  perused  them  ;  but  his  atten- 
tion was  entirely  directed  to  the  portions  of  those  writings  which 
were  confined  to  scriptural  arguments. 

The  immortal  name  of  the  great  poet  Milton,  the  English  Dante, 
appeared  for  the  first  time  as  the  author  of  one  of  these  republican 
pamphlets. 

Milton  had  just  returned  frorri  Italy,  where,  amid  the  ruins  of 
ancient  Rome,  he  had  become  impressed  with  the  grandeur  of  her 
former  liberty  and  the  melancholy  spectacle  of  her  modern  corrup- 
tion. ^  Rome  drove  him  back  to  independent  thought  in  matters  of 
belief.  Milton,  like  Chateaubriand  and  Madame  de  StaCl  in  1814,  has 
given  immortality  to  the  fleeting  passions  of  the  times. 

Independence  in  religious  faith  gave  rise  to  the  desire  of  equal  in- 
dependence in  affairs  of  government.  The  one  necessarily  followed 
the  other,  for  how  could  free  opinions  in  faith  be  maintained  in  the 
servitude  which  prevented  the  expression  of  feelings  and  the  practice 
of  a  creed  ?  The  strong  yearning  of  Cromwell  to  profess  and  propa- 
gate the  doctrines  of  his  belief  inclined  him  to  republican  opinions. 

Hampden,  his  relative,  then  at  the  height  of  popularity  from  resist- 
ance to  the  royal  prerogative,  wishing  to  strengthen  the  republican 
party  by  the  accession  of  a  man  as  conscientious  and  irreproachable 
in  conduct  as  Cromwell,  procured  his  return  to  parliament  as  mem- 
ber for  Cambridge,  where  Hampden  exercised  predominant  influ- 
ence. 

This  new  election  of  Cromwell  by  a  more  important  county  did 
not  distract  his  thoughts  from  the  sole  aim  of  his  life.  "  Send  me," 
wrote  he  to  his  friend  Willingham  in  London,  "the  Scottish  argu- 
ments for  the  maintenance  of  uniformity  in  religion  as  expressed  in 
their  proclamations.  I  wish  to  read  them  befoFe  we  enter  upon  the 
debate,  which  will  soon  commence  in  the  House  of  Commons." 

Popular  interest  was  for  the  moment  mixed  up  with  the  cause  of 
religion.  Cromwell,  without  doubt,  embraced  this  from  attachment 
to  his  sect  and  the  love  of  justice,  and  also  to  bring  the  people  over 
to  the  side  of  the  republicans  and  independents,  by  that  support 
which  the  popular  cause  found  in  the  adherents  of  this  party  against 
the  encroachments  of  the  crown.  He  contested  the  right  of  inclos- 
ing the  common  lands,  by  adding  them  to  the  fiefs  which  the  kings 


open 

has  been  elected  member  of  a  parliamentary  committee,  charged  with 
addressing  the  ministers  upon  this  subject.  Cromwell  argued  against 
me  in  the  discussion.  He  reproached  me  with  intimidating  the  wit- 
nesses, and  spoke  in  such  a  gross  and  indecent  manner,  his  action  was 
so  rough  and  his  attitude  so  insolent.,  that  I  was  forced  to  adjourn 
'Jbe  committee.  Cromwell  will  never  forgive  me." 


OLIVER   CKOMWBLL,  23 

The  popularity  acquired  by  Cromwell  and  his  party  from  their  ad- 
vocacy of  this  cause  encouraged  him  to  increase  it  by  the  defence  of 
those  bitter  writers  against  the  crown  and  church,  whose  pamphlets 
were  delivered  by  the  king  and  the  bishops  from  time  to  time,  to  be 
burned  by  the  hands  of  the  executioner.  He  presented  a  petition  to 
the  parliament  from  one  of  these  martyrs.  Indignation  and  his 
wounded  conscience  caused  him  for  the  first  time  to  open  his  lips. 

"It  was  in  November,  1640,"  says  a  royalist  spectator*  in  his 
memoirs,  "  that  I,  who  was  also  a  member,  and  vain  enough  to  think 
myself  a  model  of  elegance  and  nobility,  for  we  young  courtiers 
pride  ourselves  on  our  attire,  beheld  on  entering  the  house  a  person 
speaking.  I  knew  him  not ;  he  was  dressed  in  the  most  ordinary 
manner,  in  a  plain  cloth  suit  which  appeared  to  have  been  cut  by 
some  village  tailor.  His  linen  too  was  coarse  and  soiled.  I  recollect 
also  observing  a  speck  or  two  of  blood  upon  his  little  band,  which 
was  not  much  larger  than  his  collar.  His  hat  was  without  a  hat- 
band ;  his  stature  was  of  a  good  size  ;  his  sword  stuck  close  to  his 
side  ;  his  countenance  swollen  and  reddish  ;  his  voice  sharp  and  un- 
tunable  ;  and  his  eloquence  full  of  fervor,  for  the  subject-matter 
would  not  bear  much  of  reason,  it  being  in  behalf  of  a  libeller  in  the 
hands  of  the  executioner.  I  must  avow  that  the  attention  bestowed 
by  the  assembly  ou  the  discourse  of  this  gentleman  has  much  dimin- 
ished my  respect  for  the  House  of  Commons." 

All  means  of  resistance  and  concession  on  the  part  of  Charles 
toward  his  parliament  b'jing  exhausted,  the  presentiment  of  an  inevi- 
table civil  war  weighed  upon  every  breast.  They  prepared  for  it 
more  or  less  openly  on  both  sides. 

Cromwell  profited  by  one  of  those  calms  which  precede  great 
political  tempests,  to  return  home  to  console  his  wife  and  mother, 
and  to  embrace  his  children  at  St.  Ives  before  he  entered  upon  the 
struggle.  He  animated  the  people  of  his  neighorhood  by  his  religious 
ardor,  and  converted  sectarians  into  soldiers.  He  spent  all  his 
household  and  agricultural  savings  in  sending  arms  to  Cambridge. 
He  ventured  even  to  take  possession,  as  a  member  of  parliament,  of 
the  castle  there  ;  and  to  defray  the  expenses  of  the  militia  he  con- 
fiscated the  Royal  University  plate  which  had  been  deposited  in  the 
castle  treasury.  This  militia  regiment  recognized  him  as  their  colo- 
nel in  right  of  his  membership  ;  and  as  he  was  one  of  the  most  reso- 
lute of  citizens,  he  also,  by  the  sole  appeal  to  the  feelings  which  they 
possessed  in  common,  raised  the  militia  in  the  country  between 
Cambridge  and  Huntingdon,  intercepted  the  royalists  who  were  about 
to  join  the  king,  and  everywhere  disarmed  the  partisans  of  the 
crown. 

"  I  shall  not  harm  you,"  replied  he  at  this  troubled  time,  to  a 
neighboring  gentleman  who  remonstrated  against  the  invasion  of 

*  Sir  Philip  Warwick.— TR, 


24  OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

their  homes,  "  for,  on  the  contrary,  I  wish  to  save  the  country  from 
being  more  torn  to  pieces.  Behave  with  integrity  and  fear  nothing  ; 
but  if  you  should  act  badly,  then  you  must  forgive  the  rigor  which 
my  duty  toward  the  people  will  force  me  to  exercise." 

He  did  not  even  spare  the  manor-house  of  his  uncle,  Cromwell  of 
Hinchinbrook,  a  ruined  royalist  gentleman  who  lived  in  an  old  keep  in 
the  marshes.  "  The  present  age  is  one  of  contention,"  wrote  he  to 
another  gentleman.  "  The  worst  of  these  struggles  in  my  mind  are 
those  which  originate  in  differences  of  opinion.  To  injure  men  per- 
sonally, either  by  the  destruction  of  their  houses  or  possessions,  can- 
not be  a  good  remedy  against  this  evil.  Let  us  protect  the  legitimate 
rights  of  the  people." 

Associations  for  the  defence  of  independence  and  religion  against 
the  church  and  crown,  were  formed  all  over  England,  but  were  not 
long  before  they  dissolved  from  the  want  of  an  active  chief  and  united 
minds. 

There  only  remained  of  these  associations  the  seven  western  coun- 
ties, of  which  Cromwell  was  the  arm  and  soul.  His  fame  spread 
over  the  country,  and  began  to  designate  him  a  future  chief  of  the 
religious  war.  They  called  him,  in  the  purit mil  i,l  assemblies,  the 
Maccabaeus  of  God's  Church.  "  Continue,"  wrote  Cromwell,  how- 
ever, to  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  "  to  read  the  Scrip- 
tures to  the  people,  and  to  preach  in  your  cathedral  as  you  have  been 
accustomed  to  do,  and  even  a  little  more  frequently." 

Thus  Cromwell,  who  had  risen  to  fight  for  liberty  of  faith  for  him- 
self and  his  friends,  protected  that  of  others.  "  You  dismiss  from 
your  troop  an  anabaptist  officer,"  thus  he  wrote  to  one  of  his  lieuten- 
ants, "  and  in  this  you  are  certainly  badly  advised.  I  cannot  under- 
stand how  a  deplorable  unbeliever,  known  for  his  irreligion,  swear- 
ing, and  debauchery,  can  appear  to  you  more  worthy  of  confidence 
than  he  who  shuns  all  these  sins.  Be  tolerant  toward  those  who 
hold  a  faith  different  from  your  own.  The  state,  sir,  in  choosing  her 
servants,  thinks  not  of  their  opinions,  but  of  their  actions  and 
fidelity." 

It  may  be  seen  from  this  that  the  first  acts  of  Cromwell,  precursors 
to  him  of  civil  war  and  future  empire,  were  imbued  with  that  spirit 
of  government  which  drew  partisans  to  his  cause  instead  of  deliver- 
ing up  victims  to  those  who  had  already  espoused  it. 

The  association  of  the  seven  counties,  submitting  thus  willingly  to 
the  influence  of  such  an  active  patriot  and  zealous  religionist,  was 
the  stepping-stone  of  Cromwell's  ensuing  popularity.  It  soon  be- 
came the  lever  with  which  the  Long  Parliament  raised  and  sustained 
the  civil  war. 

We  have  seen  that  from  day  to  day  this  war  had  become  inevita- 
ble. Scotland,  more  fanatical  even  than  England  through  her  puri- 
tan chiefs,  men  o£  ardent  faith  and  sanguinary  dispositions,  gave  th« 
first  signal  of  hostilities.  This  kingdom,  although  retaining  inde. 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  25 

pendent  laws  and  a  local  parliament,  still  formed  a  part  of  Charles's 
dominions.  The  spirit  of  revolt,  concealed  as  in  England  under  that 
of  independence  and  opposition,  caused  a  Scottish  army  to  advance 
into  the  English  territory,  on  the  pretence  of  defending,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  puritans  and  parliament  of  London,  the  rights  of  the 
two  nations,  which  were  menaced  by  the  crown.  Emboldened  by 
this  support,  the  opposition  orators  in  the  English  legislative  assem- 
bly, and  the  zealous  puritans,  placed  no  bounds  to  their  audacity  and 
encroachments  on  the  royal  prerogative.  Even  the  least  infatuated 
of  the  professors  of  the  new  faith,  such  as  Pym,  Hampden,  and 
Vane,  assumed  the  appearance  of  extreme  partisans.  They  became, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  republicans,  the  Catos,  Brutuses  and  Cassiuses  of 
England,  while  in  the  opinion  of  the  puritans  they  were  consecrated 
as  martyrs.  The  suspicious  susceptibility  of  the  party  was  outraged 
at  beholding  several  Catholic  priests,  who  had  been  brought  from 
France  by  Queen  Henrietta  as  her  spiritual  advisers,  residing  at  the 
couri,  and  exercising  in  London  the  ceremonial  duties  of  their  creed. 
They  affected  to  see  a  terrible  conspiracy  against  Protestantism  in 
this  harmless  fidelity  of  a  young  and  charming  queen  to  the  impres- 
sions of  her  conscience,  and  the  religious  rites  to  which  she  had  been 
accustomed  from  her  youth.  They  accused  the  king  of  weakness,  or 
of  being  an  accomplice  with  the  wife  he  adored. 

Charles,  in  the  spirit  of  peace,  yielded  to  all  these  exigencies.  He 
was  called  upon  to  sanction  a  bill  authorizing  the  parliament  to  re- 
assemble of  itself,  in  case  an  interval  of  three  years  should  elapse 
without  the  royal  convocation. 

Until  then  the  annual  or  triennial  meeting  of  parliament  had  been 
more  a  custom  than  a  privilege  of  English  liberty.  Charles,  in  con- 
senting, acknowledged  this  representative  sovereignty  as  superior  to 
his  own.  The  pailiament,  whose  ambition  was  increased  by  all  tiie.-e 
concessions  on  the  part  of  the  monarch,  established,  still  with  his 
consent,  the  permanence  of  their  control  and  power  through  a  com- 
mittee which  was  always  to  sit  in  London  during  the  interval  between 
the  sessions.  They  also  appointed  another,  to  attend  the  king  in  the 
journey  which  he  undertook  to  conciliate  the  Scotch. 

At  length  they  even  carried  their  audacity  and  usurpation  to  the 
leu.'thof  demanding  the  appointment  of  a  protector  of  the  kingdom— 
a  kind  of  national  tribune  or  parliamentary  viceroy  raised  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  king  himself.  It  was  this  title,  thought  of  even  since  that 
time  in  the  delirium  of  party  spirit,  that  was  naturally  bestowed  upon 
Cromwell  when  the  civil  war  had  made  him  the  ruler  of  his  country. 
He  did  not,  as  has  been  imagined,  invent  it  for  his  own  use  ;  he 
found  it  already  created  by  the  factions  which  dethroned  the  king. 

During  the  absence  of  the  king  in  Scotland,  Ireland,  left  to  herself 
by  the  recall  of  the  troops  who  had  maintained  peace  there  in 
Charles's  name,  became  agitated  even  to  revolt  against  the  royal 
authority.  The  Irish  Pailiament  also  followed  in  its  turbulence  and 


26  OLIVER    CROMWELL. 

encroachments  the  example  of  the  English  legislative  assembly.  Ire- 
land, divided  into  two  classes  and  two  religions,  who  had  ever  been 
violently  opposed  to  each  other,  agreed  for  once  unanimously  to 
throw  off  the  yoke  of  the  crown.  • 

The  Catholics  and  the  old  Irish  of  the  distant  provinces  were  the 
first  to  break  the  league.  They  took  advantage  of  the  feebleness  of 
the  royal  authority  that  sought  to  control  them,  and  perpetrated  a 
more  sanguinary  massacre  than  that  of  the  Sicilian  Vespers,  by 
slaughtering  indiscriminately  all  the  English  colonists  who  had  for 
centuries  resided  in  the  same  villages,  and  who,  by  the  ties  of  friend- 
ship, relationship,  and  marriage,  had  long  been  amalgamated  with 
the  original  inhabitants. 

The  massacres  of  St.  Bartholomew  and  of  the  days  of  September, 
the  Roman  proscriptions  under  Marius,  or  those  of  France  during  the 
reign  of  terror,  fell  below  the  cruel  atrocities  committed  by  the  Irish 
in  these  counties  ;  atrocities  which  cast  a  stain  upon  their  character 
and  sully  the  annals  of  their  country. 

The  chiefs  of  this  conspiracy  in  the  province  of  Ulster  even  shud- 
Jered  themselves  at  the  ferocity  of  the  revengeful,  fanatical,  and  in- 
exorable people  they  had  let  loose.  The  feasts  by  which  they  com- 
memorated their  victory,  gained  by  assassination,  consisted  of  more 
slow  and  cruel  tortures  than  the  imaginations  of  cannibals  ever  con- 
ceived. They  prolonged  the  martyrdom  and  sufferings  of  both  sexes, 
that  they  might  the  longer  revel  in  this  infernal  pastime.  They  caused 
blood  to  fall  drop  by  drop,  and  life  to  ebb  by  lengthened  gasps,  that 
their  revengeful  fury  might  be  the  more  indulged.  The  murders 
spread  by  degrees  over  every  district  of  Ireland,  except  Dublin, 
where  a  feeble  body  of  royal  troops  preserved  the  peace.  The 
corpses  of  more  than  one  hundred  thousand  victims,  men,  women, 
children,  the  infirm  and  aged,  strewed  the  thresholds  of  their  habita- 
tions, and  the  fields  that  they  had  cultivated  in  common  with  their 
destroyers.  The  flames  in  which  their  villages  were  enveloped  were 
extinguished  only  in  their  blood.  All  who  escaped  by  night  the  fury 
of  their  assassins,  carrying  their  infants  in  their  arms  to  the  summit-; 
of  the  mountains,  perished  of  inanition  and  cold  in  the  snows  of 
winter.  Ireland  appeared  to  open,  to  become  the  tomb  of  half  the 
sons  she  had  brought  forth. 

We  cannot  read,  even  in  the  most  impartial  histories,  the  accounts 
of  this  enduring  national  crime  without  a  feeling  of  execration 
toward  its  instigators  and  executioners.  We  can  then  understand 
the  misfortunes  inflicted  by  Heaven  upon  this  devoted  country. 
Tyranny  can  never  be  justified,  but  a  nation  which  lias  such  cruelties 
to  expiate  ought  not  to  accuse  its  oppressors  of  harsh  treatment 
without  at  the  same  time  recalling  the  memory  of  its  own  delinquen- 
cies. The  misfortunes  of  a  people  do  not  always  proceed  from  the 
crimes  of  their  conquerors  ;  they  are  more  frequently  the  punishment 
of  their  own.  These  evils  are  the  most  irremediable,  for  they  sweep 
away  with  them  indepcndeuce  and  compassion. 


OLIVER.  CROMWELL.  8? 

The  parliament  accused  the  king  as  the  author  of  these  calamities  ; 
the  king  with  more  justice  reproached  the  parliament  as  the  cause  of 
his  inability  to  check  them.  The  republican  party  gained  fresh 
strength  in  the  country  from  this  obstinate  and  fruitless  struggle  be- 
tween the  king  and  the  parliamentarians,  which  allowed  the  kingdom 
to  be  torn  to  pieces  and  their  co-religionists  to  be  murdered  by  the 
Catholics.  The  leaders  easily  persuaded  the  parliament  to  issue,  un- 
der the  form  of  a  remonstrance,  an  appeal  to  the  people  of  great 
Britain,  which  was  in  fact  a  sanguinary  accusation  against  the  royal 
government.  They  therein  set  forth,  in  one  catalogue  of  crime,  all 
the  mistakes  and  misfortunes  of  the  present  reign.  They  accused  the 
king  of  every  offence  committed  by  both  parties,  and  accumulated 
upon  his  head  even  the  blood  of  the  English  murdered  in  Ireland  by 
the  Catholics.  They  therefore  concluded,  or  tacitly  resolved,  that 
henceforth  there  was  no  safety  for  England  but  in  the  restriction  of 
the  royal  power  and  the  unlimited  increase  of  the  privileges  of  par. 
liament.  The  king,  driven  to  the  utmost  limits  of  concession,  re* 
plied  to  this  charge  in  a  touching  but  feeble  attempt  at  justification. 
The  insolence  of  several  members  of  the  House  of  Commons,  which 
burst  forth  in  evident  violation  of  his  dignity  and  royal  prerogative, 
left  him  no  choice  between  the  shameful  abandonment  of  his  title  as 
king  or  an  energetic  vindication  of  his  rights.  He  went  down  him, 
self  to  the  house,  to  cause  the  arrest  of  those  members  who  were 
guilty  of  high  treason,  and  called  upon  the  president  to  point  them 
out. 

"  Sire,"  replied  he,  kneeling,  "  in  the  place  that  I  occupy  I  have 
only  eyes  to  see  and  a  tongue  to  speak  according  to  the  will  of  the 
house  I  serve.  I  therefore  humbly  crave  your  Majesty's  pardon  for 
venturing  to  disobey  you." 

Charles,  humiliated,  retired  with  his  guards,  and  repaired  to  Guild- 
hall to  request  the  city  council  not  to  harbor  these  guilty  men.  The 
people  only  replied  to  him  on  his  return  with  cries  of  "  Long  live  the 
Parliament."  The  inhabitants  of  London  armed  themselves  at  the 
scriptural  call,  "  To  your  tents,  O  Israel  !"  and  passed  proudly  in 
review  by  land  and  water  under  the  windows  of  Whitehall,  where  the 
king  resided.  The  king,  powerless,  menaced  and  insulted  by  these 
outbursts,  retired  to  the  palace  of  Hampton  Court,  a  solitary  country 
residence,  but  fortified  and  imposing,  situated  at  some  little  distance 
from  London. 

The  queen,  alarmed  for  her  husband  and  children,  besought  the  king 
to  appease  the  people  by  submission.  All  was  in  vain.  The  parlia- 
ment, which  since  the  retreat  of  the  king  had  become  the  idol  and 
safeguard  of  the  nation,  was  beset  with  inflammatory  petitions. 
Under  the  pretext  of  protecting  the  people  against  the  return  of  the 
royal  army,  they  took  upon  themselves  the  military  authority,  and 
appointed  the  generals  of  the  troops  and  governors  of  the  fortified 
places.  Charity,  vrho  retained  only  a  few  partisans  and  followers  at 


23  OLIVER   CROMWKLL. 

Hampton  Court,  was  lesolved  to  declare  war,  but  before  adopting 
this  last  resource  he  conducted  the  queen  to  the  seaside  and  per- 
suaded her  to  embark  for  the  Continent,  that  she,  at  least,  who  was 
dearest  to  him  on  earth,  might  be  secure  from  misfortune  and  the 
evil  pressure  of  the  times. 

The  separation  was  heart-rending,  as  if  they  had  a  presentiment  of 
an  eternal  farewell.  The  unfortunate  monarch  adored  the  companion 
of  his  youlh,  and  looked  upon  her  as  superior  to  all  other  women. 
He  could  not  suffer  her  to  share  his  humiliations  and  reverses,  and 
desired  to  shield  her  as  much  as  possible  from  the  catastrophe  which 
he  foresaw  would  inevitably  arrive. 

Henrietta  was  carried  fainting  on  board  the  vessel,  and  only  re- 
covered to  utter  reproaches  to  the  waves  which  bore  her  from  the 
English  shores,  and  prayers  to  heaven  for  the  safety  of  her  beloved 
partner. 

The  king,  agonized  at  the  loss  of  his  consort,  but  strengthened  in 
courage  by  her  departure,  left  Hampton  Court  and  established  him 
self  in  his  most  loyal  city  of  York,  surrounded  by  an  attached  people 
and  devoted  army.  He  took  his  children  with  him. 

The  parliament,  representing  this  act  as  a  declaration  of  public 
danger,  raised  an  army  to  oppose  that  of  the  king,  and  gave  the  com- 
mand to  the  Earl  of  Essex.  The  people  rose  at  the  voice  of  the  ( 'om- 
mons,  and  each  town  contributed  numerous  volunteers  to  swell  the 
ranks  of  the  republicans. 

Charles,  greater  in  adversity  than  when  on  the  throne,  found  in  a 
decided  course  that  resolution  and  light  which  had  often  failed  him 
in  the  ambiguous  struggles  with  a  parliament  which  he  knew  not 
either  how  to  combat  or  subdue.  The  nobility  and  citizens,  less  im- 
pressed than  the  lower  orders  by  the  doctrines  of  the  puritans,  and 
less  open  to  the  seductions  of  the  parliamentary  tribunes,  for  the 
most  part  espoused  the  party  of  the  king.  They  were  designated 
Camlwrs.  London  and  the  large  cities,  hotbeds  of  agitation  and 
popular  opinion,  devoted  themselves  to  the  parliament. 

The  Earl  of  Essex,  an  able  but  temporizing  general,  and  more  ex- 
perienced in  regular  war  than  civil  commption,  advanced  at  the  head 
of  fifteen  thousand  men  against  the  king,  whose  camp  contained  only 
ten  thousand. 

The  first  encounter  (doubtful  in  its  result)  between  the  two  armies, 
proved  only  the  personal  valor  of  the  king.  He  fought  more  like  a 
soldier  than  a  monarch,  at  the  head  of  the  foremost  squadrons.  Five 
thousand  slain  on  both  sides  covered  the  field  of  battle.  London 
trembled,  but  recovered  confidence  on  learning  that  the  king  was  too 
much  weakened  by  the  conflict  to  advance  against  the  capital. 

This  first  engagement,  called  the  battle  of  Edge-Hill,  though  glori- 
ous for  the  arms  of  Charles,  decided  nothing.  The  almost  universal 
fanaticism  of, the  nation  augmented  incessantly  the  forces  of  the  par- 
liament. The  nobility  and  soldiers  of  the  regular  Droops  alonu  re- 


6tiV.fiii  CROMWELL.  29 

Cruited  the  ranks  of  the  king.  The  royal  cause  was  defended  only 
by  an  army  ;  the  cause  of  the  rebels  was  upheld  by  the  nation.  A 
protracted  war  would  exhaust  the  one  while  it  strengthened  the 
other.  "  Let  our  enemies  fight  for  their  ancient  honor,"  exclaimed 
the  republican  Hampdeu,  in  the  House  of  Commons  ;  "  we  combat 
for  our  religion." 

The  French  ambassador  at  Charles  the  First's  court,  notwith- 
standing his  partiality  for  the  royal  cause,  wrote  thus  to  Cardinal 
Mazarin  :  "  I  am  astonished  to  behold  how  little  care  the  king  takes 
of  his  life  ;  untir'ng,  laborious,  patient  under  reverses,  from  morning 
till  night  he  marches  witli  the  infantry,  oftener  on  horseback  than  in 
a  carriage.  The  soldiers  appear  to  understand  all  the  wants  and 
distresses  of  their  sovereign  ;  they  content  themselves  cheerfully 
with  the  little  he  can  do  for  them,  and  without  pay  advance  boldly 
against  troops  better  equipped  and  better  armed  than  themselves.  I 
observe  all  this  with  my  own  eyes.  This  prince,  in  whom  misfor- 
tune reveals  a  dauntless  hero,  shows  himself  the  most  brave  and 
judicious  of  monarchs,  and  endures  with  fortitude  these  terrible 
vicissitudes  of  politics  and  war.  He  delivers  all  orders  himself,  even 
to  the  most  minute,  and  signs  no  paper  without  the  most  scrupulous 
examination.  Often  he  alights  from  his  horse  and  marches  on  foot 
at  the  head  of  the  army.  He  desires  peace,  but  as  he  sees  that  peace 
has  been  unanimously  rejected,  he  is  compelled  to  have  recourse  to 
war.  I  think  he  will  gain  advantages  at  first,  but  his  resources  are 
too  limited  to  allow  of  his  maintaining  them  long." 

The  king  had  not  even  bread  to  give  his  soldiers,  who  demand- 
ed nothing  from  him  but  food.  The  history  of  these  four  years  of 
unequal  and  erratic  warfare  resembles  more  the  romantitf  life  of  an 
adventurer  than  the  majestic  struggle  of  a  king  against  rebels,  in  the 
midst  of  his  armies  and  people.  "At  one  time,"  says  the  faithful 
follower  who  preserved  a  journal  of  this  momentous  period,  "we 
sleep  in  the  palace  of  a  bishop,  at  another  in  the  hut  of  a  wood- 
cutter. To-day  the  king  dines  Jn  the  open  air,  to-morrow  he  has  not 
even  a  crust  of  bread  to  eat.  On  Sunday,  at  Worcester,  we  had.no 
dinner  ;  it  was  a  dreadful  day  ;  we  marched  without  tasting  food 
from  six  in  the  morning  until  midnight.  Another  day  we  trave'led 
for  a  long  time  on  foot  in  the  mountains,  and  the  king  tasted  noth- 
ing but  two  small  apples.  We  could  often  procure  no  food  until  two 
in  the  morning.  We  lay  down  with  no  shelter  over  us  before  the 
castle  of  Donniugton."  Again  the  same  chronicler  says,  "  The  king 
slept  in  his  chariot  on  Bockonnok  heath  ;  he  had  not  dined.  The 
next  day  he  breakfasted  with  a  poor  widow  on  the  borders  of  a 
forest." 

The  fortitude  displayed  by  the  king  in  struggling  with  his  misi'or 
tunes,  and  his  patient  submission  to  the  same  privations  and  dangers, 
bound  the  soldiers  to  him  by  a  feeling  of  personal  attachment.  They 
only  desert  kings  who  desert  themselves.  He  resembled  Henry" 


30  OLIVER   CROMWELL: 

Quatre,  fighting  for  his  kingdom  with  the  same  courage,  but  with 
unequal  fortune.  The  sight  of  this  constancy  and  resignation  in- 
duced even  some  of  his  enemies  in  the  countries  they  passed  through 
to  join  the  royal  cause.  One  of  them  named  Roswell  deserted  the 
parliamentary  army,  and  joined  the  inferior  forces  of  the  king.  Being 
taken  prisoner  by  the  republicans,  they  interrogated  him  as  to  his 
motives  for  this  defection.  "  I  passed,"  replied  Roswell,  "  along  a 
road  which  bordered  the  heath,  where  King  Charles,  surrounded  only 
by  a  few  faithful  subjects,  was  seated,  dividing  a  morsel  of  bread  with 
his  followers.  I  approached  from  curiosity,  and  was  so  struck  by 
the  gravity,  sweetness,  patience,  and  majesty  of  this  prince,  that  the 
impression  dwelt  in  my  breast  and  induced  me  to  devote  myself  to 
his  cause." 

Charles  concealed  his  feelings  from  his  soldiers  and  attendants,  lest 
he  should  display  in  the  king  the  more  permissible  weakness  of  the 
man.  One  day,  when  he  beheld  Lord  Litchfield,  one  of  his  most 
faithful  and  intrepid  companions  in  arms,  fall  at  his  feet,  struck  mor- 
tally by  a  cannon-ball,  he  continued  to  give  his  orders'  and  to  fight 
with  an  appearance  of  insensibility  which  deceived  everybody. 
After  having  secured  the  retreat  and  saved  the  army  by  taking  the 
command  of  the  rear  guard,  he  ordered  the  troops  to  encamp,  and 
then  shut  himself  up  in  his  tent  to  consider  the  operations  of  the 
morrow.  He  spent  the  night  alone,  writing,  but  his  servants,  ou  en- 
tering his  tent  at  daybreak,  perceived  from  his  still  moist  eyes  that  a 
portion  of  the  time  at  least  had  been  occupied  in  weeping  for  Litch- 
field. 

While  Cromwell,  his  antagonist,  who  then  fought  against  the  king 
under  EsseK,  spoke  and  acted  with  such  mystical  excitement  that, 
according  to  the  writers  of  the  day,  many  looked  upon  this  enthu- 
siasm of  religion  as  the  effect  of  inebriety,  Charles,  as  became  a  man 
who  was  grappling  with  misfortune,  exhibited  his  recovered  majesty 
by  imperturbable  serenity.  "Never,"  wrote  one  of  his  generals, 
"  have  I  beheld  him  exalted  by  success  or  depressed  by  reverses.  The 
equality  of  his  soul  appears  to  defy  fortune,  and  to  rise  superior  to 
circumstances. ' ' 

"  He  often,"  says  another  writer,  "  rode  the  whole  night,  and  at 
break  of  day  galloped  up  to  the  summit  of  some  hill  that  he  might 
examine  the  position  or  movements  of  the  parliamentary  army." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he  one  day  to  a  small  group  of  cavaliers  who 
followed  him,  "it  is  morning;  you  had  better  separate,  you  have 
beds  and  families.  It  is  time  you  should  seek  repose.  I  have  neither 
house  nor  home  ;  a  fresh  horse  awaits  me,  and  he  and  1  must  march 
incessantly  by  day  and  night.  If  God  has  made  me  suffer  sufficient 
evils  to  try  my  patience,  he  has  also  given  me  patience  to  support 
these  inflictions." 

"Thus,"  said  a  poet  of  the  age,  "did  he  struggle  for  the  main- 
tenance of  his  rights ;  he  ro-wed  on  without  a  hav<ju  of  »<»fu£«  JK 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  31 

View.  War  increased  Hie  greatness  of  this  king,  not  for  the  throne 
but  for  posterity. ' ' 

Our  limits  will  not  permit  us  to  follow  all  the  various  changes  of 
fortune  that  occurred  during  this  four  years'  war  between  the  king 
aud  his  people  ;  the  longest,  the  most  dramatic,  and  the  most  diver- 
sified of  all  civil  contests.  Cromwell,  who  at  the  beginning  com- 
manded a  regiment  of  volunteer  cavalry  in  Essex's  army,  raised  among 
his  Huntingdon  confederates,  grew  rapidly  in  the  opinion  of  the  whole 
camp,  from  the  religious  enthusiasm  by  which  he  was  animated,  and 
which  he  communicated  to  the  soldiers.  Less  a  warrior  than  an 
apostle,  he  sought  martyrdom  upon  the  field  of  battle  rather  than  vic- 
tory. Neither  success,  reverses,  promotion,  nor  renown,  diverted 
him  from  the  one  absorbing  passion  of  his  soul  during  this  holy  war. 

The  Earl  of  Essex,  Lord  Fairfax,  Waller,  Hampden,  and  Falkland, 
fought,  yielded,  or  died,  some  for  their  prince,  and  others  for  their 
country  and  their  faith  ;  Cromwell  alone  never  sustained  a  defeat. 
Elevated  by  the  parliament  to  the  rank  of  general,  he  strengthened 
his  own  division  by  weeding  and  purifying  it.  He  cared  little  for 
numbers,  provided  his  ranks  were  filled  with  fanatics.  By  sanctify- 
ing thus  the  cause,  end,  and  motives  of  the  war,  lie  raised  his  sol- 
diers above  common  humanity,  and  prepared  them  to  perform  im- 
possibilities. The  historians  of  both  sides  agree  in  allowing  that  this 
religious  enthusiasm  inspired  by  Cromwell  in  the  minds  of  his  troops 
transformed  a  body  of  factionaries  into  an  army  of  saints.  Victory 
invariably  attended  his  encounters  with  the  king's  forces.  On  ex- 
amining and  comparing  his  correspondence,  as  we  have  already  done, 
at  the  various  dates  of  his  military  life,  we  find  that  this  piety  of 
Cromwell  was  not  an  assumed  but  a  real  enthusiasm.  His  letters 
show  the  true  feelings  of  the  man  in  the  leader  of  his  party  ;  and  the 
more  convincingly  as  they  are  nearly  all  addressed  to  his  wife, 
sisters,  daughters,  and  most  intimate  friends.  Let  us  look  over  them, 
for  each  of  these  letters  is  another  stroke  of  the  pencil  to  complete 
the  true  portrait  «f  this  characteristic  hero  of  the  times. 

First,  we  must  give  a  description  of  his  troops. 

"  The  puritan  soldiers  of  Cromwell  are  armed  with  all  kinds  of 
weapons,  clothed  in  all  colors,  and  sometimes  in  rags.  Pikes,  hal- 
berds, and  long  straight  swords  are  ranged  side  by  side  with  pistols 
and  muskets.  Often  he  causes  his  troops  to  halt  that  he  may  preach 
to  them,  and  frequently  they  sing  psalms  while  performing  their  ex- 
ercise. The  captains  are  heard  to  cry,  'Present,  fire !  in  the  name 
of  the  Lord!'  After  calling  over  the  muster-roll,  the  officers  read  a 
portion  of  the  New  or  Old  Testament.  Their  colors  are  covered  with 
symbolical  paintings  and  verses  from  the  Scriptures.  They  march  to 
the  Psalms  of  David,  while  the  royalists  advance  singing  loose  bac- 
chanalian songs." 

The  license  of  the  nobility  and  cavaliers  composing  the  king's 
regular  troops  could  not  prevail,  notwithstanding  their  bravery, 


32  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

against  these  martyrs  for  their  faith.  The  warriors  who  believe 
themselves  the  soldiers  of  God  must  sooner  or  later  gain  the  victory 
jver  those  who  are  only  the  servants  of  man.  Cromwell  was  the  first 
to  feel  this  conviction,  and  predicted  the  fulfilment,  after  the  first 
battles,  in  a  letter  to  his  wife. 

"  Our  soldiers,"  wrote  he  the  day  after  an  engagement,  "  were  in 
a  state  of  exhaustion  and  lassitude  such  as  I  have  never  before  be- 
held, but  it  pleased  God  to  turn  the  balance  in  favor  of  this  handful 
of  men.  Notwithstanding  the  disparity  of  numbeis,  we  rushed  horse 
against  horse,  and  fought  with  sword  and  pistol  for  a  considerable 
time.  We  obliged  the  enemy  to  retreat,  and  pursued  them.  I  put 
their  commander  (the  young  Lord  Cavendish,  twenty-three  years  of 
age,  and  the  flower  of  the  court  and  army)  to  flight  as  far  as  the 
borders  of  a  marsh,  where  his  cavalry  fell  into  the  mire,  and  my 
lieutenant  killed  the  young  nobleman  himself  by  a  sword-thrust  in  his 
short  ribs.  We  owe  this  day's  victory  more  to  God  than  to  any 
human  power.  May  he  still  be  with  us,  in  what  remains  to  do  !" 

He  bestowed  his  fortune  as  well  as  his  energies  upon  the  cause 
which  he  considered  sacred.  "I  declare,"  he  wrote  in  the  second 
year  to  his  cousin  St.  John,  "  that  the  war  in  Ireland  and  England 
has  already  cost  me  1200?.;  this  is  the  reason  why  I  can  no  longer 
with  my  private  purse  assist  the  public  treasury.  I  have  bestowed 
on  the  cause  my  fortune  and  my  faith.  I  put  my  trust  in  God,  and 
for  his  name  I  would  willingly  lose  my  life.  My  companions,  sol- 
diers, and  family  would  all  do  the  same.  My  troops  are  daily  aug- 
mented by  men  that  you  would  esteem  if  you  knew  them— all  true 
and  exemplary  believers."  These  soldiers  were  called  "Ironsides," 
in  allusion  to  their  imperturbable  confidence  in  God. 

"  My  soldiers  do  not  make  an  idol  of  me,"  said  he  invanother 
letter  to  the  president  of  the  parliament  ;  "  1  can  say  truly  that  it  is 
not  upon  me  but  upon  you  that  their  eyes  are  fixed,  read)'  to  fight 
and  die  for  your  cause.  They  are  attached  to  their  faith,  not  to  their 
leader.  We  seek  only  the  gloiy  of  the  Most  High.  The  Lord  is 
our  strength  ;  pray  for  us,  and  ask  our  friends  to  do  so  also." 

"They  say  that  we  are  factious,"  said  he  some  days  after  to  a 
friend,  "  and  that  we  seek  to  propagate  our  religious  opinions  by 
force,  a  proceeding  that  we  detest  and  abhor.  I  declare  that  I  could 
not  reconcile  myself  to  this  war  if  1  did  not  believe  that  it  was  to  se- 
cure the  maintenance  of  our  lawful  rights,  and  in  this  just  quarrel  1 
hope  to  prove  myself  honest,  sincere,  and  upright." 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  am  troublesome  ;  but  I  write  rarely,  and  this 
letter  affords  me  an  opportunity,  in  the  midst  of  the  calumnies  by 
which  we  are  misrepresented,  of  pouring  my  feelings  into  the 
bosom  of  a  friend." 

He  relates  next  to  his  colleague,  Fairfax,  an  encounter  that  took 
place  between  his  troops  and  an  assembly  of  Clubmen,  a  neutral  but 
armed  party,  whose  patriotic  feelings  induced  them  to  unite  and 


OLIVER    CROMWELL.  33 

throw  themselves  between  the  parliamentarians  and  royalists,  that 
they  might  save  their  country  from  the  calamities  which  stained  it 
with  blood. 

"  Having  assured  them,"  wrote  Cromwell,  "  that  we  were  only  de- 
sirous of  peace,  and  that  we  firmly  intended  to  put  a  stop  to  all  vio- 
lence and  pillage,  I  sent  back  their  deputies,  charging  them  to  trans- 
mit my  message  to  their  employers.  They  fired  on  my  troops,  where- 
upon I  charged  theirs,  and  we  made  several  hundred  prisoners.  Al- 
though they  had  treated  some  captives  of  our  party  with  cruelty,  I 
looked  upon  them  as  idiots,  and  set  them  at  liberty." 

There  had  long  ceased  to  be  any  communication  between  the  two 
extreme  parties  that  divided  the  kingdom.  The  royalists  refused  to 
temporize  with  a  parliament  that  fought  against  its  king.  The  par- 
liamentarians  had  become  republican  upon  logical  principles,  having 
originally  been  factious  from  anger.  The  biblical  texts  against 
kings,  commented  upon  by  the  puritans  in  town  and  country,  made 
the  people  and  the  army  all  republicans  ;  and  thus  republican  doc- 
trines thenceforth  became  a  part  of  the  religion  of  the  people.  Crom- 
well, naturally  indifferent  to  controversies  purely  political,  could  not 
assure  the  triumph  of  his. own  faith  without  associating  it  with  the 
popular  government.  The  established  Church  of  England  and  the 
monarchy  were  one,  iu  the  person  of  Charles  and  every  other  sovereign 
of  his  race.  The  only  safeguard  of  the  puritans  was  republicanism. 
The  clear  sense  of  Cromwell  made  him  decide  upon  dethroning  the 
house  of  Stuart  and  establishing  the  Reign  of  God. 

His  conviction  soon  rendered  him  insensible  to  all  spirit  of  pacifi- 
cation, lie  marched  from  victory  to  victory,  and,  although  he  did 
not  yet  assume  the  actual  title  of  Lord-Qeneral-in-Chief  of  the  parlia- 
mentary army,  he  possessed  all  the  authority  of  the  office  which 
public  opinion  could  bestow  upon  him.  The  parliament  was  only 
victorious  where  he  fought,  and  he  ascribed  to  God  the  praise  and 
glory  of  his  successes,  "  Sir,"  wrote  he,  after  the  taking  of  Worces- 
ter and  Bristol,  "this  is  a  fresh  favor  conferred  on  us  by  Heaven. 
You  see  that  (Joel  does  not  cease  to  protect  us.  I  again  repeat,  the 
Lord  be  praised  for  this,  for  it  is  his  work." 

All  his  dispatches  and  military  notes  show  the  same  confidence  in 
the  divine  intervention.  "  Whoever  peruses  the  account  of  the  battle 
of  Worcester,"  said  he  in  concluding  his  narrative  of  this  event, 
"  must  see  that  there  has  been  no  other  hand  in  it  but  that  of  God. 
He  must  be  an  atheist,"  added  he  with  enthusiasm,  "who  is  not 
convinced  of  this.  Remember  our  soldiers  in  your  prayers  It  i- 
their  joy  and  recompense  to  think  that  they  have  been  instrument:!' 
to  the  glory  of  God  and  the  salvation  of  their  country.  He  \\-.\< 
deigned  to  make  use  of  them,  and  those  who  are  employed  in  thin 
great  work  know  that  faith  and  prayer  alone  have  enabled  them  to 
gain  these  towns.  Presbyterians,  puritans,  independents,  all  arc  in- 
spired with  the  same  spirit  of  faith  and  prayer,  asking  the  same 


34  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

things,  and  obtaining  them  from  on  high.  All  are  agreed  in  this. 
What  a  pity  it  is  that  they  are  not  equally  unanimous  in  politics  !  In 
spiritual  things  \ve  employ  toward  our  brethren  no  other  constraint 
than  that  of  reason.  As  to  other  matters,  God  has  placed  the  sword 
in*the  hands  of  the  parliament  to  the  terror  of  those  who  do  evil. 
Should  any  one  try  to  wrest  this  weapon  from  them,  I  trust  they  may 
oe  confounded.  God  preserve  it  in  your  hands." 

In  the  interval  between  the  campaigns,  Cromwell  had  married  two 
of  his  daughters  ;  the  youngest  and  dearest  was  united  to  the  repub- 
lican Ireton.  She  was  called  Bridget.  Her  enlightened  intellect  and 
fervent  piety  made  her  the  habitual  confidant  of  all  her  father's  relig- 
ious feelings.  We  may  trace  in  some  scraps  of  his  letters  to  this 
young  female  the  constant  preoccupation  of  his  mind. 

"  I  do  not  write  to  your  husband,  because  he  replies  by  a  thousand 
letters  to  every  one  that  I  address  to  him.  This  makes  him  sit  up  too 
late  ;  besides,  I  have  maiy  other  things  to  attend  to  at  present. 

"Your  sister  Claypole'(h.is  eldest  daughter)  is  laboring  under 
troubled  thoughts.  She  sees  her  own  vanity  and  the  evils  of  her  car- 
nal spirit,  and  seeks  the  only  thing  which  will  give  her  peace.  Seek 
also,  and  you  will  gain  the  first  place  next,  to  those  who  have  found  it. 
Every  faithful  and  humble  soul  who  struggles  to  gain  such  peace 
will  assuredly  find  it  in  the  end.  Happy  are  those  who  seek  ;  thrice 
happy  are  those  who  find  !  Who  has  ever  experienced  the  grace  of 
God  without  desiring  to  feel  the  fulness  of  its  joy  V  My  dear  love, 
pray  fervently  that  neither  your  husband  nor  anything  in  the  world 
may  lessen  your  love  for  Christ.  I  trust  that  your  husband  may  be 
to  you  an  encouragement  to  love  him  more  and  serve  him  better. 
What  you  ought  to  love  in  him  is  the  image  of  Christ  that  he  bears 
in  his  person.  Behold  that,  prefer  that,  and  love  all  else  only  for  the 
sake  of  that.  Farewell  ;  I  pray  for  you  and  him  ;  pray  for  me." 

Is  this  the  style  of  a  crafty,  hypocritical  politician,  who  would  not 
even  unmask  himself  before  his  favorite  daughter?  and  whose 
most  familiar  family  confidences  are  to  be  considered  unworthy  tricks 
to  deceive  a  world,  not  likely  to  read  them  during  his  lifetime  ? 

This  mysticism  was  not  confined  to  the  general,  but  imbued  the 
hearts  of  the  whole  army.  "  While  we  were  digging  the  mine  under 
the  castle" — thus  he  writes  at  a  later  period  from  Scotland — "Mr. 
Stapleton  preached,  and  the  soldiers  who  listened  expressed  their 
compunction  by  tears  and  groans." 

"  This  is  a  glorious  day,"  said  he  after  the  victory  of  Preston  ; 
"  God  grant  that  England  may  prove  worthy  of  and  grateful  for  his 
mercies."  And  after  another  defeat  of  the  royalists,  in  a  letter  to  his 
cousin  St.  John,  he  says,  as  if  he  were  overcome  with  gratitude  :  "  I 
cannot  speak  ;  I  can  say  nothing  but  that  the  Lord  my  God  is  a  great 
and  glorious  God,  and  he  alone  deserves  by  turns  our  fear  and  confi- 
dence. We  ought  always  to  feel  that  he  is  present,  and  that  he  '-vill 
never  fail  his  people.  Let  all  that  breathe  praise  the  Lord.  Remeui- 


OLIVER    CROMWELL.  33 

her  me  to  my  dear  father,  Henry  Vane"  (liis  parliamentary  colleague, 
who  was  inflamed  by  the  same  religious  and  republican  zeal) ;  "  may 
God  protect  us  both.  Let  us  not  care  for  the  light  in  which  men 
regard  our  actions  ;  for  whether  they  think  well  or  ill  of  them  is 
according  to  the  will  of  God  ;  and  we,  as  the  benefactors  of  future 
ages,  shall  enjoy  our  reward  and  repose  in  another  world  :  a  world 
that  will  endure  forever.  Care  not  for  the  morrow,  or  for  anything 
else.  The  Scriptures  are  my  great  support.  Read  Isaiah,  chapter 
viii.  verses  11,  14.  Read  the  entire  chapter. 

"  One  of  my  poor  soldiers  died  at  Preston.  On  the  eve  of  the 
battle  he  was  ill,  and  near  his  last  moments  ;  he  besought  his  wife, 
who  was  cooking  in  his  room,  to  bring  him  a  handful  of  herbs.  She 
did  so,  and  holding  the  green  vegetable  in  his  hand,  he  asked  her  if 
it  would  wither  now  that  it  was  cut.  '  Yes,  certainly, '  replied  the 
poor  woman.  'Well,  remember  then,'  said  the  dying  man,  '  that 
such  will  be  the  fate  of  the  king's  army  ;'  and  he  expired  with  this 
prophecy  on  his  lips." 

Cromwell  called  the  civil  war  an  appeal  to  God.  He  defended  the 
parliament  against  those  who  reproached  them  for  having  carried  the 
revolt  too  far,  and  asserted  that  they  had  been  actuated  by  religious 
motives  alone.  He  endeavored  to  rouse  his  friends  from  their  hesita- 
tion and  dislike  of  war,  by  impressing  them  with  the  sanctity  of  their 
mission.  This  Mahomet  of  the  North  was  endowed,  under  adverse 
circumstances,  with  the  same  unfailing  resignation  as  the  Mahomet 
of  the  East.  The  character  of  martyr  became  him  as  readily  as  that 
of  victor.  He  had  made  himself  the  popular  idol  at  the  conclusion 
of  these  years  of  conflict,  but  never  was  he  for  an  instant  intoxicated 
by  vainglory.  "  You  see  this  crowd,"  said  he  in  a  low  voice  to  his 
friend  Vane,  on  the  day  of  his  triumphant  entry  into  London  ;  "  there 
would  have  been  a  much  greater  assemblage  to  see  me  hanged  !" 

His  heart  was  on  earth  ;  his  glory  above.  Nobody  could  govern 
the  people  better  ;  and  in  governing  he  did  not  think  he  had  the 
right  to  despise  them,  for  the  lowest  are  God's  creatures.  He  merely 
desired  to  rule  that  he  might  serve  them.  He  cared  not  for  perma- 
nent empire  ;  he  had  no  desire  to  found  a  dynasty.  Ho  was  nothing 
more  than  an  interregnum.  God  removed  him  when  he  had  achieved 
his  work  and  established  his  faith  by  assuring  the  light  of  liberty  of 
conscience  to  the  people. 

In  the  mean  time  the  bravery  of  the  king  and  the  fidelity  of  his 
partisans  prolonged  the  struggle  with  varied  success. 

The  queen,  impatient  again  to  behold  her  husband  and  children, 
had  returned  to  England  with  reinforcements  from  Holland  and 
France.  The  admiral  who  commanded  the  parliamentary  fleet,  not 
having  been  able  to  prevent  the  disembarkation  of  the  queen,  ap- 
proached the  coast  on  which  she  had  landed,  and  fired  during  the 
whole  night  at  the  cottage  which  served  as  an  asylum  for  the  heroic 
Henrietta.  She  was  obliged  to  escape  half  clothed  from  the  ruins  of 


36  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

the  hut,  and  seek  shelter  behind  a  hill  from  the  artillery  of  her  own 
subjects.  She  at  length  joined  the  king,  to  whom  love  imparted 
fresh  courage. 

in  a  battle. with  equal  forces  at  Marston  Moor,  Charles  commanded 
in  person  against  the,  army  led  by  Cromwell.*  Fifty  thousand  men, 
children  of  the  same  soil,  dyed  their  native  laud  with  blood  !  The 
king,  who,  during  the  early  part  of  the  day,  was  victorious,  in  the 
evening  being  abandoned  by  his  principal  generals  and  a  portion  of 
his  troops,  was  forced  to  retire  into  the  North. 

During  the  retreat  he  ventured  to  attack  the  Earl  of  Essex,  gen- 
eralissimo of  the  parliament,  who,  being  surprised  and  vanquished, 
embarked  and  returned  to  London  without  his  army. 

The  parliament,  after  (he  example  of  the  Romans,  thanked  their 
general  for  not  having  despaired  of  his  country,  and  appointed  him 
to  the  command  of  fresh  levies.  Essex,  reinforced  by  Cromwell  and 
the  Earl  of  Manchester,  routed  the  king  at  Newbury  ;  but,  though 
victorious,  he  became  weary  of  the  dissensions  which  existed  in  the 
army,  and  was  replaced  by  Fairfax,  a  model  of  patriotism  and  a  hero 
in  battle,  yet  incapable  of  directing  war  on  a  grand  scale.  The  mod- 
esty of  Fairfax  induced  him  to  ask  for  Cromwell  as  his  lieutenant 
and  adviser.  These  two  chiefs  united  deprived  the  king  of  all 
hopes  of  reconquering  England,  and  scarcely  left  him  the  choice  of  a 
field  of  battle  Fairfax,  Cromwell,  and  Iretou,  Cromwell's  son-in- 
law,  attacked  and  vanquished  the  royal  forces  at  Naseby.  The  rem- 
nants of  Charles's  last  supporters  were  successively  destroyed  by 
Fairfax  and  Cromwell. 

While  England  was  thus  gliding  rapidly  from  the  grasp  of  the 
king,  a  young  hero,  the  Earl  of  Montrose,  raised  by  a  chivalric  com- 
bination the  royalist  cause  in  Scotland,  and  gained  a  battle  against 
the  puritans  of  that  kingdom.  Montrose's  brave  mountaineers,  more 
qualified,  like  our  own  Veudeaus,  for  dashing  exploits  than  regular 
campaigns,  having  dispersed  after  the  victory  to  visit  their  families, 
he  was  attacked  by  the  puritans  during  their  absence,  and  lost  in  one 
day  all  that  he  had  gained  in  many  gallant  actions.  He  was  obliged 
to  take  refuge  in  the  mountains,  and  hide  himself  from  his  enemies 
under  various  disguises  ;  but  the  remarkable  beauty  of  his  features 
betrayed  him  ;  he  was  recognized,  taken  prisoner,  and  ignominiouflly 
executed.  His  death  was  as  sublime  as  his  enterprise  had  been 
heroic.  He  died  a  martyr  of  fidelity  to  his  king," as  while  living  he 
had  been  his  firmest  friend. 

Charles,  who  now  only  retained  about  his  person  a  handful  of 
cavaliers,  wrote  to  his  wife  that  as  he  could  no  longer  fight  as  a 
king  he  wished  to  die  like  a  soldier.  He  once  more  compelled  the 
queen,  his  only  object  of  anxiety,  to  embark  for  the  Continent,  and 

*  This  is  a  mistake.  Charles  was  not  present  at  Marston  Moor,  and  Fairfiix,  not 
Crciawell,  commanded  ia  chief  on  the  side  of  the  parliament.— TB. 


OLIVER  CROMWELL.  37 

succeeded  in  conducting  the  wreck  of  his  army  to  Oxford.  He  left 
that  place  in  the  night,  by  a  secret  portal,  accompanied  only  by  three 
gentlemen,  and  reached  without  being  recognized  the  summit  of 
Harrow-on-the-Hill,  from  whence  he  for  a  long  time  contemplated  his 
capital,  deliberating  whether  he  should  enter  the  city  and  throw 
himself  upon  the  mercy  of  the  parliament,  or  embarrass  them  by  his 
presence.  Then  changing  his  mind,  he,  with  a  slender  hope,  pro- 
ceeded to  join  the  Scottish  army,  acting  in  alliance  with  his  enemies, 
but  whicli  had  not,  as  yet,  like  the  English,  totally  abjured  their 
fidelity  to  the  crown. 

The  generals  of  the  Scottish  forces,  astonished  at  his  arrival,  and 
not  daring  at  first  to  deceive  his  confidence,  received  him  with  the 
honors  due  to  their  sovereign,  and  appointed  him  a  guard,  intended 
more  to  watch  than  to  defend  him.  These  outward  distinctions  ill 
concealed  the  fact  of  his  captivity.  Negotiations  were  again  opened 
between  Charles  and  the  parliament.  The  conditions  proposed  by 
the  latter  actually  involved  the  abdication  of  the  throne,  and  antici- 
pated the  constitution  of  1791,  imposed  by  the  legislative  assembly 
and  the  Jacobins  upon  Louis  the  Sixteenth.  The  king  refused  to 
agree  to  them. 

During  these  negotiations,  the  Scottish  army  in  the  most  base  and 
treacherous  manner  sold  the  liberty  of  the  prince  who  had  trusted  to 
their  honor,  and  consented  to  deliver  him  up  to  the  parliament  for  ' 
the  sum  of  three  millions  sterling  ;*  a  Jewish  traffic  which,  from  that 
day  to  this,  has  been  an  enduring  stigma  on  the  name  of  Scotland. 

The  Scottish  parliament  at  first  refused  to  ratify  the  bargain,  but 
the  popular  and  fanatical  party  of  their  own  clergymen  compelled 
them  to  do  so.  Charles  the  First  was  playing  at  chess  in  his  room 
at  the  moment  when  they  brought  the  dispatch  which  deprived  him 
of  the  last  illusion  he  had  indulged  in  with  regard  to  his  fate.  He 
had  become  from  habitual  adversity  so  resigned,  and  possessed  such 
command  over  himself,  that  he  continued  his  game  with  undimin- 
ished  attention,  and  without  even  a  change  of  color,  so  that  the 
spectators  began  to  doubt  if  it  were  really  the  order  for  his  arrest  that 
ric  had  perused. 

Delivered  up  that  evening  by  the  Scotch  to  the  parliamentary  com- 
missioners, he  traversed  as  a  captive,  but  without  insult,  and  even 
amid  tokens  of  respect  and  the  tern's  of  the  people,  the  counties  which 
separated  Scotland  from  Holmby,  the  place  chosen  as  his  prison.  He 
there  endured  a  confinement  often  rigorous  even  to  brutality.  The 
parliament  and  army,  who  were  already  at  variance,  disputed  the 
possession  of  the  prisoner.  Cromwell,  who  had  excited  in  the  troops 
H  fanaticism  equal  to  his  own,  and  who  feared  lest  the  parliament, 
now  master  of  the  king's  person,  should  enter  into  a  compromise 
with  royalty  fatal  to  the  interests  of  the  republic,  the  only  guarantee 

*  21.  de  Lamartiue  hae  mistaken  the  sum,  \vhi«b  did  not  exceed  £500,000.— TB. 


38  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

in  his  opinion  for  the  security  of  the  puritan  faith— without  the 
knowledge  of  Fairfax,  his  immediate  commander,  sent  one  of  his 
officers  at  the  head  of  five  hundred  chosen  men  to  carry  off  the  king. 
Charles,  who  foresaw  a  worse  fate  at  the  hands  of  the  soldiers  than 
of  the  people,  vainly  attempted  to  resist  the  emissary  and  orders  of 
Cromwell.  At  length  he  yielded,  and  reluctantly  submitted  to  his 
new  jailers.  He  was  then  conducted  to  the  army,  in  the  close  vicinity 
of  Cambridge. 

The  parliament,  indignant  at  this  assumptive  authority  on  the  part 
of  the  army,  demanded  that  the  king  should  be  delivered  up  to  them. 
The  army,  already  accustomed  to  place  itself  above  the  civil  power, 
declared  rebelliously  against  the  parliament  and  Fairfax,  in  favor  of 
Cromwell,  whom  they  placed  at  their  head,  and  marched  upon  Lon- 
don, forcing  their  generals  to  accompany  them.  The  parliament,  in- 
timidated, stopped  their  advance  at  the  gates  of  the  capital,  by  con- 
ceding all  their  demands. 

From  that  day,  the  parliament  became  as  much  subjugated  by  the 
army  as  the  king  had  formerly  been  controlled  by  the  parliament, 
and  sank  into  the  mere  tool  of  Cromwell.  He  himself  purged  the 
legislative  assembly  of  those  members  who  had  shown  the  greatest 
opposition  to  the  troops.  Cromwell  and  Fairfax  treated  the  king 
with  more  consideration  than  the  parliamentary  commissioners  had 
shown.  They  permitted  him  to  see  his  wife  and  younger  children, 
who  until  then  had  been  retained  in  London.  Cromwell,  himself  a 
father,  being  present  at  the  interview  between  Charles  and  his  family, 
shed  tears  of  emotion.  At  that  moment  the  man  triumphed  over 
the  sectarian.  Up  to  that  time  he  believed  that  his  cause  required 
only  the  dethronement,  not  the  sacrifice  of  the  king.  He  showed 
toward  his  captive  all  the  respect  and  compassion  compatible  with 
his  safe  custody.  He  always  spoke  with  the  tenderest  admiration  of 
Charles's  personal  virtues,  and  the  amiable  light  in  which  he  shone 
forth  as  a  husband  and  a  parent. 

Charles,  touched  by  this  respect,  and  holding  even  in  prison  a 
shadow  of  his  court,  said  to  Cromwell  and  his  officers,  "  You  are 
driven  back  to  me  by  necessity,  you  cannot  do  without  me ;  you  will 
never  succeed  in  satisfying  the  nation  for  the  loss  of  the  sovereign 
authority.''  The  king  now  looked  for  better  things  from  the  army 
than  from  the  parliament.  A  royal  residence  was  appointed  for  him, 
the  palace  of  Hampton  Court ;  and  he  there  became,  although  a 
prisoner,  the  centre  and  arbitrator  of  the  negotiations  between  the 
principal  factions,  who  each  wished  to  strengthen  themselves  with 
his  name  by  associating  him  to  their  cause. 

The  three  leading  parties  were  the  army,  the  parliament,  and  the 
Scotch.  Cromwell  and  his  son-in-law,  Ireton,  were  confident  in 
their  personal  influence  over  the  king  ;  an  accident  undeceived  them. 
The  king,  having  written  a  private  letter  to  his  wife,  charged  one  of 
bis  confidential  servants  to  conceal  this  letter  in  h,is  horse's  saddle, 


and  convey  it  to  Dover,  where  the  fishing-boats  served  to  transmit 
his  correspondence  to  the  Continent.  Cromwell  and  Ireton,  who 
had  some  suspicion  of  the  nature  of  this  missive,  resolved  to  ascertain 
by  personal  examination  the  private  sentiments  of  the  king.  In- 
formed of  the  departure  of  the  messenger,  and  of  the  manner  in 
which  he  had  concealed  the  letter,  they  mounted  their  horses  ani 
rode  that  night  to  Windsor,  which  place  they  reached  some  hours  be- 
fore the  emissary  of  the  king. 

"  We  alighted  at  the  inn,  and  drank  beer  fora  portion  of  the 
night,"  said  Cromwell  subsequently,  "  until  our  spy  came  to  an- 
nounce that  the  king's  messenger  had  arrived.  We  rose,  advanced 
with  drawn  swords  toward  the  man,  and  told  him  we  had  an  order  to 
search  .\11  who  entered  or  quilted  the  inn.  We  left  him  in  the  street, 
and  carried  his  saddle  into  the  room  where  we  had  been  drinking, 
and  having  opened  it  we  took  from  thence  the  letter,  and  then  re- 
turned the  saddle  to  the  messenger  without  his  suspecting  that  it  had 
been  despoiled.  He  departed,  imagining  that  lie  had  preserved  the 
secret.  After  he  was  gone  we  read  the  king's  letter  to  his  wife. 
He  told  her  that  each  faction  was  anxious  that  he  should  join  them, 
but  he  thought  he  ought  to  conclude  with  the  Scotch  in  preference 
to  any  other.  We  returned  to  the  camp,  and  seeing  that  our  cause 
had  nothing  to  expect  from  the  king,  from  that  moment  we  resolved 
on  his  destruction." 

The  guard  was  doubled,  but  the  king  eluded  their  vigilance.  Fol- 
lowed only  by  Berkley  and  Ashburuham,  his  two  confidential 
friends,  he  crossed  Windsor  forest  by  night,  and  hastened  toward 
the  sea-shore,  where  tiie  vessel  appointed  to  await  him  was  not  to  be 
seen.  He  then  sought  a  safe  and  ndependent  asylum  in  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  the  stroiig  castle  of  which,  commanded  by  an  officer  he  be- 
lieved devoted  to  his  service,  promised  him  security,  He  expected 
from  thence  to  treat  freely  with  his  people,  but  he  found  too  late  that 
he  was  a  prisoner  in  the  castle,  where  he  had  supposed  himself 
master. 

Charles  passed  the  winter  in  negotiations  with  the  commissioners 
appointed  by  the  parliament.  During  these  vain  discussions,  Crom- 
well, Ireton,  and  the  most  fanatical  of  the  officers,  uneasy  at  delay, 
assembled  at  Windsor  in  secret  council,  and  after  having  in  their  en- 
thusiasm implored  with  prayers  and  tears  that  they  might  be  en- 
dowed with  spiritual  light,  they  took  the  resolution  of  proclaiming 
the  republic,  of  bringing  the  king  to  trial,  and  of  sacrificing  him  to 
the  welfare  of  the  nation.  "  There  will  be  no  peace, "  cried  they, 
"  for  the  people,  no  security  for  the  saints,  so  long  as  this  prince, 
even  within  the  walls  of  a  prison,  is  made  the  instrument  of  factious 
treaties,  the  secret  hope  of  the  ambitious,  and  an  object  of  pity  to 
the  nation." 

Implacable  religion  inspired  the  fanatics,  fear  impelled  the  base, 
.uubilion  excited  the  daring,  and  the  individual  passion  of  each  ap- 


40  OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

peared  in  the  eyes  of  all  as  the  announced  decree  of  heaven.  The 
consummation  was  decided  on  without  a  dissentient  voice.  From 
this  day  forth,  the  crime,  already  accomplished  in  the  anticipation  of 
Cromwell,  visibly  appears  to  disorder  his  mind,  to  deprive  his  religion 
of  its  innocence,  his  words  of  their  sincerity,  his  actions  of  their 
piety,  and  to  associate  fatally  in  all  his  conduct  the  craftiness  of 
ambition  and  the  cruelty  of  the  executioner  with  the  superstitious 
bigotry  of  the  sectarian.  His  soul  is  no  longer  clear  ;  it  becomes  ob- 
scure and  enigmatical  for  the  world  as  well  as  for  himself  ;  he  wavers 
between  the  fanatic  and  the  assassin  ;  just  punishment  of  a  criminal 
resolution,  which  assumes  that  the  interest  of  a  cause  conveys  the 
right  of  life  and  death  over  the  victim,  and  employs  murder  as  the 
means  of  producing  the  triumph  of  virtue. 

At  the  same  moment  when  the  conspirators  of  Windsor  decreed  the 
arrest  of  Charles,  he  himself  pronounced  his  own  sentence,  in  break- 
ing off  the  rigorous  negotiations  with  the  parliament,  and  in  refusing 
to  affix  his  signature  to  the  degradation  of  the  royal  authority.  From 
that  time  forward  his  captivity  was  no  longer  disguised  under  the 
outward  semblance  of  honor  and  respect.  Shut  up  in  the  keep  of  a 
strong  castle,  and  deprived  of  all  communication  with  his  friends,  he 
had  no  society  during  a  long  winter  but  that  of  an  old  domestic 
who  lit  his  fire  and  brought  in  his  food.  Throughout  this  prntraeled 
and  painful  solitude,  with  a  menacing  fate  present  to  his  imagination, 
and  the  waves  of  the  ocean  bursting  on  his  ears,  he  fortified  his  mind, 
naturally  courageous  though  tender,  by  the  aid  of  religion,  and 
prepared  for  the  death  with  which  all  parties  combined  to  threaten 
him.  His  life  constituted  a  pledge  which  each  faction  was  afraid  to 
leave  in  the  hands  of  their  opponents.  None  of  them  hated  the  man, 
but  all  were  equally  anxious  to  get  rid  of  the  monarch.  His  death, 
like  that  of  the  proscribed  victims  of  Antony,  Octavius,  and  Lepidus, 
at  Rome,  became  a  mutual  sacrifice,  reciprocally  demanded  by  op- 
posing ambition  or  baseness. 

Another  faction  still  more  radical,  that  of  the  Levellers,  the  relig- 
kus  communists  of  the  day,  had  already  begun  to  spread  among  the 
troops  of  Cromwell.  Armed,  after  his  example,  with  texts  from  the 
Old  and  New  Testament,  interpreted  by  them  as  ordaining  a  perfect 
equality  of  all  classes,  and  an  impartial  division  of  the  gifts  bestowed 
by  heaven  on  man,  this  sect,  which  Cromwell  had,  without  his  own 
knowledge,  excited,  he  energetically  and  promptly  suppressed  in  tjie 
blood  of  several  of  his  own  soldiers.  In  proportion  as  he  approached 
bupreme  authority,  and  exercised  uncontrolled  command,  the  relig- 
ionist gave  way  to  the  politician.  In  his  soul  the  spirit  of  sectarian- 
ism disappeared  under  the  desire  of  rule.  He  relegated  to  heaven 
all  sublimated  theories,  saintly  in  their  essence,  but  utterly  inapplica- 
ble to  human  institutions.  His  clear  natural  sense  impressed  on  him 
the  necessity  of  power  and  the  sacredness  of  personal  property,  the 
two  leading  instincts  of  public  and  domestic  government.  He  re 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  41 

paired  to  London,  purified  the  parliament,  through  the  agency  of  fold- 
nel  Pride,  of  those  members  who  were  opposed  to  him,  and  pro 
claimc'd  the  republic,  under  the  title  of  an  assembly  or  convention  of 
the  people. 

The  army  and  the  parliament,  instigated  by  the  puritans  and  re- 
publicans, determined  on  the  king's  trial.  Cromwell  appeared 
to  hesitate  before  the  enormity  of  the  outrage.  From  his  place  in 
the  House  he  spoke  more  in  the  tone  of  an  inspired  enthusiast  than 
a  rational  politician,  and  appeared  to  surrender  his  consent  under  the 
influence  of  a  supernatural  impression.  "  If  anyone,"  said  he,  with 
an  extravagant  emotion  which  approached  insanity,  "  had  volunta- 
rily proposed  to  me  to  judge  and  punish  the  king,  I  should  have 
looked  upon  him  as  a  prodigy  of  treason  ;  but  since  Providence  anil 
necessity  have  imposed  this  burden  on  us,  I  pray  heaven  to  bless 
your  deliberations,  although  I  am  not  prepared  to  advise  you  in  this 
weighty  matter.  Shall  I  confess  to  you,"  added  he,  in  a  tone  and  at- 
titude of  inward  humiliation,  "  that  when  a  short  time  since  I  offered 
up  a  prayer  for  the  preservation  of  his  Majesty,  I  felt  ray  tongue 
cleave  to  my  palate  V  I  took  this  extraordinary  sensation  as  an  unfa- 
vorable answer  from  heaven,  rejecting  my  humble  entreaty."  This 
expression  recalled  the  " Alea,  jacla  est"  of  Coesar,  when  he  pushed 
his  horse  into  the  Rubicon.  But  the  Rubicon  of  Cromwell  was  the 
blood  of  an  innocent  man  and  a  sovereign  shed  by  the  crime  and  in- 
gratitude of  his  people. 

The  parliament,  carried  away  by  the  animosity  and  vehemence  of 
the  common  excitement,  decreed  the  trial.  Colonel  Harrison,  the 
son  of  a  butcher,  brutal  in  manners  and  sanguinary  in  disposition, 
was  sent  to  conduct  the  king  from  the  Isle  of  Wight,  as  a  victim  for 
the  shambles.  Charles,  passing  through  Windsor,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  royal  castle  of  his  ancestors,  heard  a  voice,  choked  with  tears, 
which  addressed  him  through  the  bars  of  a  dungeon  :  "  My  master  ! 
my  beloved  master  !  is  it  really  you  that  I  behold  again,  and  in  this 
condition?"  The  words  proceeded  from  one  of  his  old  servants, 
Hamilton,  a  prisoner,  and,  like  himself,  designed  for  the  scaffold. 
The  king  recognized  him,  and  replied,  "  Yes,  It  is  I,  and  this  is  what, 
I  have  always  wished  to  suffer  for  my  friends."  The  savage  Harri- 
son would  not  permit  any  further  conversation,  but  forced  the  king 
to  accelerate  his  pace.  Hamilton  followed  him  with  his  eyes,  his 
gestures,  and  his  speech. 

A  high  court  of  justice,  nominally  composed  of  333  members,  but 
of  which  seventy  alone  assumed  their  places,  awaited  the  arrival  of 
the  monarch  in  London.  He  was  lodged  in  his  own  palace  of 
Whitehall,  now  for  the  occasion  converted  into  a  prison. 

It  was  difficult  to  recognize  the  noble  countenance  of  the  captive, 
still  stamped  with  its  usual  characl eristics  of  grace,  majesty,  and  se 
renity.  During  his  solitary  confinement  in  the  caslle  of  Garisbrook 
he  had  allowed  his  beard  to  grow,  and  the  gloomy  shade  of  his  dim- 

A.B.— 15 


42  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

geou  appeared  to  give  an  unnatural  pallor  to  his  complexion.  He 
was  habited  in  mourning,  as  if  in  anticipation  of  death.  He  had 
abandoned  all  hopes  on  earth  ;  his  looks  and  thoughts  were  now  cen- 
tred solely  on  eternity.  No  victim  was  ever  more  thoroughly  pre- 
pared to  submit  to  human  injustice.  The  judges  assembled  in  the 
vast  Gothic  hall  of  Westminster,  the  palace  of  the  Commons.  At 
the  first  calling  over  of  the  list  of  members  destined  to  compose  the 
.tribunal,  when  the  name  of  Fairfax  was  pronounced  without  re- 
sponse, a  voice  from  the  crowd  of  spectators  cried  out,  "  lie  has  too 
much  sense  to  be  here."  When  the  act  of  accusation  against  the  king 
was  read,  in  the  name  of  the  people  of  England,  the  same  voice  again 
replied,  "Not  one  tenth  of  them!"  The  officer  commanding  the 
guard  ordered  the  soldiers  to  fire  upon  the  gallery  from  whence  these 
rebellious  words  proceeded,  when  it  was  discovered  that  they  had 
been  uttered  by  Lady  Fairfax,  the  wife  of  the  lord-general.  This 
lady,  originally  induced  to  adopt  the  cause  of  the  parliament,  from 
party  spirit  and  attachment  to  the  opinions  of  her  husband,  now 
trembled  with  him  at  the  consequences  of  their  own  act,  and  re- 
deemed, by  a  courageous  expression  of  indignation  and  pity,  the  mis- 
chief they  had  promoted  by  leading  the  sufferer  to  the  feet  of  his 
judges. 

The  king  listened  to  this  avowal  of  repentance,  and  forgave  Fair- 
fax in  his  heart  for  the  victories  which  he  had  tempered  with  mercy, 
and  the  success  he  had  used  with  moderation.  The  act  of  accusa- 
tion was  read  to  him,  drawn  up  after  the  customary  formula,  in 
which  the  words  traitor,  murderer,  and  public  enemy,  were,  as 
usual,  freely  applied  by  the  conquering  to  the  vanquished  party.  He 
listened  to  them  unmoved,  with  the  calm  superiority  of  innocence. 
Determined  not  to  degrade  the  inviolable  majesty  of  kings,  of  which 
he  conceived  himself  the  depositary  and  responsible  representative, 
he  replied  that  he  would  never  stoop  to  justify  himself  before  a  self- 
elected  tribunal  of  his  own  subjects,  a  tribunal  which  the  religion  as 
well  as  the  laws  of  England  equally  forbade  him  to  acknowledge. 
"  I  shall  leave  to  God,"  said  he,  in  conclusion,  "  the  care  of  my  de- 
fence, lest  by  answering  I  should  acknowledge  in  you  an  authority 
which  has  no  better  foundation  than  that  of  robbers  and  pirates, 
and  thus  draw  on  my  memory  the  reproach  of  posterity,  that  I  had 
myself  betrayed  the  constitution  of  the  country,  instead  of  selecting 
the  most  estimable  and  enviable  fate  of  a  martyr." 

The  president,  Bradshaw,  repelled  this  noble  recusancy  of  the  king 
as  an  act  of  blasphemy  ;  his  words,  in  which  personal  hatred  super- 
seded dignity  and  justice,  mingled  the  bittemess  of  a  revolted  subject 
with  the  calmness  of  an  impartial  judge.  The  soldiers,  with  whom 
Cromwell  had  surrounded  the  hall,  imitated  the  example  of  Brad- 
shaw, and  heaped  insults  upon  their  former  sovereign,  now  their 
prisoner.  As  he  passed  through  their  ranks  on  his  return  to  White- 
hall, he  was  assailed  with  cries  of  "Death!"  on  every  side,  and 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  43 

some  even  spat  in  his  face.  Charles,  without  irritation,  or  feeling 
himself  degraded  by  these  intemperate  ebullitions,  raised  his  eyes  to 
heaven  in  pious  resignation,  and  bethought  him  of  the  patience  of 
the  sacred  founder  of  the  faith  he  professed,  under  similar  outrages. 
"  Poor  wretches  !"  exclaimed  he  to  those  who  accompanied  him, 
"  they  would  do  the  same  to-morrow  to  their  own  officers,  for  the 
trifliug  remuneration  of  sixpence."  The  unsteady  temper  of  the 
army,  alternately  the  tool  of  all  parties,  had  struck  his  mind  forcibly 
since  the  revolution,  and  inspired  him  with  pity  rather  than  with 
anger. 

A  single  veteran  protested  against  the  base  venality  of  his  com- 
rades. As  he  saw  the  discrowned  monarch  pass  before  him,  he  fell 
on  his  knees,  and  with  a  loud  voice  called  for  the  blessing  of  heaven 
on  that  royal  ant)  unhonored  head.  The  officers  indignantly  struck 
him  with  their  swords,  and  punished  his  prayer  and  compassion  as  a 
double  crime.  Charles  turned  his  head  aside,  and  uttered  mildly, 
"  Truly,  the  punishment  was  too  heavy  for  the  offence."  The  pop- 
ulace, overawed  by  the  soldiers,  remained  immovable  spectators  of 
the  trial,  and  confined  themselves  to  expressing  by  a  mournful 
silence  their  repugnance  at  being  compelled  to  submit  to  this 
national  tragedy. 

It  was  expected  by  many  that  the  army,  having  obtained  the  sen- 
tence of  their  sovereign,  would  spare  England  the  disgrace  of  the 
punishment.  The  king  himself  had  no  longer  hope  in  man.  The 
republicans  were  determined  not  to  acknowledge  the  rights  of  his 
children  to  the  crown,  which  might  be  construed  into  a  superstitious 
weakness  in  favor  of  monarchy.  Cromwell,  however,  did  not  con- 
ceal from  himself  the  certainty  of  a  restoration,  after  a'  temporary 
eclipse.  He  knew  the  dispositions  of  men  too  well  to  suppose  that 
he  could  found  a  dynasty  of  his  own  blood.  He  had  ever  too  much 
religious  disinterestedness  to  desire  that  selfish  glory.  The  transi- 
tory nature  of  earthly  grandeur  disappeared  in  his  eyes,  when  com- 
pared with  futurity.  His  eternal  safety  was,  at  the  bottom,  the 
leading  point  of  his  ambition  ;  but  he  was  desirous  that  the  republic, 
cemented  by  the  blood  of  the  king,  and  thus  protected  from  monar- 
chical enterprises;  should  last  at  least  until  religious  liberty  was  too 
solidly  founded  in  the  three  kingdoms  for  either  the  Romish  or  An- 
glican church  ever  again  to  interfere  with  the  unshackled  freedom  of 
conscience.  Everything  in  the  confidential  letters  and  private  con- 
versations of  Cromwell  with  his  family  at  this  epoch  proves  that  he 
had  no  other  object  in  snricn  lering  Charles  the  First  to  the  scaffold. 
An  utter  disregard  of  selfish  motives  at  this  momentous  crisis  of  his 
life  hid  from  him  the  ferocity  and  iniquity  of  the  act,  and  enabled 
him,  when  once  his  inspiration  was  examined  and  obeyed,  to  assume 
that  calmness  of  demeanor  an  i  imperturbable  serenity  of  counte- 
nance which  historians  have  described  as  cruelty,  but  which,  in  fact, 
was  only  fanaticism, 


44  OLIVER  CKOMWELL. 

This  singular  tranquillity,  which  M.  Villemain  has  eloquently  des- 
ignated the  gayety  of  crime,  signified  itself  by  the  most  repulsive 
words  and  questions  during  the  last  days  of  the  trial.  The  military 
sectarian  appears  to  have  entirely  replaced  the  man  of  human  sympa  - 
thies  in  Cromwell  .  a  tender  husband  to  his  wife,  a  father  affection- 
ate even  to  weakness  to  his  own  children,  he  spared  neither  the  hus- 
band nor  the  father  nor  the  children  in  the  victim  he  offered  up  to 
heaven,  as  if  he  had  been  a  leader  under  the  old  law,  commanded 
by  an  implacable  prophet  of  the  Bible  to  sacrifice  a  king,  the  enemy 
of  his  people.  From  the  records  of  those  scriptural  times  he  had  im- 
pressed his  heart  with  Iheir  ferocity.  He  grasped  the  knife  of  the 
executioner  with  a  hand  as  obedient  as  that  which  had  hitherto 
wielded  the  sword.  The  punishment  of  Charles  the  First  was  less 
an  English  than  a  Jewish  murder.  Cromwell  with  difficulty  granted 
the  respite  of  three  days  which  Charles  demanded  after  his  sentence 
was  pronounced,  to  prepare  for  death,  and  to  administer  his  last  con- 
solation to  his  absent  wife,  and  children  who  were  with  him.  He 
deluded,  by  miserable  and  ironical  subterfuges,  the  pity  and  indeci- 
sion of  the  other  generals  less  hardened  than  himself,  and  who  ear- 
nestly represented  to  him  the  enormity,  the  uselessness,  and  the  bar- 
barism of  the  execution.  He  equally  evaded  the  remonstrances  of 
the  foreign  ambassadors,  who  offered  to  purchase  the  life  of  Charles 
by  large  subsidies  to  England  and  an  enormous  tribute  to  himself. 
He  pitilessly  set  aside  the  intercession  of  his  near  relative,  Colonel 
Sir  John  Cromwell.  He  answered  all  by  the  oracle  and  inspiration 
repeatedly  consulted  in  his  prayers,  and  to  which  he  declared,  in 
spite  of  tears  and  entreaties,  that  there  was  but  one  answer — Death  ! 
Another  of  his  relations,  Colonel  Ingoldsby,  entered  the  hall  acciden- 
tally while  the  officers  were  signing  the  sentence  of  (he  parliament, 
and  refused  to  set  his  name  to  an  act  that  his  conscience  disapproved. 
Cromwell  rose  from  his  seat,  and  clasping  Ingoldsby  in  his  arms,  as 
if  the  death-warrant  of  the  king  was  a  camp  frolic,  carried  him  to 
the  table,  and  guiding  the  pen  in  his  hand,  forced  him  to  sign,  with 
a  laugh  and  a  joke.  When  all  had  affixed  their  names,  Cromwell, 
as  if  unable  to  contain  his  joy,  snatched  the  pen  from  the  ringers  of 
the  last,  dipped  it  anew  in  the  ink,  and  smeared  the  face  of  his  next 
neighbor,  either  thinking  or  not  thinking  that  in  that  ink  he  beheld 
the  blood  of  his  king. 

Never  before  had  there  teen  exhibited  such  a  striking  contrast  be- 
tween the  murderer  and  his  victim — the  fanatic  and  the  man  of  gen- 
uine piety.  While  Cromwell  sported  thus,  with  the  sword  in  his 
hand,  the  three  days  of  respite  accorded  to  the  king  by  the  decorum  of 
political  justic:  unveiled  to  the  world  all  that  the  heart  of  a  monarch, 
a  man,  a  husband,  a  father,  and  a  Christian  could  contain,  of 
heroism,  manly  tenderness,  resignation,  immortal  hope,  and  holy 
reliance. 

These  last  hours  were  entirely   employed,  minute  by  minute,  by 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  45 

Charles,  in  living  to  the  last  with  the  superhuman  self-possession  of 
a  sage  whose  whole  existence  had  been  an  apprenticeship  to  death, 
or  of  a  man  who  saw  before  him  the  certainty  of  a  protracted  life! 
His  resigned  conversations,  his  pious  exercises,  his  severe  scrutiny, 
without  indulgence  or  weakness,  of  his  own  conscience,  his  examina- 
tion of  his  past  conduct,  his  remorse  for  having  sacrificed  Strafford, 
to  smooth  a  difficulty  in  his  reign  which  became  more  insurmount- 
able toward  the  end  ;  his  royal  and  patriotic  anxieties  respecting  the 
fate  of  the  kingdom,  which  he  left  to  all  the  hazards  of  a  gloomy 
future  ;  finally,  the  revived  feelings  of  love  for  a  young,  beautiful, 
and  adored  wife,  and  the  agonizing  thoughts  of  a  father  for  the  chil- 
dren of  tender  age  still  in  England  in  the  hands  of  his  inveterate  en- 
emies— all  these  conflicting  emotions  filled  those  funereal  days  and 
nights  with  worldly  cares,  with  tears  of  anguish,  with  recommenda- 
tions of  his  soul  to  heaven,  and,  above  all,  with  an  earnest  of  eternal 
peace  ;  that  peace  from  above,  which  descends  through  the  vaulted 
roof  of  the  dungeon  and  nestles  in  the  heart  of  the  just  and  innocent. 
Of  all  modern  historical  sufferings,  including  those  of  Louis  the 
Sixteenth  in  the  Temple,  the  end  of  Charles  the  First  bears  the  most 
striking  resemblance  to  the  end  of  an  ancient  philosopher.  Royalty 
and  religion  add  to  both  something  even  more  august  and*divine  than 
We  can  discover  in  any  of  the  earlier  examples.  The  throne  and  the 
scaffold  appear  to  be  divided  by  a  more  immeasurable  abyss  than  the 
narrow  interval  which  separates  ordinary  life  and  death.  The  great- 
er the  portion  of  earthly  grandeur  and  happiness  we  are  called  upon 
to  abandon,  so  much  more  sublime  is  the  philosophy  which  can  re- 
nounce it  with  a  tranquil  smile.  But  although  the  virtue  of  the  two 
monarchs  is  equal,  that  of  Charles  is  the  most  brilliant  ;  for  Charles 
the  First  was  a  hero,  while  Louis  the  Sixteenth  was  only  a  saint.  In 
Charles  there  was  the  courage  of  a  great  man,  while  in  Louis  there 
was  only  the  resignation  of  an  exemplary  martyr. 

Nature  nevertheless  (and  herein  consists  the  pathetic  sublimity  of 
his  last  hours,  for  nothing  is  truly  beautiful  which  departs  from  na- 
ture) combated  without  subduing  his  firmness,  when  it  became  nec- 
essary to  take  leave  of  his  beloved  children.  These  were  the  Prin- 
cess Elizabeth  and  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  scarcely  old  enough  to 
weep  for  the  parent  they  were  about  to  lose.  Their  mother  had  res- 
cued the  others,  including  the  Prince  of  Wales,  from  the  power  of 
parliament.  She  kept  them  in  France,  to  preserve  the  succession 
and  revenge  their  father.  Her  daughter,  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  was 
endowed  with  reason  and  maturity  of  feeling  beyond  her  age.  The 
vicissitudes,  the  flights,  the  imprisonments,  the  domestic  woes  of  the 
family,  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed  from  her  cradle,  haJ 
strengthened  her  intellect  by  misfortune,  and  given  her  a  precocity 
superior  to  her  years.  Her  father  delighted  to  recognize  in  her  the 
grace  and  sensibility  of  her  absent  mother,  whom  she  replaced  in  t'ue 
last  confidence  of  the  dying  husband.  lie  consoled  himself  with  the 


46  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

idea  that  she  would  retain  the  vivid  impression  of  his  farewell 
thoughts,  and  transmit  them  still  glowing  with  tenderness  to  his  be- 
loved partner.  "  Tell  her,"  said  he  to  his  young  daughter,  "that 
throughout  the  whole  course  of  our  union  I  have  never,  even  in  im- 
agination, violated  the  fidelity  I  pledged  to  her,  more  from  choice 
than  duty,  and  that  my  love  will  only  expire  with  the  minutes  which 
terminate  my  existence.  I  shall  end  by  loving  her  here  below,  to 
recommence  my  affection  again  through  all  eternity." 

Then  taking  the  little  Duke  of  Gloucester,  who  was  only  five  years 
old,  upon  his  knees,  and  desiring  to  impress  upon  the  mind  of  the 
infant,  by  a  tragical  image,  the  counsel  which  through  him  he  ad- 
dressed to  all  the  family,  "  My  child,"  said  he,  "  they  are  going  to 
cut  off  thy  father's  head  !"  The  boy  gazed  with  anxious  and  as- 
tonished looks  upon  the  countenance  of  the  speaker.  "  Yes,"  con- 
tinued the  king,  seeking  to  fix  the  terrible  remembrance  by  repetition, 
"  they  will  cut  of  my  head,  and  perhaps  make  thee  king  !  But  pay 
attention  to  my  words  ;  thou  must  not  be  made  a  king  by  them  while 
thy  elder  brothers,  Charles  and  James,  are  living.  They  will  cut  off 
their  heads  also,  if  they  can  lay  hands  on  them,  and  will  end  by  cut- 
ting off  thine.  I  therefore  command  thee  never  to  be  made  a  king 
by  them."  • 

The  child,  who  was  impressed  with  the  mournful  scene  and  solemn 
learning,  appeared  suddenly  struck  by  a  light  and  a  sense  of  obedi- 
ence beyond  his  age.  "  No,"  he  replied,  "  I  will  not  consent— they 
shall  never  make  me  a  king.  I  will  be  torn  to  pieces  first  !r> 
Charles,  in  this  infantine  heroism,  recognized  a  voice  from  heaven, 
which  assured  him  that  his  posterity  would  be  true  to  themselves  in 
seeking  to  restore  the  throne  after  his  decease.  He  shed  tears  of  joy 
as  he  surrendered  back  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  to  the  arms  of  the 
jailers. 

From  his  chamber  in  the  palace  of  "Whitehall  he  could  distinctly 
hear  the  noise  of  the  workmen,  who  were  hastily  employed  night 
and  day  in  erecting  the  timber  work  of  the  scaffold  on  which  he  Jwas 
to  suffer.  These  preparations,  which  multiplied  while  they  antici 
pated  the  keen  sensations  of  his  approaching  death,  neither  disturbed 
his  sleep  nor  interrupted  his  conversations.*  On  the  morning  of  his 
execution  he  rose  before  the  dawn.  He  called  Herbert,  the  only  at- 
tendant allowed  to  wait  upon  him,  and  instructed  him  to  bestow  more 
than  ordinary  care  on  his  apparel,  befitting  such  a  great  and  happy 
solemnity,  as  he  designated  it— the  close  of  his  earthly  trouble*  and  the 
commencement  of  his  eternal  happiness.  He  passed  some  time  in  pri- 
vate prayer  with  the  Bishop  of  London,  the  venerable  and  eloquent 
Juxon,  a  man  worthy  by  his  virtue  to  comprehend,  console,  and  env 

*  M.  deLamartine  appears  to  have  followed  Hume  in  this  account ;  but  it  is  cer. 
tain  that  King  Charles  hlept  at  St.  James' Palace  on  the  night  that  preceded  hU 
execution,  and  walked  through  the  Park,  attended  by  the  guards,  to  the  Banquet- 
mg  House  at  Whitehall,  where  the  scaffold  was  erected. 


OLIVEK   CKOMWELI*  t"( 

ulate  his  death.  Already  they  communicated  with  heaven.  The 
officers  of  Cromwell  interrupted  them  to  announce  that  the  hour  of 
execution  had  struck,  and  that  the  scaffold  waited  for  the  victim. 
It  was  fixed  against  the  palace,  facing  the  great  square  of  Whitehall, 
and  was  reached  by  passing  through  a  gallery  on  the  same  floor. 
Charles  walked  with  a  slow  and  steady  step,  which  sought  not  to 
hasten  the  last  moment,  as  if,  by  an  involuntary  emotion  of  human 
weakness,  the  victim  desired  to  anticipate  the  hour  appointed  by  hea- 
ven. A  dense  mass  of  Cromwell's  troops  surrounded  the  place  of 
execution.  The  inhabitants  of  London,  and  strangers  from  the- 
neighboring  districts,  crowded  the  open  space  in  front,  the  roofs  of 
the  houses,  the  trees,  and  the  balconies  on  every  side,  from  which  it 
was  possible  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  proceedings.  Some  came  to 
see,  others  to  rejoice,  but  by  far  the  greater  portion  to  shudder  and 
weep.  Cromwell,  knowing  well  the  general  impression  of  horror 
which  the  death  of  the  king  would  convey  to  the  minds  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  which  they  looked  upon  as  a  species  of  deicide,  was  deter- 
mined to  prevent  the  favorable  effect  his  last  words  might  produce, 
and  removed  the  crowd  of  citizens  beyond  the  reach  of  a  liuman 
voice.  Colonel  Tomlinson,  selected  especially  to  guard  the  prisoner 
and  conduct  him  to  the  block,  was  overcome  by  the  consistent  spec- 
tacle of  intrepidity,  resignation,  and  majesty  which  the  royal  victim 
exhibited.  The  jailer  had  been  converted  into  the  friend  and  con- 
soler of  his  captive.  The  other  officers  had  also  experienced  the 
softening  of  hatred  and  involuntary  respect  for  innocence  which 
Providence  often  reserves  for  the  condemned  as  the  last  adieu  of 
earth,  and  a  tardy  acknowledgment  of  human  justice.  Surrounded 
by  this  cortege  of  relenting  enemies  or  weeping  friends,  Charles, 
standing  erect,  and  more  a  king  than  ever,  on  the  steps  of  his  eternal 
throne,  assumed  the  privilege  awarded  in  England  to  every  sentenced 
criminal,  of  speaking  the  last  words  in  his  own  cause. 

After  having  clearly  demonstrated  that  he  only  performed  his  duty 
in  appealing  to  arms  when  the  parliament  had  first  resorted  to  that 
alternative,  and  that  he  was  called  upon  to  defend  .in  the  royal  prerog- 
ative a  fundamental  principle  of  the  constitution,  for  which  he  was 
responsible  to  his  successors,  to  his  people,  and  to  God  himself,  he 
acknowledged,  with  true  Christian  humility,  that  although  innocent 
before  the  law  of  the  crimes  for  which  he  was  about  to  suffer,  his 
conscience  told  him  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  many  faults  and 
weaknesses,  for  which  he  accepted  without  a  murmur  his  present 
death  as  a  meet  and  salutary  expiation.  "I  basely  ratified,"  said 
he,  in  allusion  to  the  fate  of  StraiTord,  "  an  unjust  sentence,  and  the 
similar  injustice  I  am  now  to  undergo  is  a  seasonable  retribution  for 
the  punishment  I  iutlictcd  on  an  innocent  man.  I  hold  none 
among  you  responsible  for  the  death  to  which  I  am  condemned  by 
divine  decree,  and  which  works  its  ends  by  human  instruments.  I 
lay  not  my  blood  on  you  or  on  my  people,  and  demand  no  other 


48  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

compensation  for  my  punishment  than  the  return  of  peace,  and  a  r& 
rival  of  the  fidelity  -which  the  kingdom  owes  to  my  children." 

At  these  words  every  eye  was  suffused  with  tears.  He  concluded 
by  bidding  adieu  to  those  who  had  been  his  subjects,  and  by  a  last 
solemn  invocation  to  the  only  Judge  to  whom  he  was  now  respon- 
sible. Sighs  alone  were  heard  during  the  intervals  which  marked 
tliusc  last  outpourings  of  his  heart.  He  spoke,  and  was  silent. 
Bishop  Juxon,  who  attended  him  to  Ihe  last  moment,  as  he  ap- 
proached the  block,  said  to  him,  "  Sire,  there  is  but  one  step  more, 
a  sharp  and  short  one  !  Remember  that  in  another  second  you  Will 
ascend  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  that  there  you  will  find  in  an  infi- 
nite and  inexhaustible  joy  the  reward  of  your  sacrifice,  and  a  crown 
that  shall  never  pass  away." 

"  My  friend,"  replied  Charles,  interrupting  him  with  perfect  com- 
posure, "  I  go  from  a  corruptible  crown  to  an  incorruptible  one,  and 
which,  as  you  say,  I  feel  convinced  I  shall  possess  forever  without 
trouble  or  anxiety."  , 

He  was  proceeding  to  speak  further,  when,  perceiving  one  of 
the  assistants  stumble  against  the  weapon  of  the  executioner,  which 
iay  by  the  side  of  the  block,  and  who  by  blunting  the  edge  might  in- 
crease the  sensation  of  the  blow,  "  Touch  not  the  axe  !"  he  exclaimed 
in  a  loud  voice,  and  with  an  expression  of  anger.  He  then  prajed 
again  for  a  few  moments,  in  a  low  tone,  and  approaching  Bishop 
Juxon  to  embrace  him  for  the  last  time,  while  pressing  his  hand  with 
fervor,  uttered  in  a  solemn  tone  the  single  word.  "  Remember  /"  This 
enigmatical  expression,  which  afterward  received  many  mysterious 
and  forced  interpretations,  was  simply  a  repetition  of  what  he  had 
already  instructed  Juxon  to  convey  to  his  children  when  they  grew 
up,  and  became  kings — to  forgive  their  enemies.  Juxon  bowed 
without  speaking,  which  indicated  implicit  obedience  to  his  royal 
master's  wishes.  The  king  knelt  down,  and  calmly  inclined  his  head 
upon  the  block.  Two  men  in  masks  laid  hold  of  Charles  respect- 
fully, and  arranged  him  in  a  suitable  position.  One  of  them  then 
raised  the  axe,  and  severed  his  head  at  a  single  blow.  The  other 
lifted  it  up,  still  streaming  with  blood,  and  exhibiting  it  to  the  people, 
cried  out,  "  Behold  the  head  of  a  traitor  !" 

A  general  murmur  of  disapprobation  arose  simultaneously  from 
that  vast  crowd  when  they  heard  those  words,  which  seemed  to  sur- 
pass the  outrage  of  the  execution  itself.  The  tears  of  the  nation 
protested  against  the  ferocious  butchery  of  the  army.  England  felt 
as  if  she  had  laid  upon  herself  the  crime  and  future  punishment 
of  parricide.  Cromwell  was  all-powerful,  but  detested,  in  him,  the 
munleier  was  thenceforward  associated  with  the  politician  and  the 
hcn>.  Liberty  could  no  longer  voluntarily  bend  under  the  iron  rule 
of  a  man  who  had  thus  abused  his  authority  and  reputation.  He 
eea-vd  to  govern  except  by  the  influence  of  the  army,  whose  com 
plirity  hi:  had  purchased,  who  obeyed  without  reasoning,  and  who 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  49 

had  no  conscience  beyond  Iheir  pay.  He  reached  the  dictatorship 
through  the  avenues  of  crime.  The  parliament  had  already  become 
too  subservient  to  the  army,  and  too  much  estranged  from  the  popular 
feeling  of  England,  to  offer  any  opposition  to  the  views  of  Cromwell. 
To  obtain  a  protector  they  were  forced  to  accept  a  master ;  they 
had  voted  for  the  suppression  of  the  monarchy,  but  not  for  the  es- 
tablishment of  slavery.  The  royal  children  embarrassed  them.  It 
•was  debated  whether  or  not  the  Princess  Elizabeth  should  be  appren- 
ticed to  a  buttonmaker  in  the  city,  but  this,  the  beloved  daughter  of 
her  father,  more  susceptible  of  grief  than  her  young  Li  other,  died  of 
the  shock  occasioned  by  the  king's  execution.  The  Duke  of  Glou- 
cester was  permitted  to  join  his  mother  in  France. 

A  terrible  book,  the  posthumous  work  and  justification  of  Charles 
the  First,  entitled  Elkon  B<mlike,  came  forth  like  a  subterranean 
voice  from  the  tomb  which  had  scarcely  closed  over  the  king,  and 
excited  the  conscience  of  England  even  to  delirium.  It  was  the  ap- 
peal of  memory  and  virtue  to  posterity.  This  book,  spreading  with 
rapidity  among  the  people  and  throughout  Europe,  commenced  a 
second  trial,  an  eternal  process  between  kings  and  their  judges. 
Cromwell,  intimidated  by  the  universal  murmur  which  this  publica- 
tion excited  against  him,  sought  among  his  partisans  a  living  voice 
sufficiently  potent  to  counterbalance  that  of  the  dead. 

He  found  Milton,  the  most  epic  of  poets,  and  the  only  candidate 
for  immortality  among  the  republicans  of  England.  Milton  had  just 
returned  from  Italy  ;  there  he  had  imbibed,  with  the  dust  of  many  a 
Brutus  and  Cassius,  the  miasmas  of  political  assassination,  justified, 
according  to  his  notions,  by  individual  tyranny.  He  had  contracted, 
in  his  literary  commerce  with  the  great  popular  celebrities  of  history, 
the  noble  passion  of  republican  liberty.  He  saw  in  Charles  the  First 
a  tyrant,  in  Cromwell  a  liberator.  He  thought  to  serve  the  oppressed 
cause  of  the  people  by  combating  the  dogmas  of  the  inviolability  of 
the  persons  and  lives  of  kings  ;  but  in  this  particular  instance  he  was 
base  enough  to  plead  the  cause  of  the  murderer  against  the  victim. 
His  book  on  regicide  paralyzed  the  world.  These  are  questions  to  be 
probed  with  the  sword,  and  never  with  the  pen.  Whenever  the  death 
of  one  by  the  hands  of  many  forms  the  basis  of  a  polemical  principle, 
that  death  is  an  act  of  cowardice,  if  not  of  criminality  ;  and  a  just 
and  generous  mind  abstains  from  defending  it,  either  in  mercy  or 
from  conviction.  Milton's  book,  rewarded  by  the  gratitude  of  Crom- 
well, and  by  the  place  of  secretary  to  the  new  council  of  state  under 
the  republican  government,  is  a  stain  of  blood  on  the  pure  page  of 
his  reputation.  It  became  effaced  in  his  old  age,  when  blind,  indi- 
gent, and  proscribed,  like  Homer,  he  celebrated,  after  his  example, 
in  a  divine  poem,  the  early  innocence  of  man,  the  revolt  of  the  in- 
fernal powers,  the  factions  of  the  heavenly  agents,  and  the  triumph 
of  eternal  justice  over  the  spirit  of  evil. 

Cromwell,  compelled  to  support  tyranny  by  imposing  silence,  or« 


dO  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

dered  his  parliament  to  interdict  the  liberty  of  the  press.  He  trem- 
bled for  a  moment  before  the-  popular  faction  of  the  Levellers,  who 
wished  to  erect  on  evangelical  equality  the  anti-social  consequence 
of  a  community  of  lands  and  goods.  For  the  second  time  he  discov- 
ered that  every  dictator  who  abandoned  public  and  domestic  rights 
to  these  wilpl  dreams,  subversive  of  proprietorship  and  hereditary 
rights  (the  only  conditions  on  which  human  institutions  can  subsist), 
would  soon  become  a  chief  of  banditti,  and  not  the  head  of  a  govern- 
ment. His  strong  sense  showed  him  the  impossibility  of  reasoning 
with  such  extreme  doctrines,  and  the  necessity  of  utterly  extirpating 
their  advocates.  "  There  can  be  no  middle  course  here,"  exclaimed 
he  to  the  parliament  and  the  leaders  of  the  army  ;  "  we  must  reduce 
this  party  to  dust,  or  must  submit  to  be  scattered  into  dust  by  them." 
The  Levellers  vanished  at  the  word,  as  they  disappeared  some  years 
later  before  the  insurrection  of  London  under  Charles  the  Second, 
and  as  the  impossible  will  ever  give  way  before  the  really  practicable. 

But  all  the  opposing  factions,  whether  in  the  parliament  or  the 
army,  agreed  in  calling  upon  Cromwell  to  reduce  rebellious  and  an- 
archical Ireland.  He  set  out  in  regal  state,  in  a  carriage  drawn  by 
six  horses,  escorted  by  a  squadron  of  guards  and  attended  by  the 
parliament  and  council  of  state,  who  accompanied  him  as  far  as 
Brentford.  The  Marquis  of  Ormond,  who  commanded  the  forces  of 
the  royalists,  was  defeated  near  Dublin.  Cromwell  converted  his 
victories  into  massacres,  and  pacified  Ireland  through  a  deluge  of 
blood.  Recalled  to  London,  after  nine  months  of  combats  and  exe- 
cutions, by  the  commotions  in  Scotland,  he  left  Ireland  to  the  care 
of  his  son-in-law  and  lieutenant,  Ireton. 

The  royalist  cause  sprang  up  anew  under  his  feet  from  its  sub- 
verted foundations.  The  Prince  of  Wales,  the  eldest  son  of  Charles 
the  First,  and  now  king  by  the  execution  of  his  father,  but  aban- 
doned and  shamefully  banished  from  France  by  the  complaisance  of 
Cardinal  Mazarin  for  Cromwell,  had  taken  refuge  in  Holland,  and 
afterward  in  the  little  island  of  Jersey,  to  watch  the  favorable  mo- 
ment for  re-entering  England  through  the  avenue  of  Scotland.  The 
Scotch  parliament,  composed  of  fanatical  Presbyterians,  as  hostile  to 
the  independent  faith  of  Cromwell  as  to  the  papacy  itself,  treated  for 
the  throne  with  the  Prince  of  Wales.  They  only  required  of  him, 
in  acknowledgment  of  his  restoration  in  Scotland,  the  recognition  of 
their  national  Church.  This  Church  was  a  species  of  biblical  mysti- 
cism, savage,  and  calling  itself  inspired,  founded  on  the  ruins  of  the 
Romish  faith  by  a  prophet  named  John  Knox,  with  the  sword  in  his 
hand,  excommunication  on  his  lips,  and  superstition  in  his  heart — the 
true  religion  of  civil  war,  replacing  one  intolerance  by  another,  and 
adding  to  the  natural  ferocity  of  the  people  the  most  ridiculous  as- 
sumption of  extreme  sanctity.  Scotland  at  that  time  resembled  a 
Hebrew  tribe,  governed  by  a  leader  assuming  divine  inspiration,  in- 
terpreted through  his  disciples  and  priests,  It  was  the  theocracy  of 


OLIVER  CROMWELL.  51 

madness,  and  the  practice  was  worthy  of  the  dogma.  An  honest 
superstition  in  some,  a  sombre  hypocrisy  in  others,  impressed  on  the 
manners,  the  government,  and  the  army  itself,  an  austerity  and  re- 
morseless piety  which  gave  to  this  insurrection  against  Catholicism 
Ihe  silence,  the  terrors,  and  the  flaming  piles  of  the  Spanish  Inquisi- 
tion. The  Prince  of  Wales,  young,  handsome,  thoughtless,  volup- 
tuous, and  unbelieving — a  true  English  Alcibiades — condemned  to 
govern  a  nation  of  bigoted  and  cruel  sectarists,  hesitated  to  accept  a 
throne  which  he  could  only  keep  by  feigning  the  hypocrisy  and  fa- 
naticism of  his  parliament,  or  by  rashly  repudiating  the  yoke  of  the 
clergy. 

But  at  the  same  moment  when  the  parliament  offered  him  the 
crown  on  these  debasing  conditions,  another  promised  it  to  him  as 
the  price  of  glorious  and  daring  achievements.  This  was  the  young 
Montrose,  one  of  those  lofty  spirits  cut  short  in  the  flower  of  their 
career,  equally  belonging  by  nature  to  antiquity  and  chivalry,  and  al . 
ternately  compared,  by  the  historians  of  the  time,  to  the  demigods 
of  romance  and  the  heroes  of  Plutarch. 

Montrose  was  a  Scottish  nobleman  of  high  rank  and  opulent  pos- 
sessions. After  having  combated  at  the  head  of  the  royal  army  for 
Charles  the  First  until  his  chances  were  extinguished,  he  had  fled 
for  refuge  to  the  Continent.  His  name,  his  cause,  his  youth,  his  per- 
sonal beauty,  the  graces  of  his  conversation,  and  the  report  of  his 
character,  had  obtained  for  him  at  the  different  courts  of  Germany  a 
reception  which  encouraged  his  hopes  of  restoring  the  legitimate 
monarchy  in  his  own  country.  He  detested  and  despised  the  ultra- 
puritans  as  the  leprosy  of  the  land.  He  was  adored  by  the  Highland 
clans,  a  rural  and  warlike  class,  somewhat  resembling  the  Vendeans 
of  France,  who  acknowledged  only  their  sword  and  their  king. 
Montrose,  having  levied  at  his  own  expense  five  hundred  German 
auxiliaries,  to  serve  as  a  nucleus  for  the  army  that  he  expected  the 
sound  of  his  steps  would  raise  for  Charles  the  Second  in  the  moun- 
tains, landed  in  Scotland,  and  fought  like  an  adventurer  and  a  hero, 
at  the  head  of  the  first  groups  of  his  partisans  he  could  collect  to- 
gether. But  being  surrounded  by  the  army  of  the  Scottish  parlia- 
ment, before  he  could  assemble  the  insurgent  clans  he  was  conquered, 
wounded,  imprisoned  in  irons,  and  carried  in  triumph  to  Edinburgh, 
to  serve  as  a  mockery  and  a  victim  to  the  clergy  and  the  govern- 
ment. His  forehead  bare  and  cicatrized  by  wounds,  his  garments 
stained  with  his  own  blood,  an  iron  collar  encircling  his  neck,  chains 
fastened  round  his  arms  and  attached  on  each  side  to  the  stock  of  the 
wheel  of  a  cart  in  which  he  was  placed,  the  executioner  on  horseback 
in  front  of  the  vehicle— in  this  manner  he  entered  the  capital  of 
Scotland,  while  the.  members  of  the  parliament  and  the  ministers  of 
the  Church  alternately  howled  forth  psalms  and  overwhelmed  him 
with  execrations.  The  people  wept  at  the  sad  spectacle,  but  con- 
cealed their  tears,  lest  pity  should  be  construed  into  blasphemy  by 


53  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

the  Presbyterians  of  Knox.  The  clergy,  on  the  following  Sunday, 
preached  against  this  compassionate  weakness,  and  declared  that  a 
hardening  of  the  heart  was  the  chosen  token  of  tho  elect.  Montrose 
defended  himself  with  eloquence,  to  vindicate  his  honor,  not  to  pre- 
serve his  life.  His  discourse  was  worthy  of  the  most  eloquent  advo- 
cates of  Eome  or  Athens.  It  was  answered  by  a  prompt  and  igno- 
minious execution. 

The  Presbyterian  ministers,  under  the  pretext  of  praying  for  his 
salvation,  after  having  demanded  his  blood,  came  to  insult  him  in  his 
dungeon  by  their  derisive  charity.  "  Have  pity,  O  Lord  !"  cried 
they  aloud,  "  on  this  unbeliever,  this  wicked  persecutor,  this  traitor, 
who  is  about  to  pass  from  the  scaffold  of  his  earthly  punishment  to 
the  eternal  condemnation  reserved  for  his  impieties. : ' 

They  announced  that  the  sentence  condemned  him  "  to  be  hung  on 
a  gibbet  thirty  feet  high,  where  he  was  to  be  exposed  during  three 
hours  ;  that  his  head  would  then  be  cut  off  and  nailed  to  the  gates  of  his 
prison,  and  that  his  arms  and  legs,  severed  from  his  body,  would  be 
distributed  to  the  four  principal  cities  of  the  kingdom."  "  I  only 
wish,"  replied  Montrose,  "  that  I  had  limbs  enough  to  be  dispersed 
through  every  city  in  Europe,  to  bear  testimony  in  the  cause  for 
which  I  have  fought  and  am  content  to  die. ' ' 

Delivered  from  the  presence  of  his  religious  persecutors,  Montrose, 
who  had  cultivated  poetry  as  the  relaxation  of  his  mind,  composed 
some  verses,  inspired  by  love  and  death,  in  which  he  perpetuated,  in 
language  that  will  endure  forever,  his  last  farewell  to  all  he  had 
valued  on  earth.  The  poet  in  these  parting  lines  is  worthy  of  the 
hero.  On  the  following  day  he  underwent  his  punishment  with  the 
constancy  of  a  martyr.  His  head  and  limbs  were  exposed,  according 
to  the  sentence,  in  the  four  leading  cities  of  Scotland.  Charles  the 
Second,  on  learning  at  Jersey  the  defeat  and  death  of  his  friend,  with 
the  triumph  of  the  parliament,  hesitated  no  longer  to  accept  the  crown 
from  the  ensanguined  hands  of  the  Scotch  Presbyterians,  hencefor- 
ward without  competitors  in  Edinburgh.  He  disembarked  in  Scot- 
land, in  the  midst  of  the  army  which  came  to  meet  him.  The  first 
sight  that  greeted  his  eyes  was  a  fragment  of  the  body  of  his  devoted 
partisan  Montrose,  Jailed  to  the  gate  of  the  city. 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  what  must  have  been  the  reign  of  this  young 
sovereign  ;  enslaved  by  a  parliament  ;  watched  by  the  clergy  ;  domi- 
neered over  by  the  generals  of  the  army  ;  a  prisoner  rather  than  a 
king  among  his  superstitious  subjects  ;  obliged  to  feign,  in  order  to 
conciliate  them,  a  fanatical  austerity  which  lie  laughed  at  in  his  heart  ,• 
persecuted  even  in  his  palace  by  the  exhortations  of  Presbyterian 
prophets,  who  spied  into  his  inmost  thoughts  and  construed  the  light- 
ness of  youth  into  public  enormities.  One  morning  he  escaped  from 
them  by  Might,  preferring  liberty  to  a  throne  held  on  such  conditions. 
He  was  overtaken  and  carried  back  to  Edinburgh  ;  the  necessity  of 
his  name  induced  them  to  grant  him  a  small  addition  of  authority. 


OLIVER   CKOMWELL.  53 

Ee  was  permitted  to  fight  at  the  head  of  the  army,  destined  to  invade 
England,  at  the  instigation  of  the  royalists  ot  the  north.  Cromwell 
marched  against  him  and  entered  Scotland.  The  Prince  of  Wales, 
escaping,  with  14,000  Scotchmen,  from  the  ill-combined  manoeuvres 
of  his  opponent,  penetrated  boldly  through  the  rear  of  his  army  and 
advanced  into  the  heart  of  the  kingdom.  He  obtained  possession  of 
,  Worcester,  and  there  rallied  round  him  his  supporters  from  every 
quarter.  Cromwell,  surprised  but  indefatigable,  allowed  him  no 
time  to  collect  reinforcements.  He  fell  upon  Worcester  with  40,000 
men,  fought  in  the  streets  of  the  town,  inundated  them  with  blood, 
•and  utterly  dispersed  the  army  of  the  Prince  of  Wales.  The  Prince 
himself,  after  performing  prodigies  of  valor,  worthy  of  his  rank  and 
pretensions,  escaped  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  attended  only  by  a 
handful  of  devoted  cavaliers.  After  having  traversed  twenty  leagues 
in  a  single  night,  they  abandoned  their  horses  and  dispersed  them- 
selves in  the  woods. 

Attended  only  by  the  Earl  of  Derby,  an  English  nobleman  who 
had  brought  him  succors  from  the  Isle  of  Man,  Charles  sought  refuge 
with  a  farmer  named  Penderell,  assumed  the  garb  and  implements  of 
a  woodcutter,  and  worked  with  the  four  sons  of  the  farmer,  to  dtvivc 
the  search  of  Cromwell's  troopers,  scattered  through  the  fields  and 
forests  in  pursuit.  Sleeping  on  a  bed  of  straw,  and  furnished  with 
coarse  barley-bread  in  the  cottage  of  Penderell,  he  was  even  com- 
pelled, by  the  domiciliary  visits  of  the  puritans,  to  quit  that  humble 
abode  and  conceal  himself  for  several  nights  within  the  branches  of 
a  large  tree,  called  ever  after  the  Royal  Oak,  the  thickly  spreading 
leaves  of  which  concealed  him  from  the  soldiers  posted  below. 

A  royalist  colonel  named  Lane  sheltered  him  afterward  at  Bentley, 
and  assisted  him  to  reach  the  port  of  Bristol,  where  he  hoped  to  era- 
bark  for  the  Continent.  The  feet  of  the  young  king  were  so  blistered 
by  walking  that  he  was  obliged  to  pass  on  horseback  through  th« 
districts  traversed  by  the  dragoons  of  the  enemy.  The  second 
daughter  of  Colonel  Lane  conducted  him  in  the  disguise  of  a  peasant 
to  the  house  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Morton,  in  the  vicinity  of  Bristol. 
Arriving  at  her  sister's  abode,  she  intrusted  to  no  one  the  name  of 
the  young  countryman  who  attended  her  ;  she  merely  asked  for  an 
apartment  and  a  bed  for  him,  saying  that  he  was  suffering  from  a 
fever,  and  recommended  him  to  the  special  care  of  the  servants. 
One  of  them  entered  the  room  to  bring  him  refreshments.  The  noble 
and  majestic  countenance  of  the  prince  shone  forth  under  his  humhlu 
vestments,  and  carried  conviction  to  the  eyes  of  the  domestic.  I  If 
fell  on  his  knees  before  the  couch  of  Charles,  saluted  him  as  his 
master,  and  uttered  aloud  the  prayer  in  common  use  among  the  roy- 
alists for  the  preservation  of  the  king.  Charles  in  vain  endeavored 
to  deceive  him  ;  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge  his  identity,  and  to 
enjoin  silence. 

From  thence,  not  being  able  to  find  a  vessel  on  the  coast,  he  was 


54  OLIVER  CEOMWELU 

conveyed  to  the  residence  of  a  widow  named  Windham,  who  had 
lost  her  husband  and  three  eldest  sons  in  the  cause  of  Charles  the 
First,  and  with  unshaken  devotion  now  offered  her  two  surviving 
ones  to  the  successor  of  the  decapitated  monarch.  She  received 
Charles,  not  as  a  fugitive  but  as  a  king.  "  When  my  husband  lay  on 
his  death-bed,"  said  she,  "  he  called  to  him  our  five  sons,  and  thus 
addressed  them  :  '  My  children,  we  have  hitherto  enjoyed  calm  and 
peaceful  days  under  our  three  last  sovereigns  ;  but  I  warn  you  that 
I  see  clouds  and  tempests  gathering  over  the  kingdom.  I  perceive 
factions  springing  up  in  every  quarter,  which  menace  the  repose  of 
our  beloved  country.  Listen  to  me  well  :  whatever  turn  events  may 
take,  be  ever  true  to  your  lawful  sovereign  ;  obey  him,  and  remain 
loyal  to  the  crown  !  Yes,'  added  he  with  vehemence,  '  I  charge  you 
to  stand  by  the  crown,  even  tJwugh  it  should  hang  upon  a  bunk  /'  These 
last  words  engraved  their  duty  on  the  hearts  of  my  children,"  con- 
tinued the  mother,  "  and  those  who  are  still  spared  to  me  are  yours, 
as  their  dead  brothers  ~vere  given  to  your  father." 

All  the  royalists  of  the  neighborhood  were  acquainted  with  and 
guarded  the  secret  of  the  residence  of  Charles  at  the  house  of  the 
Windhams.  T  e  seal  of  fidelity  was  upon  the  lips  as  upon  the  hearts 
of  the  entire  country.  This  secret,  so  long  and  miraculously  kept, 
was  only  in  danger  of  being  betrayed  at  the  moment  when  the  young 
king,  still  disguised,  was  flying  toward  the  coast  to  place  the  seas 
between  his  head  and  the  sword  of  Cromwell.  His  horse  having 
loosened  a  shoe,  a  farrier  to  whom  he  applied  to  fasten  it,  with  the 
quick  intelligence  of  his  trade,  examined  the  iron,  and  said,  in  a  low 
and  suspicious  tone,  "  These  shoes  were  never  forged  in  this  country, 
but  in  the  north  of  England."  But  the  smith  proved  as  discreet  and 
faithful  as  the  servant.  Charles,  remounting  his  horse  without  dis- 
covery, galloped  toward  the  beach,  where  a  skiff  was  waiting  for 
him.  The  Continent  a  second  time  protected  him  from  the  pursuit 
of  Cromwell. 

The  royalists  conquered,  the  king  beheaded,  the  Levellers  sup- 
pressed, Ireland  slaughtered,  Scotland  reduced  to  subjection,  the  no- 
bility cajoled,  the  parliament  tamed,  religious  factions  deadened  or 
extinguished  by  liberty  of  conscience,  the  maritime  war  against  Hol- 
land teeming  with  naval  triumphs,  the  resignation  of  his  command 
by  Fairfax  through  disgust  and  lepentance,  the  subserviency  ol 
Monk,  left  by  Cromwell  in  Edinburgh  to  keep  the  Scotch  in  order — 
the  voluntary,  servile,  and  crouching  submission  of  the  other  military 
leaders,  eager  to  rally  round  success — all  these  coinciding  events,  all 
these  crimes,  all  these  acts  of  cringing  baseness,  all  these  accumulated 
successes,  which  never  fail  to  attend  the  steps  of  the  favorites  of 
fortune  during  her  smiles,  left  nothing  for  Cromwell  to  desire,  if  the 
undisputed  possession  of  England  had  been  his  only  object.  But  all 
who  study  his  character  with  impartiality  will  perceive  that  he  had 
yet  another — the  possession  of  heaven.  His  future  salvation  occu- 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  *5 

pied  his  thoughts  beyond  earthly  empire.  He  was  never  more  a 
theologian  than  when  he  was  an  uncontrolled  dictator.  Instead  of 
announcing  his  sovereignty  under  a  special  title,  he  allowed  his 
friends  to  proclaim  the  republic.  He  was  content  to  hold  the  sword 
and  dictate  the  word.  His  decrees  were  oracles  ;  he  sought  only  to  be 
the  great  inspired  prophet  of  his  country.  His  correspondence  at  this 
epoch  attests  the  humble  thoughts  of  a  father  of  a  Christian  family, 
who  neither  desires  nor  foresees  a  throne  as  the  inheritance  of  his 
children. 

"  Mount  your  father's  little  farm-horse,  and  ride  not  in  luxurious 
carriages,"  he  writes  to  his  daughter-in-law,  Dorothy.  He  married 
his  eldest  son,  Richard,  to  the  daughter  of  one  of  his  friends,  of  mid- 
dle station  and  limited  fortune,  and  on  his  espousals  gave  him  more 
debts  than  property.  To  this  friend,  the  father-in-law  of  his  son,  he 
writes  thus  :  "  I  intrust  Richard  to  you  ;  I  pray  you  give  him  sage 
counsel ;  I  fear  lest  he  should  suffer  himself  to  be  led  away  by  the 
vain  pleasures  of  the  world.  Induce  him  to  study  ;  study  is  good, 
particularly  when  directed  to  things  eternal,  which  are  more  profitable 
than  the  idle  enjoyments  of  this  life.  Such  thoughts  will  fit  him  for 
the  public  service  to  which  men  are  destined." 

"  Be  not  discouraged,"  he  says  to  Lord  Wharton,  another  of  his 
own  sect;  "you  are  offended  because  at  the  elections  the  people 
often  choose  their  representatives  perversely,  rejecting  profitable 
members  and  returning  unfruitful  ones.  It  has  been  so  for  nine 
years,  and  behold,  nevertheless,  what  God  has  done  with  these  evil 
instruments  in  that  time.  Judge  not  the  manner  of  his  proceedings  !" 

"  With  you,  in  consequence  of  these  murmurings  of  the  spirit," 
continues  Cromwell,  "there  is  trouble,  pain,  embarrassment,  and 
doubt  ;  with  me,  confidence,  certainty,  light;  satisfaction  !  Yes, 
complete  internal  satisfaction  !  Oh,  weakness  of  human  hearts  !" 
concluded  he,  hastily,  as  his  thoughts  flowed  ;  "  false  promises  of 
the  world  !  shortcoming  ideas  which  flatter  mortal  vanity  !  How 
much  better  is  it  to  be  the  follower  of  the  Lord,  in  the  heaviest 
work  !  In  this  holy  duty,  how  difficult  do  we  find  it  to  rise  above 
the  weakness  of  our  nature  to  the  elevation  of  the  service  which  God 
requires  from  us  !  How  soon  we  sink  under  discouragement  when 
the  flesh  prevails  over  the  spirit  !" 

The  pomp  and  enthusiasm  which  greeted  him  on  his  return  from 
the  double  conquest  of  Ireland  and  Scotland  dazzled  not  his  con- 
stancy. "You  see  that  crowd,  you  hear  those  shouts,"  he  whis- 
pered in  the  ear  of  a  friend  who  attended  in  the  procession  ;  "  both 
would  be  still  greater  if  I  were  on  my  way  to  the  gallows."  A  light 
from  above  impressed  on  his  clear  judgment  the  emptiness  of  worldly 
popularity. 

His  private  letters  to  his  son  Richard  are  full  of  that  piety  and  do- 
mestic  affection  which  we  should  never  expect  in  a  man  whose  feet 
were  bathed  in  the  blood  of  his  king,  of  Ireland,  of  Scotland,  o{ 


5fi  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

England  ;  but  whose  heart  was  calm  in  the  serenity  of  a  false  con 
science,  while  his  head  was  encircled  by  a  glory  of  mysticism  which 
he  persuaded  himself  was  sincere. 

"  Your  letters  please  and  affect  me,"  he  wrote  to  Richard  Crom- 
well, addressing  him  by  the  infantine  diminutive  of  Dick  ;  "  I  love 
words  which  flow  naturally  from  the  heart,  without  study  or  re- 
search. I  believe  that  the  special  goodness  of  heaven  has  placed  you 
in  the  family  where  you  now  reside.  Be  happy  and  grateful  for 
this  ;  and  carefully  discharge  all  the  duties  you  owe  them,  for  the 
glory  of  God.  Seek  the  Lord  continually,  and  his  divine  presence  ; 
make  this  the  object  of  your  life,  and  give  it  your  whole  strength. 
The  knowledge  of  God  dwells  not  in  books  and  theological  derini- 
tions  ;  it  comes  from  within  ;  it  transforms  the  spirit  by  a  divine  ac- 
tion independent  of  ourselves.  To  know  God  is  to  partake  his  divine 
nature,  in  him,  and  through  him  !  How  little  are  the  Holy  Scriptures 
known  among  us  !  May  my  feeble  prayers  fortify  your  intentions. 
Endeavor  to  understand  the  republic  I  have  established,  and  the 
foundations  on  which  it  rests.  I  have  suffered  much  in  giving  my- 
self up  to  others.  Your  wife's  father,  my  intimate  associate,  Mayor, 
will  assist  you  with  much  information  on  this  point.  You  will,  per- 
haps, think  that  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  enjoin  you  to  love  your 
dear  wife.  May  the  Lord  instruct  you  to  cherish  her  with  worldly 
affection,  or  you  will  never  feel  for  her  a  saintly  regard.  When  the 
bed  and  the  love  are  pure,  such  an  union  is  justly  compared  to  that 
of  the  Lord  with  the  lowly  members  of  his  Church.  Give  my  regards 
to  your  wife  ;  tell  her  that  I  love  her  with  my  whole  heart,  and  I 
rejoice  in  the  favors  which  heaven  has  poured  upon  her.  I  earnestly 
pray  that  she  may  be- fruitful  in  every  sense  :  and  you,  Dick,  may 
the  Lord  bless  you  with  many  blessings  ! 

"  Your  affectionate  father, 

"  OLIVER  CROMWELL." 

The  same  devotion  to  heavenly  matters,  mixed  with  uneasiness  re- 
specting the  affairs  of  this  world,  is  revealed  in  every  line  of  his 
private  letters  to  his  early  friends.  What  cause  had  he  to  dissemble 
\vith  his  children  and  his  intimates?  What  a  strange  hypocrisy 
must  that  have  been  which  never  dropped  the  mask  for  a  single 
moment  throughout  his  life,  even  in  the  most  familiar  intercourse 
with  his  family,  and  in  his  last  hours,  when  he  lay  upon  the  bed  of 
death  ! 

"  I  am  very  anxious  to  learn  how  the  little  fellow  goes  on"  (the 
child  of  Richard  and  Dorothy),  he  writes  to  the  father-in-law  of  his 
son,  his  former  gossip  and  friend  ;  "  I  could  readily  scold  both  father 
and  mother  for  their  negligence  toward  me.  I  know  that  Richard  is 
idle,  but  I  had  a  better  opinion  of  Dorothy.  I  fear  her  husband 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  57 

spoils  her  ;  tell  them  so  for  me.  If  Dorothy  is  again  in  the  family 
way,  I  forgive  her,  but  not  otherwise.  May  the  Lord  Wess  her  !  1 
hope  you  give  good  advice  to  my  son  Kichard  ;  he  is  at  a  dangerous 
period  of  life,  and  this  world  is  full  of  vanity.  How  good  it  is  to 
approach  the  Lord  early  !  We  should  never  lose  sight  of  this.  I 
hope  you  continue  to  remember  our  ancient,  friendship.  You  see  how 
I  am  occupied  ;  I  require  your  pity.  I  know  what  I  suffer  in  my 
own  heart.  An  exalted  situation,  a  high  employment  in  the  woild, 
are  not  worth  seeking  for.  I  should  have  no  inward  consolation  in 
my  labors,  if  my  hope  and  rest  were  not  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord. 
I  have  never  desired  this  earthly  grandeur  !  Truly,  the  Lord  himself 
has  called  me  to  it.  In  this  conviction  alone  I  trust  that  he  will  be- 
stow upon  his  poor  worm,  his  feeble  servant,  the  force  to  do  his  will, 
and  reach  the  end  for  which  he  was  created.  To  this  effect  I  demand 
your  prayers.  Remember  me  to  the  love  of  my  dear  sister,  to  my 
son,  to  our  daughter  Dorothy,  and  to  my  cousin  Anna. 

"  I  am  always  your  affectionate  brother, 

"OLIVER." 

The  same  expressions,  rendered  still  more  tender  by  the  holy  union 
of  a  long  life,  are  continually  repeated  with  emotion  in  his  corre- 
spondence with  his  wife.  The  following  letter  bears  the  superscrip- 
tion, "  For  my  beloved  wife,  Elizabeth  Cromwell."  "  You  scold  mo 
in  your  letters,  because  by  my  silence  I  appear  to  forget  you  and  our 
children.  Truly,  it  is  I  who  ought  to  complain,  for  I  love  you  too 
much.  Thou  art  dearer  to  me  than  all  the  world  ;  let  that  suffice  ! 
The  Lord  has  shown  us  an  extreme  mercy.  I  have  been  miraculous- 
ly sustained  within.  Notwithstanding  that  1  strive,  I  grow  old,  and 
feel  the  infirmities  of  advancing  years  rapidly  pressing  on  me.  May 
God  grant  that  my  propensities  to  sin  may  diminish  in  the  same  pro- 
portion with  my  physical  powers.  Pray  for  me  that  I  may  receive 
this  grace." 

He  confirms  the  strong,  he  fortifies  the  doubtful,  he  instructs  the 
weak  in  faith,  with  a  burning  fever  of  conviction,  which  shows  how 
sincerely  he  was  himself  convinced.  He  perceives  that  his  /cal  some- 
times carries  him  to  extravagant  expressions.  "  Pardon  me,"  he 
writes,  when  at  the  apogee  of  his  power,  to  a  friend  who  had  kept 
aloof  from  him  in  consequence  of  his  military  severities  in  Ireland 
and  Scotland  ;  "  sometimes  this  harshness  with  which  you  reproach 
me  has  been  productive  of  good  ;  although  not  easily  made  evident, 
it  is  inspired  by  charity  and  zeal  !  I  beseech  you  to  recognize  in  me 
a  man  sincere 'in  the  Lord."  "  O  Lord  !"  he  concludes,  "  I  beseech 
thee,  turn  not  thy  face  and  thy  mercy  from  my  eyes  !  Adieu. " 

On  another  occasion  he  addressed  his  wife  as  follows  :  "  I  cannot 
suffer  this  courier  to  depart  without  a  word  for  you,  although,  in 
truth,  1  have  little  to  write,  but  I  do  so  for  the  sake  of  writing  to  my 
well-beloved  wife,  whose  image  is  always  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart 


58  OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

May  the  Lord  multiply  his  blessings  upon  you.  The  great  and  only 
good  that  your  soul  can  desire  is  that  the  Lord  should  spread  over 
you  the  light  of  his  strength,  which  is  of  more  value  than  life  itself. 
May  his  blessing  light  on  your  instructions  and  example  to  our  dear 
children.  Pray  for  your  attached  Oliver." 

His  son-in-law,  Fleetwood,  one  of  the  lieutenants  he  had  left  in 
command  in  Scotland  with  Monk,  shared  equally  in  these  effusions, 
at  once  affectionate  and  theological.  After  expressing  his  grief  fit 
being  necessarily  separated  by  business  from  that  portion  of  his 
family,  he  says,  in  writing  to  him,  "  Embrace  your  beloved  wife  for 
rne,  and  caution  her  to  take  care  (in  her  piety)  of  nourishing  a  servile 
heart.  Servility  produces  fear,  the  opposite  of  love.  Poor  Biddy  : 
I  know  that  is  her  weak  point.  Love  reasons  very  differently. 
What  a  father  we  possess  in  and  through  the  Saviour  !  He  desig- 
nates himself  the  merciful,  the  patient,  the  bestower  of  all  grace,  the 
pardoner  of  all  faults  and  transgressions  !  Truly  the  love  of  God  is 
sublime  !  Remember  me  to  my  son  Henry  ;  I  pray  incessantly  that 
he  may  increase  and  fortify  himself  in  the  love  of  the  Lord.  Remem- 
ber me  to  all  the  officers." 

Everything  succeeded  with  Cromwell,  and  he  attributed  all  the 
glory  and  prosperity  of  the  republic  to  heaven.  There  is  no  evi- 
dence, either  public  or  private,  which  betrays  any  desire  on  his  part 
to  establish  his  fortune  and  power  by  a  change  in  his  title  of  general, 
or  in  the  voluntary  submission  of  the  parliament,  the  army,  and  the 
people.  History,  which  ultimately  knows  and  reveals  everything, 
has  discovered  nothing  in  Cromwell  at  this  epoch  but  an  extreme  re- 
pugnance against  elevating  himself  to  a  higher  position.  It  is  evi- 
dent from  his  own  expressions  that  he  sought  God  in  his  will,  and 
the  oracle  of  God  in  events.  Neither  were  sufficiently  explained  to 
him.  Equally  ready  to  descend  or  rise,  he  waited  for  the  command 
or  the  inspiration.  Both  came  from  the  natural  instability  of  the 
people  and  the  ambitious  impatience  of  the  army. 

The  long  parliament  of  five  years'  duration,  christened,  by  one  of 
those  contemptuous  designations  which  mark  popular  disgust,  The 
Rump,  a  term  suggested  by  its  apparently  interminable  sessions  upon 
the  benches  of  Westminster,  had  thoroughly  wearied  out  the  people 
of  England.  The  long  harangues  of  the  puritans,  the  bigoted  dis- 
courses of  the  saints,  the  personal  unpopularity  of  the  demagogues, 
the  anti-social  absurdities  of  the  Levellers,  the  murder  of  an  innocent 
and  heroic  monarch,  which  penetrated  the  conscience  of  the  nation, 
with  remorse,  the  imposts  and  slaughters  of  the  civil  war  ;  finally, 
the  heaviness  of  that  anonymous  tyranny  which  the  people  endured 
more  impatiently  than  the  autocracy  of  a  glorious  name— all  these 
combined  objections  fell  back  in  accumulated  odium  and  ridicule  on 
the  parliament. 

Cromwell  had  had  the  art,  or  rather  the  good  fortune,  to  act  white 


OLIVER  CROMWELL.  59 

the  parliament  talked,  to  strengthen  himself  as  they  became  weak,  to 
leave  on  them  the  responsibility  of  crime,  and  to  attribute  to  himself 
the  advantages  of  victory.  The  parliament,  unconscious  of  weak- 
ness, began  to  writhe  under  a  master.  Five  or  six  influential  repub- 
licans thought  to  compass  the  fall  of  Cromwell.  Sir  Henry  Vane,  their 
principal  orator,  disputed  altogether  the  intervention  of  military 
authority.  His  speech  was  received  with  significant  applause,  which 
sounded  like  a  menace  to  the  army.  The  principal  leaders  present 
in  London,  foreseeing  the  danger,  united  together,  and  petitioned 
Cromwell  to  insist  on  the  dissolution  of  this  corrupted  senate.  Crom- 
well, who  has  been  accused  of  suggesting  the  petition  to  the  army, 
had  no  participation  in  the  act.  It  is  never  necessary  to  suggest  am. 
bition  to  generals,  or  despotism  to  soldiers.  The  petition  was  too 
plain  to  be  mistaken.  The  strife  between  the  army  and  the  parlia- 
ment was  hastening  to  the  issue.  The  victory  of  either  would  equally 
sweep  away  Cromwell,  if  he  persisted  in  remaining  neuter.  "  Take 
care  ;  stop  this  in  time,  or  it  will  prove  a  very  serious  affair,"  whis- 
pered in  a  low  voice  Bulstrode,  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends, 
while  the  officers  were  haranguing  on  their  petition.  Cromwell  hesi- 
tated to  decide,  and  confined  himself  to  thanking  their  orator  for  the 
zeal  demonstrated  by  the  army  in  the  public  safety.  Night  and  re- 
flection suggested  to  him  the  course  he  should  pursue.  He  attempt- 
ed to  bring  about  an  accommodation  between  the  army  and  the  parlia- 
ment, in  a  conference  held  in  his  presence.  The  parliament  filled  up 
iht  xUll  measure  of  their  demands  by  requiring  a  permanent  com- 
mittee, chosen  from  the  present  members,  who  should  ratify  or 
inval:  3ate,  at  their  own  pleasure,  all  future  elections. 

"  This  is  too  much  !"  exclaimed  Cromwell,  at  last,  and  still  un- 
decided, when  he  was  informed  of  this  unqualified  proposal.  It  was 
on  the  20th  S  April,  early  in  the  morning  ;  he  was  walking  up  and 
down  his  room,  dressed  in  black,  with  gray  stockings.  He  came 
forth  in  this  simple  costume,  crying  out  to  all  he  encountered,  "  This 
is  unjust !  It  is  dishonest !  It  is  not  even  the  commonest  honesty. " 
As  he  passed  by  he  ordered  an  officer  of  his  guards  to  repair  with 
three  hundred  soldiers  to  Westminster  and  take  possession  of  all  the 
avenues  to  the  palace.  He  entered  himself,  and  sat  down  in  his  usual 
place,  apparently  listening  for  some  time  in  silence  to  the  debutes. 
The  republican  orators  and  members  were  at  that  moment  speaking 
in  favor  of  the  bill,  which  was  to  assure  the  perpetuity  of  their 
power,  by  giving  them  arbitrary  control  over  all  future  elections. 
The  bill  was  going  to  be  put  to  the  question,  when  Cromwell,  as  it' 
he  had  waited  the  moment  to  strike  the  whole  body  at  the  crisis  of 
their  iniquitous  tyranny,  raised  his  head,  hitherto  reclined  between 
his  hands,  and  made  a  sign  to  Harrison,  his  most  fanatical  follower, 
to  come  and  sit  close  to  him.  Harrison  obeyed  the  signal.  Crom. 
well  remained  silent  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then,  as  il 
•vwldwnly  yielding,  in  his  own  despite,  to  an  internal  impulse,  which 


60  OLIVER   CROMWKLI,. 

conquered  all  hesitation  in  his  soul,  exclaimed  to  Harrison,  "  The 
moment  has  arrived  !  I  feel  it !"  He  rose,  advanced  toward  the 
president,  laid  his  hat  upon  the  table,  and  prepared  to  speak  amid 
the  profound  silence  and  consternation  of  his  colleagues.  According 
to  his  ordinary  custom,  his  slow  phraseology,  obscure,  embarrassed, 
;ncoherent,  full  of  circumlocution  and  parentheses,  rambling  from 
one  point  to  another,  and  loaded  with  repetitions,  rendered  his  train 
of  thought  and  reasoning  almost  unintelligible.  He  began  by  such  a 
warm  eulogium  on  the  services  which  the  parliament  had  rendered  to 
the  cause  of  liberty  and  free  conscience,  and  to  the  country  in  gen- 
eral, that  the  members  who  had  proposed  the  bill  expecred  that  he 
was  going  to  side  with  them  in  its  favor.  Murmurs  of  encourage- 
ment and  satisfaction  arose  from  the  republican  party  as  he  paused 
on  an  emphatic  period  ;  when  suddenly,  as  if  long-suppressed  anger 
had  at  last  mastered  his  thoughts,  and  inflamed  the  words  upon  his 
lips,  he  resumed,  and  looking  with  a  stern  and  contemptuous  air  on 
the  fifty-seven  members  who  on  that  day  composed  the  entire  parlia 
ment,  passed  at  once  by  rapid  transition  from  flatterv  to  insult.  He 
enumerated  all  the  cringing  baseness  and  insolence  of  that  corrupt 
body,  alternately  practised  for  revolt  or  servitude,  and  fulminated 
against  them,  in  the  name  of  God  and  the  people,  a  sentence  of  con- 
demnation. 

At  these  unexpected  invectives,  for  which  his  complimentary  exor- 
dium had  so  little  prepared  them,  the  members  rose  in  a  burst  of  in- 
dignation. The  president,  worthy  of  his  office  by  his  courage,  com- 
manded him  to  be  silent.  Wentworth,  one  of  the  most  illustrious 
and  influential  of  the  extreme  party  by  his  personal  character,  de- 
manded that  he  should  be  called  to  order.  "This  language,"  said 
he,  "  is  as  extraordinary  as  criminal  in  the  mouth  of  a  man  who  yes- 
terday possessed  our  entire  confidence,  whom  we  have  honored  with 
the  highest  functions  of  the  republic  !  of  a  man  wno — "  Cromwell 
would  not  suffer  him  to  conclude.  "Go  to  !  go  to  i"  exclaimed  he 
in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  we  have  had  enough  of  words  like  these.  It 
is  time  to  put  an  end  to  all  this,  and  to  silence  these  babblers  !"  Then, 
advancing  to  the  middle  of  the  hall,  and  placing  his  hat  on  his  head 
with  a  gesture  of  defiance,  he  stamped  upon  the  floor,  and  cried 
aloud,  "  You  are  no  longer  a  parliament  !  You  shall  not  sit  here  a 
single  hour  longer  !  Make  room  for  better  men  than  yourselves  !" 
At  these  words,  Harrison,  instructed  by  a  glance  from  the  general,  dis- 
appeared, and  returned  in  a  moment  after  at  the  head  of  thirty  soldiers, 
veterans  of  the  long  civil  wars,  who  surrounded  Cromwell  with  their 
naked  weapons.  These  men,  hired  by  the  parliament,  hesitated  not 
at  the  command  of  their  leader  to  turn  their  arms  against  those  who 
had  placed  them  in  their  hands,  and  furnished  another  example,  fol- 
lowing the  Rubicon  of  Cajsar,  to  prove  the  incompatibility  of  freedom 
with  standing  armies.  "  Miserable  wretches  1"  resumed  Cromwell, 
as  if  violence  without  insult  was  insufficient  for  his  anger,  "  you  cal/ 


OLIVER  CROMWELL.  61 

yourselves  a  parliament !  You  ! — no,  you  are  nothing  but  a  mass  of 
tipplers  and  libertines  !  Thou,"  he  continued,  pointing  with  his  fin- 
ger to  the  most  notorious  profligates  in  the  assembly,  as  they  passed 
him  in  their  endeavors  to  escape  from  tlie  hall,  "  thou  art  a  drunk- 
ard !  Thou  art  an  adulterer  !  Anrl  th<m  art  a  hireling,  paid  for  thy 
speeches  !  You  are  all  scandalous  sinners,  who  bring  shame  on  the 
gospel  !  And  you  fancied  yourselves  a  fitting  parliament  for  God's 
people  !  No,  no,  begone  !  let  me  hear  no  more  of  you  !  The  Lord 
rejects  you  !" 

During  these  apostrophes,  the  members,  forced  by  the  soldiers, 
were  driven  or  dragged  from  the  hall.  Cromwell  returned  toward 
the  table,  and  lifting  with  a  contemptuous  air  the  silver  mace,  the 
venerated  symbol  of  parliamentary  sovereignty,  showed  it  to  Harri- 
son, and  said,  "  What  shall  we  do  with  this  bauble  ?  Take  it  away. " 
One  of  the  soldiers  stepped  forward  and  obeyed  him.  Cromwell 
turned  round  and  saw  behind  him  Lenthall,  the  speaker  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  who,  faithful  to  his  delegated  duty,  retained  his  place 
and  refused  to  surrender  up  right  to  force,  "  Descend  from  that 
seat,"  cried  aloud  the  Dictator.  "I  shall  not  abandon  the  post  the 
parliament  has  confided  to  me,"  replied  Lenthall,  "  until  I  am  com- 
pelled by  violence."  At  these  words  Harrison  rushed  forward, 
dragged  him  from  his  chair,  and  thrust  him  into  the  midst  of  the 
soldiers. 

Cromwell  carried  away  the  keys  of  Westminster  Hall  in  his 
pocket.  "  I  do  not  hear  a  dog  bark  in  the  city,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend 
a  few  days  afterward.  The  long  parliament,  so  powerful  to  destroy, 
proved  itself  impotent  to  re-establish.  The  civil  war  excited  by  this 
very  parliament  had  produced  the  never-failing  consequences  ;  it  hud 
substituted  the  army  for  the  people,  and  had  created  a  dictatorship  in 
the  place  of  a  government.  It  had  extinguished  right  and  inaugu- 
rated force.  A  single  man  had  taken  the  place  of  the  couutry. 

This  individual  was  Cromwell.  Men  always  gain  credit  from  the 
force  of  events  and  the  power  of  circumstances.  Results  which  are 
ofttin  the  effect  of  chance  are  supposed  to  be  achieved  by  long 
concerted  ambition,  slow  premeditation,  and  wily  combinations. 
Everything  unites  in  this  instance  to  show,  on  the  contrary,  that  the 
outrage  of^Cromwell  against  the  Commons  was  unpremeditated,  that 
he  was  urged  on  to  it  by  the  influence  of  passing  occurrences,  by  the 
people  and  the  army,  and  that  he  was  decided  at  the  last  moment  by 
that  internal  feeling  which  Socrates  called  his  demon,  Caesar  his 
counsellor,  Mahomet  his  angel  Gabriel,  and  Cromwell  his  inspiration 
— that  divinity  of  great  instincts  which  strikes  conviction  to  the 
mind  and  sounds  the  hour  in  the  ear.  The  laborious  efforts  made 
by  Cromwell  to  reconcile  on  the  preceding  evening  the  parliament 
and  the  army  ;  the  new  parliament  that  he  convoked  on  the  following 
day,  and  to  which  he  transferred  all  legislative  authority,  without 
even  reserving  to  himself  the  right  of  sanctioning  the  laws  ;  and 


62  OLlYEft  CftOMWELL. 

finally  a  political  conversation  which  took  place  some  days  before 
with  closed  doors  between  him  and  his  leading  advisers  in  these 
matters — all  appeared  to  attest  that  this  thunderclap  emanated  spon- 
taneously from  an  accumulation  of  clouds. 

Cromwell  and  his  council  occupied  themselves  at  this  debate  in 
seeking  out,  amid  the  wrecks  of  the  destroyed  monarchy,  the  ele- 
ments of  a  parliamentary  constitution.  The  members  present  were 
Cromwell,  Harrison,  his  disciple  ;  Desborough,  Cromwell's  brother-in- 
law  ;  Oliver  Cromwell,  his  cousin  ;  Whilelocke,  his  friend  ;  Widdring- 
ton,  an  eminent  orator  and  statesman  of  the  Commons  ;  the  speaker 
of  the  House,  Lenthall,  and  several  other  officers  or  members,  en- 
lightened republicans. 

"  It  is  proposed,"  said  Harrison,  "  to  consider  together,  in  concert 
with  the  general,  how  we  should  organize  a  government." 

"The  great  question  is,  in  fact,"  said  Whitelocke,"  whether  we 
shall  constitute  absolute  republicanism  or  a  republic  combined  with 
some  of  the  elements  of  monarchy  ?" 

"  Just  so,"  said  Cromwell ;  "  shall  we  then  establish  a  complete  re- 
public, or  one  qualified  by  some  monarchical  principles  and  monar- 
chical authority  ?  And  in  the  "latter  case,  in  whose  hands  shall  we 
place  the  power  thus  borrowed  from  the  crown  ?" 

Widdrington  argued  for  a  mixed  government,  which  should  com- 
bine republican  liberty  and  monarchical  authority,  and  that  the  latter 
should  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  its  natural  possessor,  one  of  the  sons 
of  the  decapitated  king.  Widdrington,  who  was  a  flatterer,  and  of 
a  gentle  disposition,  would  not  have  made  such  a  proposal  before 
Cromwell  if  he  could  have  divined  that  the  dictator  possessed  an  in- 
satiable ambition  in  himself,  which  would  never  allow  him  to  pardon 
this  suggestion. 

"  It  is  a  delicate  question,"  said  Fleetwood,  without  compromising 
himself  further. 

The  lord  chancellor,  St.  John,  declaied  that  in  his  opinion,  unless 
they  desired  to  undermine  all  (he  old  laws  and  customs  of  the  nation, 
a  large  portion  of  monarchical  power  would  be  necessary  in  any  gov- 
ernment that  they  might  eslablish. 

"  There  would,  in  fact,  be  a  strange  overturning  of  all  things,"  said 
the  speaker,  "  if  in  our  government  there  were  not  something  of  the 
monarchical  character." 

Desborough,  Cromwell's  relative  and  a  colonel  in  the  army,  de- 
clared that  he  saw  no  reason  why  England  should  not  govern  itself 
on  republican  principles,  after  the  example  of  so  many  other  am  lent 
and  modern  nations. 

Colonel  Whalley  pronounced  wilh  his  military  colleague  in  favor 
of  pure  republicanism.  "  The  eldest  son  of  our  king  is  in  arms 
agtiinst  us,"  said  he  ;  "  his  second  son  is  equally  our  enemy,  and  yet 
you  (id i berate." 

"  But  the  king's  third  son,  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  is  in  our 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  63 

hands,"  rejoined  Widdrington  ;  "he  is  too  young  to  have  raised  his 
hand  against  us,  or  to  have  been  infected  by  the  principles  of  our 
enemies." 

"  The  two  eldest  sons  can  be  summoned  to  attend  the  parliament 
upon  an  appointed  day,  and  debate  with  them  upon  the  conditions  of 
a  free  monarchical  government, ' '  said  Whitelocke,  without  fearing  to 
offend  Cromwell. 

Cromwell,  hitherto  silent  and  unmoved,  now  spoke  in  his  turn. 
"  That  would  be  a  difficult  negotiation,"  said  he  ;  "  nevertheless  I  do 
not  think  it  would  be  impossible,  provided  our  rights  as  Englishmen 
as  well  as  Christians  are  secured  ;  and  I  am  convinced  that  a  liberal 
constitution,  with  a  strong  dose  of  monarchical  principles  in  it,  would 
be  the  salvation  of  England  and  religion." 

Still  they  arrived  at  no  conclusion.  Cromwell  appeared  to  lean 
toward  the  republic  consolidated  by  monarchical  authority,  confided 
to  one  of  the  king's  sons  ;  a  government  which  would  have  assured 
to  himself  the  long  guardianship  of  a  child,  and  to  the  country  the 
peaceable  transmission  of  national  power  and  liberty. 

A  council,  entirely  selected  by  him  from  his  partisans  and  most 
fanatical  friends  assembled,  and  constituted  a  republican  form  of 
government  under  a  protector. 

One  individual  alone  possessed  all  the  executive  power  for  life  ; 
this  was  Cromwell :  and  one  elected  body  retained  all  the  legislative 
authority  ;  this  was  the  parliament.  Such  was  in  its  simplicity  the 
whole  mechanism  of  the  English  constitution — an  actual  dictator, 
With  a  more  acceptable  and  specious  name,  which  disguised  servitude 
under  the  appearance  of  confidence,  and  power  under  that  of 
equality. 

All  the  prerogatives  of  royalty  devolved  upon  Cromwell,  even  that, 
of  dissolving  parliament  and  of  appointing  a  new  election  in  case  of 
a  conflict  between  the  two  powers.  He  had,  moreover,  the  almost 
dynastic  privilege  of  naming  his  successor.  He  had  sons  ;  what, 
therefore,  was  wanting  to  his  actual  royalty  but  the  crown  ?  Cromwell 
sufficiently  showed  by  the  ten  years  of  his  absolute  government  that 
he  was  far  from  desiring  it,  Though  he  felt  himself  the  elect  of  God, 
chosen  by  inspiration  to  govern  his  people,  he  by  no  means  felt  tha' 
the  same  inspiration  extended  to  his  family.  He  took  only  from  the 
nation  that  which  he  believed  he  received  from  heaven— the  responsi- 
bility  of  governing  for  life— trusting  the  rest  to  other  divine  inspira- 
tions which  would  raise  up  successors  equally  inspired  with  himself. 

In  studying  attentively  his  conduct,  we  find  bis  entire  sect  revealed 
in  his  politics.  It  was  then  more  difficult  for  him  to  elude  the  title 
of  king  than  to  accept  it.  The  parliament  would  gladly  have  placed 
him  on  the  throne  to  fortify  themselves  against  the  army  ;  the  army 
almost  forced  it  upon  him  to  deliver  themselves  from  the  parliament. 
In  Cromwell's  speeches  before  the  newly-elected  house,  we  find  tho 
truth  of  all  his  self-denial.  Far  from  desiring  a  higher  title,  he  even 


64  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

tried  to  release  himself  from  that  of  protector,  which  he  had  been 
forced  to  accept. 

"  The  members  of  the  council,  of  the  Commons,  and  of  the  army, 
who  have  debated,"  said  he,  "  in  ray  absence  upon  this  constitution, 
did  not  communicate  their  plan  to  me  until  it  had  been  deliberately 
and  ripely  considered  by  them.  I  opposed  repeated  delays  and  re- 
fusals to  their  proposals'  They  showed  me  plainly  that  if  I  did  not 
change  the  present  government  all  would  be  involved  in  confusion, 
ruin,  and  civil  war  ;  I  was,  therefore,  obliged  to  consent,  in  spite  of 
my  great  repugnance,  to  assume  a  new  title.  All  went  well.  I 
wished  for  no  more  ;  I  was  satisfied  with  my  position.  I  possessed 
arbitrary  power  in  the  general  command  of  the  national  army  ;  and 
I  venture  to  say,  with  the  approbation  of  both  army  and  people.  I 
believe,  in  all  sincerity,  that  1  should  have  been  more  acceptable  to 
them  if  I  had  remained  as  I  was,  and  had  declined  this  title  of  pro- 
tector. I  call  upon  the  members  of  this  assembly,  the  officers  of  the 
army,  and  the  people,  to  bear  witness  to  my  resistance,  even  to  the 
point  of  doing  violence  to  my  own  feelings.  Let  them  speak  ;  let 
them  proclaim  this.  It  has  not  been  done  in  a  corner,  but  in  open 
day,  and  applauded  by  a  large  majority  of  the  nation.  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  believed  on  my  own  word,  to  be  my  own  witness  ;  let  the  peo- 
ple of  England  be  my  testimonies  !  However,  I  swear  to  uphold  this 
constitution,  and  consent  to  be  dragged  upon  a  hurdle  from  my  tomb, 
and  buried  in  infamy,  if  I  suffer  it  to  be  violated.  We  are  lost  in  dis- 
putes carried  on  in  the  name  of  the  liberty  of  Enr/land!  This  liberty 
God  alone  can  give  to  us.  Henceforward  none  are  privileged  before 
God  or  man.  The  plenitude  of  legislative  power  belongs  to  us.  I 
am  bound  to  obey  you  if  you  do  not  listen  to  my  remonstrances  ;  I 
shall  first  remark  upon  your  laws,  and  then  I  must  submit." 

He  kept  his  word  faithfully  ;  he  only  reserved  his  inspiration  as  his 
sole  prerogative  ;  and  as  often  as  he  saw  the  spirit  of  resistance,  of 
faction,  or  of  languor  in  his  Houses  of  Commons,  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  dissolve  them  as  he  had  dissolved  their  predecessor,  the  long  par- 
liament. 

The  confined  space  that  the  nature  of  this  work  imposes  on  the  his- 
torian obliges  us  to  pass  over  some  of  the  less  important  acts  of  his 
administration.  This  interregnum  added  more  strength  and  pros- 
perity to  England  than  the  nation  had  ever  experienced  under  her 
.Miost  illustrious  monarchs.  Factions  had  recognized  the  aulhoiity  of 
the  leader  of  factions.  Nothing  is  more  compliant  or  more:  servile 
than  subjugated  parties.  As  they  are  generally  endowed  with  in  >:•<: 
insolence  than  strength,  and  more  passion  than  patriotism,  when  im- 
passion is  exhausted  within  them  factious  resemble  balloons,  whi-.-h 
appear  to  occupy  a  large  space  in  the  heavens,  and  are  confounded, 
with  the  stars  when  they  ascend  in  their  inflation  ,  but  when  the  gH 
evaporates  they  fall  collapsed  to  the  ground,  and  a  child  may  ID!  i 
them  in  ita  hand.  True  patriotism  and  the  real  spirit  of  liberty  wore 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  (15 

hot  annihilated  even  by  the  ter  years'  eclipse  of  parliamentary  fac- 
tions. 

The  English  nation,  proud  of  having  so  long  banished  kings  with- 
out being  lowered  in  the  eyes  of  Europe,  and  without  internal 
divisions,  only  recalled  their  monarchs  upon  the  understanding  that 
those  prerogatives  and  dignities  of  the  people  were  secured  which 
made  England  a  true  representative  republic,  with  a  royal  and  hered- 
itary protector,  the  crowning  glory  of  this  free  government.  The 
idea  was  borrowed  from  Cromwell  himself,  as  we  have  seen  in  his 
conference  with  his  friends.  He  ruled  as  a  patriot,  who  only  thought 
of  the  greatness  and  power  of  his  country,  and  not  as  a  king,  who 
would  liave  been  reduced  to  temporize  with  different  parties  or  courts 
for  the  interests  of  his  kingdom.  He  had,  moreover,  through  the 
supreme  power  of  the  republic,  the  strength  to  accomplish  that  which 
was  beyond  the  power  of  kings.  Republics  bring  an  increase  of 
vigor  to  the  nation.  This  increase  multiplies  the  energy  of  the  gov- 
ernment by  the  collected  energy  of  the  people.  They  do  not  even 
find  that  impossible  which  has  palsied  the  resolution  of  twenty  mon- 
archies. Anonymous  and  irresponsible,  they  accomplish  by  the 
hands  of  all,  revolutions,  changes,  and  enterprises,  such  as  no  single 
royalty  could  ever  venture  to  dream  of. 

It  was  thus  that  Cromwell  had  conquered  a  king,  subjugated  an 
aristocracy,  put  an  end  to  religious  war,  crushed  the  Levellers,  re- 
pressed the  parliament,  established  liberty  of  conscience,  disciplined 
the  army,  formed  the  navy,  triumphed  by  sea  over  Holland,  Soam, 
and  the  Genoese,  conquered  Jamaica  and  those  colonies  since  become 
empires  in  the  New  World;  obtained  possession  of  Dunkirk,  coun- 
terbalanced the  power  of  France,  and  obliged  the  ministers  of  the 
youthful  Louis  the  Fourteenth  to  make  concessions  and  alliances 
with  him  ;  and  finally,  by  his  lieutenants  or  in  person,  annexed  lie- 
land  and  Scotland  to  England  so  irrevocably  that  he  accomplished 
the  union  of  the  British  empire  by  this  federation  of  three  discordant, 
kingdoms,  whose  struggles,  alliances,  skirmishes,  and  quarrels  con- 
tained the  germ  of  eternal  weakness,  and  threatened  destruction  to 
the  whole  fabric.  The  revolution  lent  him  its  aid  to  put  down  des- 
potism on  the  one  hand  and  factious  on  the  other,  and  to  accomplish 
a  complete  nationality. 

All  this  was  accomplished  in  ten  years,  under  the  name  of  a  dicta- 
tor ;  but  in  reality  by  the  power  of  the  republic,  which,  to  effect 
these  great  works,  had  become  concentrated,  incarnated,  and  disci- 
plined in  his  single  person.  This  might  have  occurred  in  France  in 
1790,  if  the  French  Revolution  had  selected  a  dictator  for  life  from 
one  of  the  great  revolutionists  animated  by  fanaticism,  such  as  Mira- 
beau,  Lafayette,  or  Danton,  instead  of  confiding  to  a  soldier  the  task 
of  forming  a  new  empire  upon  the  old  foundations. 

A  domestic  misfortune  struck  Cromwell  to  the  heart  at  this  exalted 
epoch  of  his  life  ;  and  we  are  astonished  to  behold  the  man  moved  to 


66  OLIVER  CBOMWiLL. 

tears  who  had  witnessed  with  dry  eyes  the  unfortunate  Charles  the 
First  torn  from  his  children's  arms  to  perish  on  the  scaffold.  He 
lost  his  mother  at  the  advanced  age  of  ninety-four.  This  was  the 
Elizabeth  Stuart,  a  descendant  of  that  race  of  kings  which  her  sou 
had  dethroned.  She  was  sincerely  religious,  mother  of  a  numerous 
family,  the  source  of  their  piety  and  the  nurse  of  their  virtues  ;  she 
inspired  them  with  a  lively  passion  for  the  liberty  of  conscience, 
which  their  sect  upheld,  and  enjoyed,  in  the  full  possession  of  her 
faculties,  the  mortal  fame,  but  above  all  the  heavenly  glory,  of  the 
greatest  of  her  sons,  the  Maccabasus  of  her  faith.  Cromwell,  iu  all 
his  greatness,  respected  and  regarded  his  mother  as  the  root  of  his 
heart,  his  belief,  and  his  destiny. 

"  The  Lord  Protector's  mother"  (wrote  at  this  date,  1654,  the  pri- 
vate secretary  of  Cromwell,  Thurloe),  "  died  last  night,  nearly  a  cen- 
tury old.  At  the  moment  when  she  was  about  to  expire  she  sum- 
moned her  son  to  her  bedside,  and  extending  her  hands  to  bless  him, 
said,  '  May  the  splendor  of  the  Lord's  countenance  continually  shine 
upon  you,  my  son.  May  he  sustain  you  in  adversity,  and  render 
your  strength  equal  to  the  great  things  which  the  Most  Mighty  has 
charged  you  to  accomplish,  to  the  glory  of  his  holy  name  and  the 
welfare  of  his  people.  My  dear  son,'  added  she,  dwelling  on  that 
name  in  which  she  gloried  even  in  her  dying  moments ;  '  my  dear 
son,  I  leave  my  spirit  and  my  heart  with  you  ;  farewell !  farewell  i ' 
and  she  fell  back,"  continued  Thurloe,  "uttering  her  lust  sigh." 
Cromwell  burst  into  tears,  like  a  man  wyho  had  lost  a  portion  of  the 
light  which  illuminated  his  darkness.  His  mother,  who  loved  him 
as  a  son,  and  respected  him  as  the  chosen  instrument  of  God,  lived 
with  him  at  the  palace  of  Whitehall,  but  in  a  retired  and  unadorned 
apartment,  "not  wishing,"  as  she  said,  "to  appropriate  to  herself 
and  her  other  children  that  splendor  which  the  Lord  had  conferred 
upon  him  alone  ;"  but  which  resembled  only  the  furniture  of  an 
hotel,  to  which  she  did  not  .desire  to  attach  her  heart  or  to  rely 
upon  it  for  the  future  subsistence  of  her  family.  Anxious  cares  dis- 
turbed her  days  and  nights  in  this  regal  palace,  and  she  regretted  her 
simple  country  farm  in  the  principality  of  Wales. 

The  hatred  of  the  royalists,  the  jealousy  of  the  republicans,  the 
anger  of  the  Levellers,  the  sombre  fanaticism  of  the  Presbyterians, 
the  vengeance  of  the  Irish  and  Scotch,  the  plots  of  the  parliament, 
always  present  to  her  mind,  showed  her  the  poniard  or  the  pistol  of 
the  assassin  aimed  incessantly  at  the  heart  of  her  son.  Although 
she  had  formerly  been  courageous,  she  could  not  latterly  hear  the 
report  of  firearms  in  the  court  without  shuddering  and  running  to 
Cromwell's  apartments,  to  assure  herself  of  his  safety.  Cromwell 
caused  his  mother  to  be  buried  with  the  funeral  obsequies  of  a  queen, 
more  as  a  proof  of  his  filial  piety  than  of  his  ostentation.  She  was 
interred  in  the  midst  of  royal  and  illustrious  dust,  under  the  porch  of 
Westminster  Abbey,  the  St.  Denis  of  British  dynasties  and  departed 
heroism. 


OLIVER  CROMWELL.  67 

Cromwell  had  himself  thought  for  some  years  that  he  should  per- 
ish by  assassination.  He  wore  a  cuirass  under  his  clothes,  and  car- 
ried defensive  arms  within  reach  of  his  hand.  He  never  slept  long 
in  the  same  room  in  the  palace,  continually  changing  his  bed-cham- 
ber to  mislead  domestic  treason  and  military  plots.  A  despot,  he 
suffered  the  punishment  of  tyranny.  The  unseen  weight  of  the 
hatred  which  he  had  accumulated  weighed  upon  his  imagination 
and  disturbed  his  sleep.  The  least  murmuring  in  the  army  appeared 
to  him  like  the  presage  of  a  rebellion  against  his  power.  Sometimes 
he  punished,  sometimes  he  caressed  those  of  his  lieutenants  whom  he 
suspected  would  revolt.  He  encouraged  "Warwick,  flattered  Fair 
fax,  subdued  Ireton.  with  much  difficulty  reconciled  the  republican 
Fleetwood,  who  had  married  one  of  his  daughters,  also  a  republican 
and  as  strongly  opposed  to  the  dictator  as  her  husband  ;  he  banished 
Monk  ;  he  trembled  before  the  intriguing  spirit  and  popularity  of 
Lambert,  a  general  who  one  moment  sought  to  join  the  royalists,  the 
next  the  republicans,  and,  finally,  the  malcontents  of  the  army.  He 
feared  to  wound  or  alienate  the  military  section  by  dealing  harshly 
with  this  ambitious  soldier.  He  compensated  for  the  command  he 
took  from  him  by  a  pocketful  of  money,  which  secured  his  obedi- 
ence through  the  powerful  bonds  of  corruption.  But  parties  were 
too  much  divided  in  England  to  combine  in  a  mortal  conspiracy 
against  the  dictator,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Roman  senate  against 
Caesar.  The  one  was  a  check  and  spy  upon  the  other.  Cromwell 
was  permitted  to  live  because  none  felt  certain  that  they  should 
profit  by  his  death.  Nevertheless  he  was  conscious  of  his  unpopu- 
larity ;  his  modest  ambition  and  his  ten  speeches  to  the  different  par- 
liaments during  the  interregnum  attest  the  efforts,  sometimes  humil- 
iating, to  which  he  descended  to  obtain  pardon  for  having  seized  the 
supreme  power.  We  should  be  incapable  of  understanding  the  man 
if  we  were  not  acquainted  with  his  style.  The  soul  speaks  in  the 
tongue.  We  comprehend  a  few  sentences  iu  this  deluge  of  phrase- 
ology. The  meaning  seems  confounded  in  a  mass  of  verbiage,  alter- 
nately cringing  and  imperious.  We  see  throughout,  the  fanner 
promoted  to  the  throne  and  the  sectarian  converting  the  tribune 
into  a  pulpit  to  preach  to  his  congregations  after  he  has  subdued 
them.  "  What  had  become,"  said  he,  in  his  first  speech  to  the 
united  representatives  of  the  three  kingdoms  alter  the  dissolution  of 
the  long  parliament ;  "  what  had  become,  before  your  time,  of  those, 
fundamental  privileges  of  England,  liberty  of  conscience  and  liberty 
of  citizenship  ?  Two  possessions,  for  which  it  is  as  honorable  and 
just  to  coatend  as  for  any  of  the  benefits  which  God  has  vouchsafed 
to  us  on  earth.  Formerly  the  Bible  c'mld  not  be  printed  without  the 
permission  of  a  magistrate  !  Was  not  that  placing  the  free  faith  of 
the  people  at  the  mercy  of  the  legislative  authority?  Was  it  not 
denying  civil  and  religious  liberty  to  this  nation,  who  have  received 
tfcose  unalienable  rights  with  theii1  blood  ?  Who  now  shall  dare  to 


68  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

impose  such  restrictions  on  the  public  conscience  ?"  He  fulminated, 
more  in  the  tone  of  a  prophet  than  a  statesman,  against  the  "  fifth 
monarchy  men,"  a  religious  and  political  sect  who  announced  the  im- 
mediate reign  of  Christ  upon  earth,  returning  in  person  to  govern  hia 
chosen  people.  It  was  even  asserted  that  he  had  already  appeared  in 
the  flesh,  in  the  person  of  a  young  adventurer,  who  had  caused  him- 
self to  be  worshipped  under  the  sacred  name  of  Jesus.  Then  sud- 
denly he  passed  without  preparation  to  his  joy  at  seeing  before  him 
a  parliament  freely  elected.  "  Yes,"  declared  he,  with  warm  satis- 
faction, "  I  see  before  me  a  free  parliament  !  Let  us  now  discuss 
a  little  the  state  of  public  affairs."  He  then  proceeded  to  detail 
the  progress  and  success  of  his  operations  in  Holland,  France,  Spain, 
and  Portugal  Finally,  he  dismissed  them  with  a  paternal  air, 
declaring  that  he  should  pray  for  them,  and  enjoining  every  man  to 
return  quickly  to  iiis  own  abode,  and  reflect  on  the  excellent  manage, 
ment  of  public  affairs,  which  he  was  going  to  submit  tor  their  con- 
sideration. 

In  the  following  speech  he  dwells  bitterly  on  the  heavy  yoke 
which  the  public  safety  imposes  on  him,  so  contrary  to  his  own  de- 
sire. "  I  declare  to  you,'  he  said,  "  in  the  candor  of  my  soul,  that  I 
love  not  the  post  in  which  I  am  placed.  I  have  said  this  already  in 
my  previous  interviews  with  you.  Yes,  I  have  said  to  you  I  have 
but  one  desire,  namely,  to  enjoy  the  same  liberty  with  others,  to  re- 
tire into  private  life,  to  be  relieved  from  my  charge.  I  have  de- 
manded this  again  and  again  !  And  let  God  judge  between  me  and 
my  fellow-men  if  I  have  uttered  falsehood  in  saying  so  !  Many  here 
can  attest  that  I  lie  not  !  But  if  I  spiak  falsely  in  telling  you  whai 
you  are  slow  to  believe,  if  I  utter  a  lie  or  act  the  hypocrite,  may 
heavenly  wrath  condemn  me  !  Let  men  without  charity,  who  judg-1 
of  others  by  themselves,  say  and  think  what  they  please,  1  repeat  to 
you  that  1  utter  the  truth.  But  alas  !  I  cannot  obtain  what  I  .-o 
ardently  desire,  what  my  soul  yearns  to  accomplish  !  Others  have 
decided  that  I  could  not  abandon  my  post  without  a  crime — I  am, 
however,  unworthy  of  this  power  which  you  force  me  to  retain  in 
my  hands  ;  I  am  a  miserable  sinner  !"  He  then  rambled  into  an  in- 
coherent digression  on  the  state  of  affairs.  "  At  last,"  he  concluded, 
"  we  have  been  raised  up  for  the  welfare  of  this  nation  !  We  enjoy 
peace  at  home  and  peace  abroad  !" 

His  fourth  speech  comprises  a  vehement  reproach  against  this 
same  parliament,  wnich  he  said  had  suffered  itself  to  become  cor- 
rupted by  the  old  factions,  and  which  he  suddenly  dissolved,  after 
having  balanced  for  two  hours  between  caresses  and  maledictions, 
according  to  the  suggestions  of  the  spirit  which  soothed  and  the 
words  which  crushed. 

The  fifth,  delivered  before  the  new  parliament,  is  a  rambling  jum- 
ble of  incoherency,  which  lasted  for  four  hours  ;  at  this  distance  of 
time  it  is  totally  incomprehensible,  and  finishes  by  the  recitation  of 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  69 

a  psalm.  "  I  confess,"  says  Cromwell,  "  that  I  have  been  diffuse  ; 
I  know  that  I  have  tired  you  ;  but  one  word  more  :  Yesterday  I  read 
a  psalm,  which  it  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  introduce.  It  is  the 
sixty-sixth,  and  truly  a  most  instructive  and  applicable  one  in  our 
particular  circumstances.  I  call  upon  you  to  peruse  it  at  leisure— it 
commences  thus  :  '  Lord,  thou  wert  merciful  to  man  ;  thou  ha.st 
redeemed  us  from  the  captivity  of  Jacob  ;  thou  hast  remitted  all  our 
sins. ' '  lie  then  recite;!  the  entire  psalm  to  his  auditory,  and  closing 
h'is  Bible,  added,  "  Verily,  I  desire  that  this  psalm  may  be  engnivcfi 
on  our  hearts  more  legibly  than  it  is  printed  in  this  book,  and  that  we 
may  all  cry  with  David,  '  It  is  thou,  Lord,  alone,  who  hast  done 
this  !  '  Let  us  to  the  work,  my  friends,  with  courage  !"  continued 
he,  addressing  the  whole  house,  "  and  if  we  do  so  we  shall  joyfully 
sing  this  additional  psalm  :  '  In  the  name  of  the  Lord,  our  enemies 
shall  be  confounded. '  No  !  we  shall  fear  neither  the  pope  nor  the 
Spaniards,  nor  the  devil  himself  !  No  !  we  shall  not  tremble,  even 
though  the  plains  should  be  lifted  above  the  mountains,  and  the 
mountains  should  be  precipitated  into  the  ocean  !  God  is  with 
us  ! — I  have  finished  !  I  have  iinished  !"  he  exclaimed  at  last ; 
"  I  have  said  all  that  I  had  to  say  to  you.  Get  you  gone  together, 
and  in  peace  to  your  own  dwellings  !" 

These  speeches,  of  which  we  have  given  only  a  few  textual  lines, 
lasted  for  hours  ;  it  is  very  difficult  to  follow  their  meaning.  In  the 
same  voice  we  recognize  Tiberius,  Mahomet,  a  soldier,  a  tyrant,  a 
patriot,  a  priest,  and  a  madman.  We  perceive  the  laborious  inspira- 
tion of  a  triple  soul,  which  seeks  its  own  idea  in  the  dark,  finds  it, 
loses  it,  finds  it  again,  and  keeps  its  auditors  floating  to  satiety,  be- 
tween terror,  weariness,  and  compassion.  When  the  language  of 
tyranny  is  no  longer  brief,  like  the  stroke  of  its  will,  it  becomes  ridic- 
ulous. It  resembles  the  letters  from  Capreae  to  the  Roman  senate, 
or  the  appeals  of  Bonaparta  vanquished  to  the  French  legislative 
body  in  1813.  The  absolutism  which  seeks  to  make  itself  under- 
stood, or  to  enter  into  explanations  with  venal  senates  or  enslaved 
citizens,  becomes  embarrassed  in  its  own  sophisms,  mounts  into  the 
clouds  or  creeps  into  nothingness.  Silence  is  the  sole  eloquence  of 
tyranny,  because  it  admits  of  no  reply. 

Never  did  these  peculiar  characteristics  of  Cromwell's  oratory  dis- 
play themselves  more  than  in  his  answers  to  the  parliament,  which 
thrice  offered  him  the  crown  in  1658.  The  first  time  it  was  merely 
a  deputation,  who  came  to  apprise  him,  in  his  own  private  apartment, 
of  the  intended  proposal.  The  answer  and  the  interview  are  equally 
familiar  tons.  He  desires  not  the  title  of  king,  because  his  politi- 
cal inspiration  told  him  that  instead  of  increasing  his  actual  strength 
it  would  tend  to  destroy  it.  On  the  other  hand,  he  dared  not  reject 
the  offer  with  too  peremptory  a  refusal,  because  his  generals,  more 
ambitious  than  himself,  would  insist  on  his  acceptance  of  the  throne, 
to  compromise  beyond  recall  his  greatness  and  that  of  his  family, 


70  OLIVEE   CROMWELL. 

with  their  own  fortunes.  He  dreaded  lest  in  discontent  for  his  de- 
nial, they  might  offer  the  sovereignty  to  some  other  leader  in  the 
army,  more  daring  and  less  scrupulous  than  himself.  His  embar- 
rassment may  be  construed  in  his  words.  It  took  him  eight  days 
and  a  thousand  circumlocutions  before  he  could  explain  himself. 

"  Gentlemen,"  replied  he,  on  the  first  day,  to  the  confidential  dep- 
utation of  the  parliament,  "  I  have  passed  the  greater  part  of  my 
life  in  fire  (if  I  may  so  speak),  and  surrounded  by  commotions  ;  but 
all  that  has  happened  to  me  since  I  have  meddled  with  public  affairs 
for  the  general  good,  if  it  could  be  gathered  into  a  single  heap  and 
placed  before  me  in  one  view,  would  fail  to  strike  me  with  the  terror 
and  respect  for  God's  will  which  I  undergo  at  the  thought  of  this 
thing  you  now  mention,  and  this  title  you  offer  me  !  But  I  have 
drawn  confidence  and  tranquillity  in  every  crisis  of  my  past  life,  from 
the  conviction  that  the  heaviest  burdens  I  have  borne  have  been  im- 
posed upon  me  by  His  hand  without  my  own  participation.  Often 
have  I  felt  that  I  should  have  given  way  under  these  weighty  loads 
if  it  had  not  entered  into  the  views,  the  plans,  and  the  great  bounty 
of  the  Lord  to  assist  me  in  sustaining  them.  If  then  I  should  suffer 
myself  to  deliver  you  an  answer  on  this  matter,  so  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly brought  under  my  consideration,  without  feeling  that  this 
answer  is  suggested  to  my  heart  and  lips  by  Him  who  has  ever  been 
my  oracle  and  guide,  I  should  therein  exhibit  to  you  a  slender  evi- 
dence of  my  wisdom.  To  accept  or  refuse  your  offer  in  one  word, 
from  desires  or  feelings  of  personal  interest,  would  savor  too  much 
of  the  flesh  and  of  human  appetite.  To  elevate  myself  to  this 
height  by  motives  of  ambition  or  vainglory  would  be  to  bring  down 
a  curse  upon  myself,  upon  my  family,  and  upon  the  whole  empire. 
Better  would  it'be  that  I  had  never  been  born.  Leave  me  then  to 
seek  counsel  at  my  leisure,  of  God  and  my  own  conscience  ;  and  I 
hope  neither  the  declamations  of  a  light  and  thoughtless  people,  nor 
the  selfish  wishes  of  those  who  expect  to  become  great  in  my  great- 
ness, may  influence  my  decision,  of  which  I  shall  communicate  to  you 
the  result  with  as  little  delay  as  possible." 

Three  hours  afterward,  the  parliamentary  committee  returned  to 
press  for  his  answer.  It  was  in  many  respects  confused  and  unin- 
telligible. We  can  fancy  that  we  behold  the  embarrassed  motion  of 
Caesar  when  he  pushed  aside  the  crown  offered  to  him  by  Antony 
and  the  soldiers,  in  the  circus.  There  was,  as  yet,  no  decision. 
After  four  days  of  urgent  and  repeated  entreaty  on  the  part  of  the 
parliament,  of  polite  but  significant  delays  on  that  of  the  protector, 
Cromwell  finally  explained  himself  in  a  deluge  of  words  : 

"  Royalty,"  said  he,  "  is  composed  of  two  matters,  the  title  of 
king  and  the  functions  of  monarchy.  These  functions  are  so  united 
by  the  very  roots  to  an  old  form  of  legislation  that  all  our  laws 
would  fall  to  nothing  did  we  not  retain  in  their  appliance  a  portion 
s»f  the  kingly  power,  But  as  to  the  title  of  king,  this  distinctioa  inv 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  71 

plies  not  only  a  supreme  authority,  but,  I  may  venture  to  say,  an  au- 
thority partaking  of  the  divine  !  I  have  assumed  the  place  I  now 
occupy  )o  drive  away  the  dangers  which  threatened  my  country,  and 
to  prevent  their  recurrence.  I  shall  not  quibble  between  the  titles  of 
king  or  protector,  for  I  am  prepared  to  continue  in  your  service,  as 
either  of  these,  or  even  as  a  simple  constable,  if  you  so  will  it,  the 
lowest  officer  in  the  land.  For,  in  truth,  I  have  often  said  to  myself 
that  1  am,  in  fact,  nothing  more  than  a  constable,  maintaining  the 
order  and  peace  of  the  parish  !  I  am  therefore  of  opinion  that  it  is 
unnecessary  for  you  to  offer  or  for  me  to  accept  the  title  of  king, 
seeing  that  any  other  will  equally  answer  the  purpose  !" 

Then,  with  a  frank  confession,  too  humble  not  to  be  sincere,  "  Al- 
low me,"  he  added,  "  to  lay  open  my  heart  here,  aloud,  and  in  your 
presence.  At  the  moment  when  I  was  called  to  this  great  work, 
and  preferred  by  God  to  so  many  others  more  worthy  than  myself, 
what  was  I  ?  Nothing  more  than  a  simple  captain  of  dragoons  in  a 
regiment  of  militia.  My  commanding  officer  was  a  dear  friend 
who  possessed  a  noble  nature,  and  whose  memory  I  know  you  cherish 
as  warmly  as  I  do  myself.  This  was  Mr.  Hampden.  The  first  time 
I  found  myself  under  fire  with  him  I  saw  that  our  troops,  newly 
levied,  without  discipline,  and  composed  of  men  who  loved  not  God, 
were  beaten  in  every  encounter.  With  the  permission  of  Mr.  Hamp- 
den I  introduced  among  them  a  new  spirit,  a  spirit  of  zeal  and 
piety  ;  I  taught  them  to  fear  God.  From  that  day  forward  they 
were  invariably  victorious.  To  him  be  all  the  glory  ! 

"  It  has  ever  been  thus,  it  will  ever  continue  to  be  thus,  gentle- 
men, with  the  government.  Zeal  and  pietj'  will  preserve  us  without 
a  king  !  Understand  me  well  ;  I  would  willingly  consent  to  become 
a  victim  for  the  salvation  of  all ;  but  I  do  not  think — no,  truly,  I  do 
not  believe  that  it  is  necessary  this  victim  should  bear  the  title  of 
a  king  !" 

Alas  !  he  had  unfortunately  thought  otherwise  in  the  case  of 
Charles  the  First.  The  blood  of  that  monarch  rose  up  too  late  and 
protested  against  his  words.  He  had  in  him  chosen  an  innocent  vic- 
tim, not  for  the  people,  but  for  the  army  ! 

Remorse  began  to  weigh  upon  him.  It  has  been  said  that  to  ap- 
pease or  encourage  these  sensations,  while  the  debates  in  parliament 
held  the  crown,  as  it  were,  suspended  over  his  head,  he  descended 
into  the  vaults  of  Whitehall,  where  the  body  of  the  decapitated 
Charles  the  First  had  been  temporarily  placed.  Did  he  go  to  seek  in 
this  spectacle  an  oracle  to  solve  his  doubts,  or  a  lesson  to  regulate  his 
ambition  V  Did  he  go  to  implore  from  the  dead  a  pardon  for  the 
murder  he  had  permitted,  or  forgiveness  for  the  throne  and  life  of 
which  he  had  deprived  him  ?  We  cannot  say  ;  all  that  is  certain  is 
that  he  raised  the  lid  of  the  coffin  which  inclosed  the  embalmed 
body  and  head  of  the  executed  monarch  ;  that  he  caused  all  wit- 
nesses to  absent  themselves,  and  that  he  remained  for  a  long  time 


72  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

alone,  silently  looking  on  the  deceased — an  interview  of  stoical  firm- 
ness if  not  of  repentance  ;  a  solemn  hour  of  reflection,  from  which 
he  must  have  returned  hardened  or  shaken.      His  attendants  ob- 
served an  unwonted  paleness  on  his  features  and  a  melancholy  com- 
Eression  of  his  lips.     Painting  has  often  revived  this  strange  scene, 
ome  have  recognized  in  it  the  triumph  of  ambition  over  its  victim  ; 
we  should  prefer  to  recognize  the  agony  of  the  remorseful  mur- 
derer. 

His  private  correspondence  at  this  time  expresses  the  weariness  of 
aspirations  which  have  sounded  the  depths  of  human  grandeur,  and 
which  see  nothing  but  emptiness  in  a  destiny  so  apparently  full. 
They  breathe  also  a  softening  of  the  heart,  which  slackens  the  sever- 
ity of  government.  "  Truly,"  says  he,  in  a  letter  to  Fleet  wood,  his 
son-in-law,  and  deputy  in  Scotland,  "  truly,  my  dear  Charles,  I  have 
more  than  ever  need  of  the  help  and  prayers  of  my  Christian  friends. 
Each  party  wishes  me  to  adopt  their  own  views.  The  spirit  oi'  gen- 
tleness which  I  feel  within  me  at  present  pleases  none  of  them.  I  may 
say  with  sincerity,  my  life  has  been  a  voluntary  sacrifice  for  the  ben- 
efit of  all.  Persuade  our  friends  who  are  with  you  to  become  very 
moderate.  If  the  Lord's  day  approaches,  as  many  maintain,  our 
moderation  ought  so  much  the  more  to  manifest  itself.  In  my  heav- 
iness, I  am  ready  to  exclaim,  '  Why  have  I  not  the  wings  of  a 
dove,  that  I  might  flee  away  ? '  But  I  fear  me,  this  is  a  most  culpa- 
ble impatience.  I  bless  the  Lord  that  I  possess  in  my  wife  and  chil- 
dren ties  which  attach  me  to  life  !  Pardon  me,  if  1  have  discovered 
to  you  my  inmost  thoughts.  Give  my  love  to  your  dear  wife,  and 
my  blessing,  if  it  is  worth  anything,  to  your  infant  child." 

In  the  midst  of  these  heavenly  aspirations,  he  was  anxious  to  leave 
independent  fortunes  to  his  sons  and  daughters/  The  large  income 
allotted  by  parliament  to  maintain  the  splendor  of  his  rank,  his  hrml- 
itary  estate,  and  the  austere  economy  of  his  habits,  had  enabled  him 
to  acquire  some  private  property.  The  list  of  his  possessions  is  con- 
tained in  his  letters  to  his  son  Richard.  They  comprise  twelve 
domains,  producing  an  annual  rent  of  about  300Z.  "  Of  what  conse- 
quence is  this,"  he  said  sometimes  ;  "  I  leave  to  my  family  the  favor 
of  God,  who  has  elevated  me  from  nothing  to  the  height  on  which  I 
am  placed."  It  would  seem  as  if  lie  anticipated  his  approaching 
end. 

Those  who  came  in  contact  with  him  were  sensible  of  it  them- 
selves. The  Quaker  Fox,  one  of  the  founders  of  that  pious  and  phil- 
osophic sect,  who  comprise  all  theology  in  charity,  was  in  the  habit 
of  familiar  intercourse  with  Cromwell.  About  this  time  he  wrote  to 
one  of  his  friends  as  follows  :  "  Yesterday  I  met  Cromwell  in  the 
park  of  Hampton  Court;  he  was  on  horseback,  attended  by  his 
guards.  Before  I  approached  him  I  perceived  that  there  came  from 
him  an  odor  of  death.  When  we  drew  near  to  each  other,  I  noticed 
the  paleness  of  the  grave  upon  his  face.  He  stopped,  and  I  spoKe  to 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  73 

him  of  the  persecutions  of  the  Friends  (Quakers),  using  the  words 
which  the  Lord  suggested  to  my  lips.  He  replied,  '  Come  and  see 
me  to-morrow.'  On  the  following  day  I  went  to  Hampton  Court, 
and  was  informed  that  he  was  ill.  From  that  day  1  never  saw  him 
more." 

Hampton  Court,  the  magnificent  feudal  residence  of  Henry  the 
Eighth,  was  an  abode  which  by  its  melancholy  and  monastic  gran- 
deur was  well  suited  to  the  temperament  of  Cromwell.  The  cha- 
teau, flanked  by  large  towers  resembling  the  bastions  of  a  fortress, 
was  crowned  with  battlements,  blackened  incessantly  by  broods  of 
rooks.  It  stood  on  the  border  of  vast  forests,  luxurious  produce  of 
the  soil,  so  dear  to  the  Saxon  race.  The  aged  oaks  of  the  extensive 
park  appeared  to  assume  the  majesty  of  a  royal  vegetation,  to  accord 
with  the  Gothic  architecture  of  the  castle.  Cong  avenues,  veiled  in. 
shadow  and  mist,  terminated  in  a  perspective  of  green  meadow, 
silently  traversed  by  herds  of  tame  deer.  Narrow,  low  portals  with 
pointed  arches,  resembling  the  apertures  of  a  cavern  in  the  solid 
rQck,  gave  admission  to  subterraneous  apartments,  guard-rooms  and 
vaulted  fencing-schools,  decorated  with  devices  of  ancient  armor, 
escutcheons,  and  knightly  banners.  Everything  breathed  that  mis- 
trustful superiority  which  creates  a  void  round  monarchs,  either 
through  respect  or  terror.  Hampton  Court  was  the  favorite  resi- 
dence of  Cromwell,  but  at  the  period  of  which  we  are  writing  he 
way  detained  there  as  much  by  pain  as  relaxation. 

Providence,  as  often  happens  to  exalted  individuals,  had  deter- 
mined to  intlict  the  expiation  of  his  prosperous  fortunes,  through  the 
medium  of  his  own  family.  Several  daughters  had  embellished  his 
domestic  hearth.  The  eldest  was  married  to  Lord  Falcoubridge,  the 
second  to  Fleetwood,  the  third  to  Claypole,  while  the  fourth  and 
youngest  was  already,  at  seventeen,  the  widow  of  Lord  Rich,  grand- 
son of  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  an  old  companion-in-arms  of  the  protec- 
tor. The  grief  of  this  young  woman,  the  favorite  of  her  mother, 
saddened  the  internal  happiness  of  the  circle  at  Hampton  Court. 
Fleetwood,  a  moody  republican,  ever  divided  between  the  ascen- 
dency of  Cromwell,  to  which  he  submitted  with  a  pang  of  conscience, 
and  the  pure  democratical  opinions  which  saw  individual  tyranny  id 
the  protectorate,  continually  reproached  his  father-in-law  with  hav- 
ing absorbed  the  republic  which  he  appeared  to  save.  Between  fanat. 
icism  and  affection  he  had  drawn  over  his  young  wife  to  join  in  his 
discontented  murmurs.  Lady  Fleetwood,  like  the  second  Brutus,  ex- 
perienced at  the  same  time  an  invincible  attachment  and  repugnance 
to  her  father,  who  had  become  the  tyrant  of  his  country.  The  ties 
of  blood  and  the  spirit  of  sectarianism  divided  her  heart.  She  embit- 
tered the  life  of  the  protector  by  incessant  reproaches.  Cromwell, 
surrounded  by  the  cares  of  government,  was  at  the  same  time  beset 
by  the  invectives  of  his  republican  daughter  against  his  absolute 
measures,  and  trembled  to  discover  the  hand  of  Fleetwood  and  liii 
A.B.-16 


74  OLIVEK  CROMWELL. 

wife  in  some  hostile  machinations.  The  deprecatory  tone  of  his  let- 
ters to  Lady  Fleetwood  describes  the  anguish  endured  by  this  father, 
compelled  to  justify  his  actions  to  his  own  family,  when  England  and 
all  Europe  trembled  at  his  nod.  But  this  child  of  Cromwell,  per 
petually  agitated  by  remorse  for  ruined  liberty,  never  remained  long 
silent  under  his  urgent  remonstrances.  It  was  necessary  to  convince 
her,  for  fear  of  being  compelled  to  punish.  She  wa»,  in  truth,  the 
Nemesis  of  her  father. 

His  daughter  Elizabeth,  Lady  Claypole,  became  his  consoling 
spirit.  This  young  and  amiable  female,  in  grace,  in  mind,  in  senti- 
ment, was  endowed  with  every  quality  which  justifies  the  prefer- 
ence, or,  we  should  rather  say,  the  admiration  by  which  Cromwell 
distinguished  her.  The/  royalist  historian,  Hume,  who  can  scarcely 
be  suspected  of  flattery,  or  even  of  justice,  when  speaking  of  the 
*family  of  the  murderer  of  his  king,  acknowledges  that  Lady  Claypole 
possessed  charms  and  virtue  sufficient  to  excuse  the  admiration  of 
the  whole  world.  One  of  those  cruel  fatalities  which  resemble 
chance,  but  are  in  fact  ordained  chastisements  of  tyranny,  had  re- 
cently pierced  the  heart  of  this  accomplished  woman  almost  to  death, 
and  excited  between  her  and  her  father  a  tragical  family  dissension, 
in  which  nature,  torn  by  two  conflicting  feelings  (like  Camille,* 
divided  between  her  country  and  her  lover),  is  unable  to  renounce 
one  without  betraying  the  other.  Death  is  the  only  issue  of  such  an 
awful  predicament.  In  one  of  the  recent  royalist  conspiracies 
against  the  authority  of  the  protector,  a  young  Cavalier  (the  name 
commonly  applied  to  the  partisans  of  Charles  the  Second)  had 
been  condemned  to  death.  Cromwell  had  the  power  of  mercy, 
which  he  would  have  exercised  if  the  guilty  prisoner,  for  whom 
he  was  aware  his  daughter  felt  the  warmest  interest,  would  have 
afforded  him  the  least  pretext  for  clemency,  by  even  a  qualified 
submission.  But  the  intrepid  Hewett  (such  was  the  name  of 
the  criminal)  had  defied  the  protector  on  his  trial,  as  he  had  braved 
the  danger  in  the  conspiracy.  Cromwell,  deaf  for  the  first  time 
to  the  supplications,  the  sobs,  and  despair  of  his  daughter  pros- 
trated at  his  feet,  imploring  the  lite  of  a  man  who  was  dear  to  her, 
ordered  the  execution  to  proceed.  Lady  Clnypole  felt  herself  stricken 
mortally  by  the  same  blow.  Cromwell  had  slain  his  daughter  through 
the  heart  of  one  of  his  enemies.  Elizabeth,  sinking  under  a  deadly 
weakness,  returned  to  Hampton  Court  to  receive  the  tender  cares  ot 
her  mother  and  sisters,  and  only  roused  herself  from  her  stupor  to  re- 
proach her  father  with  the  blood  of  his  victim.  Her  lamentable  im- 
precations, interrupted  by  the  remorse  and  returning  tenderness  of 
her  father,  filled  the  palace  with  trouble,  mystery,  and  consternation. 
The  life  of  Lady  Claypole  rapidly  consumed  itself  in  these  sad  alter- 
nations of  tears  and  maledictions.  Cromwell  was  consumed  by  an- 

*  In  the  "  Horace"  ot  Corneille.— TB. 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  75 

guish,  fruitless  supplication,  and  unavailing  repentance.  He  felt  that 
his  cruelty  had  made  him  hated  by  the  being  whom  he  loved  most 
on  earth  ;  and,  to  complete  his  agony,  lie  himself  had  launched  the 
bolt  against  his  child.  Thus  the  republic  that  he  had  de- 
ceived on  the  one  hand  and  the  royalty  he  had  martyred  on  the 
other  seized  on  the  fanaticism  and  feelings  of  his  two  daughters,  to 
revenge  on  his  own  heart  and  under  his  domestic  roof  the  ambition 
and  inhumanity  with  which  he  had  trampled  on  both.  He  presented 
a  modern  Atrides,  apparently  at  the  summit  of  prosperity,  but  in  fact 
an  object  of  compassion  to  his  most  implacable  enemies.  Lady  Clay- 
pole  died  in  his  arms  at  Hampton  Court,  toward  the  end  of  1658. 
With  her  last  words  she  forgave  her  father,  but  nature  refused  to 
ratify  the  pardon.  From  the  day  when  he  buried  his  beloved  daugh- 
ter he  languished  toward  his  end,  and  his  own  hours  were  num- 
bered. 

Although  he  was  robust  in  appearance,  and  his  green  maturity  of 
fifty-nine,  maintained  by  warlike  exercises,  sobriety,  and  chastity, 
had  enabled  him  to  preserve  the  activity  and  vigor  of  his  youth, 
disgust  of  life,  that  paralysis  of  the  soul,  inclosed  a  decayed  heart  in 
a  healthy  body.  He  seemed  no  longer  to  take  any  interest  in  the 
affairs  of  government  or  in  the  divisions  of  his  own  family.  His 
confidential  friends  endeavored  to  direct  his  thoughts  from  the  grave 
of  his  daughter,  by  inducing  him  to  change  the  scene  and  vary  his 
occupalions  so  as  to  dissipate  the  depressing  moral  atmosphere  which 
surrounded  him.  His  secretary,  Thurloe,  knd  others  of  his  most 
trusted  adherents,  in  concert  with  his  wife,  contrived,  without  his 
knowledge,  reviews,  hunting-parties,  races,  and  avocations  of  duty 
or  amusement  to  distract  or  occupy  his  attention.  They  took  him 
back  to  London,  but  he  found  the  city  even  more  distasteful  than  the 
country.  They  thought  to  reanimate  his  languor  by  repasts  in  the 
open  air,  brought  by  his  servants  from  the  house,  and  prepared  on 
the  grass  under  the  shadow  of  the  finest  trees,  and  in  his  favorite 
spots.  His  earliest  taste,  the  love  of  rural  nature  and  of  the  animals 
of  the  field,  was  the  last  that  remained  in  his  closing  hours.  The 
gentleman  farmer  and  trainer  of  cattle  again  broke  forth  under  the 
master  of  an  empire.  The  Bible  and  the  patriarchal  life,  to  which  he 
constantly  alluded,  associated  themselves  in  his  mind  with  the  re- 
membrances of  rural  occupations,  which  he  regretted  even  in  the 
splendors  of  a  palace  :  he  often  exclaimed,  as  Danton  did  long  after- 
ward, "  Happy  is  he  who  lives  under  a  thatched  roof  and  cultivates 
his  own  field  !" 

One  morning,  when  Thurloe  and  the  attendants  of  Cromwell  had 
spread  his  meal  on  the  ground,  under  the  shadow  of  a  cluinp  of  mag. 
nificent  oaks,  more  distant  from  the  neighboring  city  and  thicker 
than  at  present,  he  felt  his  spirits  lighter  and  more  serene  than  usual, 
and  expressed  a  wish  to  pass  the  remainder  of  the  day  in-that  delight- 
ful solitude,  He  ordered  his  grooms  to  bring  out  six  fine  bay  horse*. 


7<5  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

which  the  States  of  Holland  had  lately  sent  him  as  a  present,  to  try 
them  in  harness  in  one  of  the  avenues  of  the  park.  Two  postilions 
mounted  the  leaders.  Cromwell  desired  Thurloe  to  seat  himself  in 
the  carriage,  while  he  ascended  the  box  and  took  the  reins  in  hi» 
own  hands.  The  fiery  and  unbroken  animals  began  to  rear,  threw 
their  riders,  and  ran  away  with  the  light  vehicle,  which  they  dashed 
ngainst  a  tree,  and  Cromwell  was  violently  precipitated  to  the  ground. 
In  lug  fall  a  loaded  pistol  went  off,  which  he  always  carried  concealed 
under  his  clothes.  For  a  moment  he  was  dragged  along  on  the 
gravel,  entangled  with  the  broken  carriage.  Although  he  escaped 
without  a  wound,  his  fall,  the  explosion  of  the  pistol,  revealing  to 
those  about  him  his  precautionary  terrors,  the  sarcastic  remarks  to 
which  this  mishap  gave  rise,  all  appeared  to  him  ominous  of  evil,  and 
caused  a  sudden  shock  which  he  concealed  with  difficulty.  He 
affected,  notwithstanding,  to  laugh  at  the  accident,  and  said  to  Thur- 
loe, "  It  is  easier  to  conduct  a  government  than  to  drive  a  team  of 
horses !" 

He  returned  to  Hampton  Court,  and  the  constant  image  of  his 
cherished  daughter  appeared  to  people  those  halls,  which  her  presence 
no  longer  animated,  with  remembrances  less  painful  than  oblivion. 
He  was  prayed  for  throughout  the  three  kingdoms  :  by  the  puritans, 
for  their  prophet ;  by  the  republicans,  for  their  champion  ;  by  the 
patriots,  for  the  bulwark  of  their  country.  The  antechambers 
resounded  with  the  murmured  applications  of  preachers,  chaplains, 
fanatics,  personal  friends,  and  members  of  his  own  family — all  be- 
seeching God  to  spare  the  life  of  their  saint.  Whitehall  resembled 
more  a  sanctuary  than  a  palace.  The  same  spirit  of  mystical  inspira- 
tion which  had  conducted  him  there  governed  him  in  the  last  moments 
of  his  residence.  He  discoursed  only  of  religion,  and  never  alluded 
to  politics,  so  much  more  was  he  occupied  by  the  thoughts  of  eternal 
salvation  than  of  prolonging  his  earthly  power. 

He  had  designated  his  son  Richard  as  his  successor  (in  a  sealed 
paper  which  had  smce  gone  astray),  on  the  same  day  when  he  had 
been  named  protector.  Those  who  now  surrounded  him  wished  him 
to  renew  this  act,  but  he  appeared  either  indifferent- or  unwilling  to 
do  so.  At  last,  when  he  was  asked,  in  the  presence  of  witnesses,  if  it 
was  not  his  will  that  his  sou  Richard  should  succeed  him,  "  Yes," 
he  muttered,  with  a  single  affirmative  motion  of  his  head,  and  imme- 
diately changed  the  subject  of  conversation.  It  was  evident  that 
this  man,  impressed  with  the  vicissitudes  of  government  and  the 
fickleness  of  the  people,  attached  but  little  importance  to  the  will  of 
a  dictator,  and  left  in  the  hands  of  Providence  the  fate  of  his  author- 
ity after  his  death.  "  God  will  govern  by  the  instrument  that  he 
may  please  to  select,"  said  he  ;  "  it  is  he  alone  who  has  given  me 
power  over  his  people. "  He  believed  that  he  bad  left  this  document 
at  Hampton  Court,  where  messengers  were  dispatched  to  seek  it  bui 
without  success,  and  the  topic  was  never  again  adverted  to. 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  77 

Richard,  who  resided  usually  in  the  country,  in  the  paternal  man- 
sion of  his  wife,  hastened  to  London,  with  his  sisters  and  brothers-in- 
law,  to  attend  the  death-bed  of  the  chief  of  the  family.  He  seemed 
as  indifferent  as  his  father  as  to  the  hereditary  succession  of  his 
office,  for  which  he  had  neither  the  desire  nor  the  ambition.  The 
whole  generation,  left  by  the  protector  in  the  mediocrity  of  private 
life,  appeared  ready  to  return  to  it,  as  actors  quit  the  stage  when  the 
drama  is  over.  They  had  neither  acquired  hatred  nor  envy  by  inso- 
lence or  pride.  Like  the  children  of  Sylla,  who  mixed  unnoticed 
with  the  crowd,  the  tender  affection  of  his  united  family  and  their 
unfeigned  tears  constituted  the  only  funeral  pomp  which  waited 
round  the  couch  of  the  protector. 

A  slow  intermittent  fever  seized  him.  He  struggled  with  the  first 
attack  so  successfully  that  no  one  about  him  suspected  he  was  seri- 
ously ill.  The  fever  became  tertian  and  more  acute  ;  his  strength 
was  rapidly  giving  way.  The  physicians  summoned  from  London 
attributed  the  disease  to  the  bad  air  engendered  by  the  marshy  and 
ill-drained  banks  of  the  Thames,  which  joined  the  gardens  of  Hamp- 
ton Court.  He  was  brought  back  to  Whitehall,  as  if  Providence  had 
decreed  that  he  should  die  before  the  same  window  of  the  same 
palace,  in  front  of  which  he  had  ordered  to  be  constructed,  ten  years 
before,  the  scaffold  of  his  royal  victim. 

Cromwell  never  rose  again  from  the  bed  on  which  he  was  placed 
when  he  returned  to  London.  His  acts  and  words,  during  his  long 
agony,  have  been  wildly  misrepresented,  according  to  the  feelings  of 
the  different  parties  who  sought  revenge  for  his  life  or  who  gloried 
in  his  death  A  new  document,  equally  authentic  and  invaluable, 
notes  taken  without  his  knowledge,  calculating  every  hour  and  every 
sigh,  and  preserved  by  the  comptroller  of  his  household,  who 
watched  him  day  and  night,  have  verified  beyond  dispute  his 
thoughts  and  expressions.  The  sentiments  expressed  in  these  last 
moments  speak  the  true  secrets  of  the  soul.  Death  unmasks  every 
face,  and  hypocrisy  disappears  before  the  raised  finger  of  God. 

During  the  periods  between  the  paroxysms  of  the  fever,  he  occu- 
pied the  time  witli  listening  to  passages  from  the  sacred  volume,  or 
by  a  resigned  or  despairing  reference  to  the  death  of  his  daughter. 
"  Read  to  me,"  he  said  to  his  wife  in  one  of  those  intervals,  "  the 
Epistle  of  St.  Paul  to  the  Philippians. "  She  read  these  words  :  "  1 
know  both  how  to  be  abased,  and  I  know  how  to  abound  :  every- 
where and  in  all  things  I  am  instructed  both  to  be  full  and  to  be 
hungry,  both  to  abound  and  to  suffer  need.  I  can  do  all  things 
through  Christ,  which  strengtheneth  me."  The  reader  paused 
"  That  verse,"  said  Cromwell,  "  once  saved  my  life  when  the  death 


broke  off,  but  after  a  short  silence,  resuming  a  tone  of  confidence, 


78  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

continued,  "but  he  who  was  the  Saviour  of  Paul,  is  he  not  also 
mine?" 

"  Do  not  weep  thus,"  said  he  to  his  wife  and  children,  who  were 
sobbing  loudly  in  the  chamber  ;  "  love  not  this  vain  world  ;  I  tell 
you  from  the  brink  of  the  grave,  love  not  the  things  of  earth  !" 
There  was  a  moment  of  weakness  when  he  seemed  anxious  for  life. 
"  Is  there  no  one  here,"  he  demanded,  "  who  can  deliver  me  from 
this  danger?"  All  hesitated  to  answer.  "  Man  is  helpless,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  God  can  do  whatever  he  pleases.  Are  there  none,  then, 
who  will  pray  with  me  ?" 

The  silent  motion  of  his  lips  was  interrupted  from  time  to  time  by 
indistinct  and  mystical  murmurings  which  indicated  inward  suppli- 
cation. "  Lord,  thou  art  my  witness,  that  if  I  still  desire  to  live  it 
is  to  glorify  thy  name  and  to  complete  thy  work  !"  "  It  is  terrible, 
yea,  it  is  very  terrible,"  he  muttered  three  times  in  succession,  "  to 
fall  into  the  hands  of  the  living  God  !"  "  Do  you  think,"  said  he  to 
his  chaplain,  "  that  a  man  who  has  once  been  in  a  state  of  grace  can 
ever  perish  eternally?"  "No,"  replied  the  chaplain,  "  there  is  no 
possibility  of  such  a  relapse."  "Then  I  am  safe,"  replied  Crom- 
well ;  "  for  at  one  time  I  am  confident  that  I  was  chosen."  All  his 
inquiries  tended  toward  futurity,  none  bore  reference  to  the  present 
life.  "  I  am  the  most  insignificant  of  mortals,"  continued  he  after  a 
momentary  pause  ;  "  but  I  have  loved  God,  praised  be  his  name,  or 
rather  I  am  beloved  by  him  !" 

There  was  a  moment  when  the  dangerous  symptoms  of  his  malady 
were  supposed  to  have  subsided  ;  he  even  adopted  this  notion  him- 
self. Whitehall  and  the  churches  resounded  with  thanksgivings. 
The  respite  was  short,  for  the  fever  speedily  redoubled.  Several 
days  and  nights  were  passed  in  calm  exhaustion  or  incoherent  de- 
lirium. On  the  morning  of  the  30th  of  August,  one  of  his  officers, 
looking  from  the  window,  recognized  the  republican  Ludlow,  ban- 
ished from  London,  who  happened  to  be  crossing  the  square.  Crom- 
well, informed  of  his  presence,  became  anxious  to  know  what  motive 
could  have  induced  Ludlow  to  have  the  audacity  to  show  himself  in 
the  capital,  and  to  pass  under  the  very  windows  of  his  palace.  He 
sent  his  son  Richard  to  him,  to  endeavor  if  possible  to  fathom  the 
secret  views  of  his  party.  Ludlow  assured  Richard  Cromwell  that 
he  came  exclusively  on  private  affairs,  and  was  ignorant  when  he 
arrived  of  the  illness  of  the  protector.  He  promised  to  depart  from 
the  capital  on  that  same  day.  This  is  the  Ludlow  who,  being  pro- 
scribed among  the  regicides  after  the  death  of  Cromwell,  retired  to 
grow  old  and  die  impenitently  at  Vevay,  on  the  borders  of  Lake 
Leman,  where  his  tomb  is  still  exhibited. 

Cromwell,  satisfied  as  to  the  intentions  of  the  republicans,  thought 
no  longer  but  of  making  a  religious  end.  The  inUndunt  of  his 
chamber,  who  watched  by  him,  heard  him  offer  up  his  last  prayers  in 
detached  sentences,  and  in  an  audible  tone.  For  his  own  satisfaction 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  79 

ne  noted  down  the  words  as  they  escaped  from  the  lips  of  the  dying 
potentate,  and  long  afterward  transmitted  them  to  history. 

"  Lord,  I  am  a  miserable  creature  !  But  by  thy  grace  I  am  in  the 
truth,  and  I  hope  to  appear  before  thee  in  behalf  of  this  people. 
Thou  hast  selected  me,  although  unworthy,  to  be  the  instrument  of 
good  here  below,  and  to  have  rendered  service  to  my  brethren.  Many 
of  them  have  thought  too  favorably  of  my  strength,  while  many 
others  will  rejoice  that  I  am  cut  off.  Continue,  O  Lord,  to  give  thy 
help  to  all  ;  endow  them  with  constancy  and  a  right  understanding  ; 
render  through  them  the  name  of  our  Saviour  Jesus  Christ  more  and 
more  honored  upon  earth  ;  teach  them  who  trust  too  much  to  thy 
instrument  to  rely  on  thee  alone.  Pardon  those  who  are  impatient 
to  trample  under  their  feet  this  worm  of  earth,  and  grant  me  a  night 
of  peace,  if  it  be  thy  good  pleasure." 

On  the  following  day,  the  anniversary  of  the  battles  of  Dunbar  and 
Worcester,  his  two  greatest  victories,  the  souud  of  the  military  music 
by  which  they  were  celebrated  penetrated  to  his  dying  chambers 
"I  could  wish,"  he  exclaimed,  "to  recall  my  life,  to  repeat  onde 
more  those  services  for  the  nation  ;  but  my  day  is  over.  May  G6d 
continue  ever  present  with  his  children." 

After  a  last  restless  night,  he  was  asked  If  he  wished  to  drink  or 
sleep.  "  Neither,"  he  replied,  "  but  to  pass  quickly  to  my  Father." 
By  sunrise  his  voice  failed,  but  he  was  still  observed  to  pray  in  an 
inarticulate  tone. 

The  equinoctial  gale,  which  had  commenced  on  the  preceding  day, 
now  swelled  into  a  storm  which  swept  over  England  with  the  effect 
of  an  earthquake.  The  carriages  which  conveyed  to  London  the 
friends  of  the  protector,  apprised  of  his  extreme  danger,  were  unable 
to  stem  the  violence  of  the  wind  and  took  refuge  in  the  inns  on  the 
road.  The  lofty  houses  of  London  undulated  like  vessels  tossed 
upon  the  ocean.  Roofs  were  carried  off,  trees  that  had  stood  for 
centuries  in  Hyde  Park  were  torn  up  by  the  roots  and  prostrated  on 
the  ground  like  bundles  of  straw.  Cromwell  expired  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  in  the  midst  of  this  convulsion  of  nature.  He  de- 
parted as  he  was  born,  in  a  tempest.  Popular  superstition  recog- 
nized a  miracle  in  this  coincidence,  which  seemed  like  the  expiring 
efforts  of  the  elements  to  tear  from  life  and  empire  the  single  man 
who  was  capable  of  enduring  the  might  of  England's  destiny,  and 
whose  decease  created  a  void  which  none  but  himself  could  fill. 
Obedience  bad  become  so  habitual  and  fear  so  universally  survived 
his  power  that  no  opposing  faction  dared  to  raise  its  head  in  presence 
of  his  remains  ;  his  enemies,  like  those  of  Caesar,  were  compelled  to 
simulate  mourning  at  his  funeral.  Several  months  elapsed  before 
England  felt  thoroughly  convinced  that  her  master  no  longer  existed, 
and  ventured  to  exhibit  a  few  faint  throbs  of  liberty  after  such  a 
memorable  servitude.  Tf  at  that  time  there  had  been  found  au 
Antony  to  place  himself  at  the  head  of  the  army  in  London,  and  if  * 


80  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

new  Octavius  had  appeared  in  Richard  Cromwell,  the  Lower  Empire 
might  have  commenced  in  the  British  Islands.  But  Richard  abdi- 
cated after  a  very  short  exercise  of  power,  lie  had  formerly,  with 
tears,  embraced  his  father's  knees,  imploring  him  to  spare  the  head 
of  Charles  the  First.  His  resignation  cost  him  nothing,  for  he  had 
examined  too  closely  the  price  of  supreme  power.  He  became  once 
more  a  simple  and  unostentatious  citizen,  enjoying,  in  the  tranquillity 
of  a  country  life,  his  obscurity  and  his  innocence. 

We  have  sought  to  describe  the  true  character  of  Crnmwell,  rescued 
from  romance  and  restored  to  history.  This  supposed  actor  of  sixty 
becomes  a  veritable  man.  Formerly  he  was  misapprehended,  now  he 
is  correctly  understood. 

A  great  man  is  ever  the  personification  of  the  spirit  which  breathes 
from  time  to  time  upon  his  age  and  country.  The  inspiration  of 
Scripture  predominated,  in  1600,  over  the  three  kingdoms.  Crom- 
well, more  imbued  than  any  other  with  this  sentiment,  was  neither  a 
politician  nor  an  ambitious  conqueror,  nor  an  Octavius,  nor  a 
(\Tsar.  He  was  a  JUDGE  of  the  Old  Testament  ;  a  sectarian  of  the 
greater  power  in  proportion  as  he  was  more  superstitious,  more  strict 
and  narrow  in  his  doctrines,  and  more  fanatical.  If  his  genius  had 
surpassed  his  epoch  he  would  have  exercised  less  influence  over  the 
existing  generation.  His  nature  was  less  elevated  than  the  part 
assigned  to  him  ;  his  religious  bias  constituted  the  half  of  his  fortune. 
A  true  military  Calvin,  holding  the  Bible  in  one  hand  and  the 
sword  in  the  other,  he  aimed  rather  at  salvation  than  temporal  em- 
pire. Historians,  hitherto  ill-informed,  have  mistaken  the  principle 
of  his  ambition.  It  was  the  feature  of  the  times.  All  the  factions  of 
that  age  were  religious,  as  all  those  of  the  present  day  are  political. 
In  Switzerland,  in  Germany,  in  the  Nortb,  in  France,  in  Scotland,  in 
Ireland,  in  England,  all  parties  borrowed  their  convictions,  their 
divided  opinions,  their  opposing  fierceness  from  the  Bible,  which  had 
In-come  the  universal  oracle.  Interpreted  differently  by  the  different 
Mr's,  this  oracle  imparted  to  each  exposition  the  bitterness  of  a 
svhi.sm,  to  each  destiny  the  holiness  of  a  revelation,  to  each  leader  the 
authority  of  a  prophet,  to  each  victim  the  heroism  of  a  martyr,  and 
t )  each  conqueror  the  ferocity  of  an  executioner  offering  up  a  sacri- 
fice to  the  Deity.  A  paroxysm  of  mystical  frenzy  had  seized  upon 
the  whole  Christian  world,  and  the  most  impassioned  trampled  upon 
(he  rest.  Danton  has  said  that  in  a  revolution  the  greatest  scoundrel 
must  gain  the  victory.  With  equal  justice  it  may  be  observed  that 
in  religious  wars  the  most  superstitious  leader  will  win  the  day. 
When  that  leader  is  at  the  same  time  a  soldier,  and  inspires  his 
followers  with  his  own  enthusiasm,  there  is  no  longer  a  limit  to  his 
career  of  fortune.  He  subjects  the  people  by  the  army,  and  the  army 
by  the  superstitions  of  the  people.  If  endowed  with  genius,  he  be- 
comes a  Mahomet ;  a  Cromwell,  if  gifted  only  with  policy  and 
fanaticism. 


OLIVER  CROMWELL.  81 

It  becomes,  therefore,  impossible  to  deny  that  Cromwell  was  sin- 
cere. Sincerity  was  the  inciting  motive  of  his  elevation,  and,  without 
excusing,  completely  explains  his  crimes.  This  quality,  which  con- 
stituted liis  virtue,  impressed  on  his  actions,  faith,  devotedness,  en- 
thusiasm,  consistency,  patriotism,  toleration,  austerity  of  manners, 
application  to  war  and  business,  coolness,  modesty,  piety,  denial  of 
personal  ambition  for  his  family,  and  all  those  patriarchal  and 
romantic  features  of  the  first  republic  which  characterized  his  life 
and  the  period  of  his  reign.  It  also  imparted  to  his  nature  the  im- 
placability of  a  religionist  who  believed  that  in  striking  his  own  ene- 
mies he  was  smiting  the  enemies  of  God.  The  massacres  of  the  van- 
quished rebels  in  Ireland  and  the  cold-blooded  murder  of  Charles  the 
First  exhibit  the  contrasted  extravagance  of  this  false  conscience.  In 
Cromwell  it  was  untempered  by  the  natural  clemency  which  palliates 
in  the  first  Caesar  the  barbarities  of  ambition.  We  recognize  the  VCB 
metis  of  the  sectarian,  the  demagogue,  and  the  soldier  united  in  the 
same  individual. 

Thus,  as  it  always  happens,  these  two  leading  crimes,  perpetuated 
without  pity,  rebounded  back  upon  his  cause  and  his  memory.  What 
did  Cromwell  desire  ?  Assuredly  not  the  throne,  for  we  have  seen 
that  it  was  frequently  within  his  grasp,  and  he  rejected  it  that  Provi- 
dence alone  might  reign.  He  wished  to  secure  for  his  own  party,  the 
Independents,  full  religious  liberty  in  matters  of  faith,  guaranteed  by 
a  powerful  representation  of  the  people  and  the  parliament,  and  pre- 
sided over  by  a  monarchical  form  of  government  at  the  head  of  this 
republic  of  saints.  This  is  the  direct  conclusion  to  be  drawn  from 
his  entire  life,  his  actions,  and  his  words. 
Now,  in  sparing  the  life  of  the  vanquished  sovereign,  and  in  con- 

.  eluding,  either  with  him  or  his  sons,  a  national  compact,  a  new 
Magna  Charta,  establishing  religious  and  representative  freedom 
throughout  England,  Cromwell  would  have  left  a  head  to  the  repub- 
lic, a  king  to  the  royalists,  an  all-powerful  parliament  to  the  people, 
and  a  victorious  independence  to  the  conscience  of  the  nation.  By 

I  putting  Charles  to  death  and  Ireland  to  the  sword  he  furnished  a 
never-dying  grievance  to  the  supporters  of  the  throne,  martyrs  to  the 
persecuted  faiths,  with  a  long  and  certain  reaction  to  absolute  power, 
the  established  Protestantism  of  the  State,  and  the  followers  of  the 
Ilomau  Catholic  Church.  He  prepared  the  insvitable  return  of  the 
last  Stuarts,  for  dynasties  are  never  extinguished  in  blood  ;  they 
expire  rather  by  absence.  His  severity,  sooner  or  later,  recoiled 
upon  his  cause  and  tarnished  his  memory.  This  biblical  Marina  can 
never  be  absolved  from  his  proscriptions.  After  much  slaughter, 
that  he  governed  well  and  wisely  cannot  be  disputed.  He  laid  tho 
foundations  of  the  great  power  of  England,  both  by  land  and  sea. 
But  nations,  who  are  often  ungrateful  for  the  virtue  sacrificed  in 
their  cause,  are  doubly  so  for  the  crimes  committed  to  promote 
their  grandeur.  Whatever  the  disciples  of  Machiavelli,  and  the  con- 


82  OLIVER   CROMWELL. 

ventiou  may  say  to  the  contrary,  there  are  such  things  as  national  rc- 
peiitaiice  and  remorse,  which  perpetuate  themselves  with  national 
history.  Cromwell  deeply  wounded  the  conscience  and  humanity 
of  England  by  his  systematic  cruelties.  The  stains  of  the  royal  ami 
plebeian  blood,  which  he  shed  without  compunction,  have  indelibly 
imprinted  themselves  on  his  name.  He  has  left  a  lofty  but  an  un- 
popular memory.  His  glory  belongs  to  England,  but  England  in- 
clines to  suppress  it.  Her  historians,  her  orators,  her  patriots  sel- 
dom refer  to  his  name,  and  evince  no  desire  to  have  it  paraded  before 
them.  They  blush  to  be  so  deeply  indebted  to  such  a  man.  British 
patriotism,  which  cannot  historically  ignore  the  reality  of  his  services, 
profits  by  the  basis  of  national  power  which  Cromwell  has  estab- 
lished in  Europe,  but  at  the  same  time  denies  his  personal  claims  ;  it 
acknowledges  the  work  but  repudiates  the  workman.  The  name 
of  Cromwell,  in  the  acceptation  of  the  English  people,  resembles  one 
of  those  massive  druidical  altars  upon  which  their  barbarous  ances- 
tors offered  up  sacrifices  to  their  gods  ;  and  which,  while  they  have 
been  thrown  in  to  assist  in  the  foundations  of  later  edifices,  can 
never  be  disinterred  or  restored  to  light  without  disclosing  the 
traces  of  the  blood  so  profusely  scattered  by  savage  superstition. 

TUB 


PITT,  EARL  OF  CHATHAM. 


WILLIAM  PITT,  first  Earl  of  Chatham,  a  celebrated  British  states 
man  and  orator,  was  born  on  the  15th  of  November,  1708.  He  was 
the  youngest  son  of  Mr.  Robert  Pitt,  of  Boconnock,  in  Cornwall,  the 
grandson  of  Mr.  Thomas  Pitt,  governor  of  Fort  St.  George,  in  the 
East  Indies,  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  who  sold  an  extraordinary 
diamond  to  the  King  of  France  for  £1:35,000,  and  thus  obtained  the 
name  of  Diamond  Pitt.  The  subject  of  this  notice  was  educated  at 
Eton,  whence,  in  January,  1726,  he  was  removed  to  Trinity  College, 
Oxford,  which  he  entered  as  a  gentleman  commoner.  Here  the 
superiority  of  his  mind  soon  attracted  notice,  and  he  was  also  re- 
marked for  his  powers  of  elocution  ;  but  at  the  age  of  sixteen  he  ex- 
perienced the  first  attacks  of  an  hereditary  and  incurable  gout,  which 
continued  at  intervals  to  torment  him  during  the  remainder  of  his 
life.  He  quitted  the  university  without  taking  a  degree,  and  visited 
France  ami  Italy,  whence  he  returned  without  having  received  much 
benefit  from  his  excursion.  His  father  was  now  dead,  and  as  he  had 
left  very  little  to  the  younger  children,  it  became  necessary  that  Wil- 
liam should  choose  a  profession.  He  decided  for  the  army,  and  a 
cornet's  commission  was  purchased  for  him  in  the  Blues.  But,  small 
as  his  fortune  was,  his  family  had  the  power  and  the  inclination  to 
serve  him.  At  the  general  election  of  1734,  his  elder  brother  Thom- 
as was  chosen  both  for  Old  Sarum  and  for  Oakhampton.  When 
Parliament  met  in  1735,  Thomas  made  his  election  for  Oakhampton, 
and  William  was  returned  for  Old  Sarum.  At  the  time  when  he  ob- 
tained a  seat  in  Parliament  he  was  not  quite  twenty-one  years  of  age. 
The  intention  of  bringing  him  thus  early  into  Parliament  was  to  op- 
pose Sir  Robert  Walpole,  who  had  now  been  fourteen  years  at  the 
head  of  affairs.  In  fact,  his  abilities  soon  attracted  notice,  and  he 
spoke  with  great  vehemence  against  the  Spanish  Convention  in  1738. 
It  was  on  the  occasion  of  the  bill  for  registering  seamen,  in  1740, 
which  he  opposed  as  arbitrary  and  unjustifiable,  that  he  is  said  to  have 
made  his  celebrated  reply  to  Walpole,  who  had  taunted  him  on  ac- 
count of  his  youth  ;  but  the  language  of  that  reply,  as  it  now  stands, 
is  not  the  diction  of  Pitt,  who  may  have  said  something  like  what  is 
ascribed  to  him,  but  of  Dr.  Johnson,  who  then  reported,  or  rather 


4  PITT,    EARL  OF   CHATHAM. 

wrote,  the  debates  for  the  Oentleman's  Magazine.  In  1746  Pitt  was 
appointed  joint  vice-treasurer  of  Ireland  ;  and  in  the  same  year  treas- 
urer and  paymaster-general  of  the  army,  and  a  privy  councillor. 
The  office  of  paymaster  he  discharged  with  such  inflexible  integrity, 
even  refusing  many  of  the  ordinary  perquisites  of  office,  that  his  bit- 
terest enemies  could  lay  nothing  to  his  charge,  and  he  soon  became 
the  darling  of  the  people.  The  old  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  wlio 
carried  to  the  grave  the  reputation  of  being  decidedly  the  best  hater 
of  her  time,  and  who  most  cordially  detested  Walpole  and  his  associ- 
ates, left  Pitt  a  legacy  of  £10,000,  in  consideration  of  "  the  noble  de- 
fence he  had  made  for  the  support  of  the  laws  of  England,  and  to 
prevent  the  ruin  of  his  country."  In  the  year  1755,  Pitt,  deeming  it 
necessary  to  offer  a  strong  opposition  to  the  continental  connections 
then  formed  by  the  ministry,  resigned  his  places,  and  remained  some 
time  out  of  office.  But  his  resignation  having  alarmed  the  people, 
he  was,  in  December,  1756,  called  to  fill  a  higher  office,  and  ap- 
pointed secretary  of  state.  In  this  situation,  however,  he  was  more 
successful  in  obtaining  the  confidence  of  the  public  than  in  conciliat- 
ing the  favor  of  the  king,  some  of  whose  predilections  he  had  con- 
ceived himself  bound  to  oppose.  The  consequence  was,  that  soon 
afterward  Pitt  was  removed  from  office,  while  Legge,  with  some 
others  of  his  friends,  were  at  the  same  time  dismissed.  But  the 
nation  had  a  mind  not  to  be  deprived  of  his  services.  The  most  ex- 
alted notion  had  been  formed  of  him  throughout  the  country  ;  his 
patriotism  was  believed  to  be  as  pure  and  disinterested  as  his  abilities 
and  eloquence  were  confessedly  transcendent  ;  and  his  colleagues 
shared  in  the  same  general  favor.  In  a  word,  the  opinion  of  the 
country  was  so  strongly  expressed,  both  directly  and  indirectly,  that 
the  king  thought  it  prudent  to  yield  ;  and  on  the  25th  of  June,  175.7, 
Pitt  was  again  appointed  secretary  of  state,  Legge  became  chancellor 
of  the  exchequer,  and  the  other  arrangements  were  made  conforma- 
bly to  his  wishes.  Pitt  was  now  in  effect  prime  minister  ;  and  the 
change  which  soon  took  place  in  the  aspect  of  public  affairs  evinced 
the  ability  of  his  measures  and  the  vigor  of  his  administration.  His 
spirit  animated  the  whole  nation,  and  his  activity  pervaded  every  de- 
partment of  the  public  service.  His  plans  were  ably  conceived  and 
promptly  executed  ;  and  the  depression  which  had  been  occasioned 
by  want  of  energy  in  the  cabinet  and  ill  success  in  the  field  was  fol- 
lowed by  exertion,  confidence,  and  triumph.  The  whole  fortune  of 
the  war  was  changed.  In  every  quarter  of  the  globe  success  at- 
tended our  arms.  The  boldest  attempts  were  made  both  by  land  and 
by  sea,  and  almost  every  attempt  proved  fortunate.  In  America  the 
French  lost  Quebec  ;  in  Africa  they  were  deprived  of  their  principal 
settlements  ;  their  power  was  abridged  in  the  East  Indies  ;  in  Europe 
their  armies  were  defeated  ;  and,  to  render  their  humiliation  more 
complete,  their  navy,  their  commerce,  and  their  finances  were  almost 
ruined.  Amid  this  full  tide  of  success  George  II.  died,  on  the  25tk 


PITT,    EARL  OF   CHATHAM.  5 

of  October,  1760,  and  was  succeeded  by  George  III.,  who  ascended 
the  throne  at  a  time  when  the  French  court  had  just  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining the  co-operation  of  Spain. 

The  treaty  commonly  called  "  family  compact"  had  been  secretly 
concluded  ;  but  the  English  minister,  correctly  informed  of  the  hos- 
tile intentions  of  Spain,  determined  to  anticipate  that  power,  and 
strike  a  blow  before  this  new  enemy  should  be  fully  prepared  for  ac- 
tion. He  therefore  proposed  in  the  council  an  immediate  declaration 
of  war  against  Spain,  urging  forcibly  that  the  present  was  the  favor  - 
•able  moment  for  humbling  the  whole  House  of  Bourbon.  But  when 
he  stated  this  opinion  in  the  privy  council,  the  other  ministers,- averse 
to  so  bold  a  measure,  opposed  the  proposition  of  the  premier,  alleg- 
ing the  necessity  of  mature  deliberation  before  declaring  war  against 
so  powerful  a  state.  Irritated  by  the  unexpected  opposition  of  his 
colleagues,  Pitt  replied,  "  I  will  not  give  them  leave  to  think  ;  this  is 
the  tijne  ;  let  us  crush  the  whole  fiouse  of  Bourbon.  But  if  the 
members  of  this  board  are  of  a  different  opinion,  this  is  the  last  time 
I  shall  ever  mix  iu  its  councils.  I  was  called  into  the  ministry  by  the 
voice  of  the  people,  and  to  them  I  hold  myself  answerable  for  my 
conduct.  I  am  to  thank  the  ministers  of  the  late  king  for  their  sup- 
port ;  I  have  served  my  country  with  success  ;  but  I  will  not  be  re- 
sponsible for  the  conduct  of  tiie  war  any  longer  than  while  I  have 
the  direction  of  it."  To  this  declaration  the  president  of  the  council 
answered,  "  I  find  the  gentleman  is  determined  to  leave  us  ;  nor  can 
I  say  that  I  am  sorry  for  it,  since  he  would  otherwise  have  certainly 
compelled  us  to  leave  him.  But  if  he  is  resolved  to  assume  the  right 
of  advising-  his  Majesty,  and  directing  the  operations  of  the  war,  to 
what  purpose  are  we  called  to  this  council?  When  he  talks  of  being 
responsible  to  the  people,  he  talks  the  language  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  forgets  that  at  this  board  he  is  responsible  only  to  the 
king.  However,  though  he  may  possibly  have  convinced  himself  of 
his  infallibility,  still  it  remains  that  we  should  be  equally  convinced 
before  we  can  resign  our  understandings  to  his  direction,  or  join  with 
him  in  the  measure  he  proposes."  The  opposition  he  thus  encoun- 
tered the  nation  attributed  to  the  growing  influence  of  Lord  Bute. 
But  however  this  may  have  been,  Pitt  was  a  man  of  too  high,  not  to 
say  imperious  a  temper,  to  remain  as  the  nominal  head  of  a  cabinet 
which  he  was  no  longer  able  to  direct.  Accordingly,  on  the  5th  of 
October,  1761,  he  resigned  all  his  appointments  ;  and,  as  some  reward 
for  his  services,  his  wife  was  created  Baroness  Chatham  in  her  own 
right,  while  a  pension  of  £3000  a  year  was  settled  on  the  lires  of 
himself,  his  lady,  and  his  eldest  son. 

No  fallen  minister,  if  fallen  he  could  be  called,  ever  carried  with 
him  more  completely  the  confidence  and  regret  of  the  nation,  whose 
affairs  he  had  so  successfully  administered.  But  at  this  time  the 
king  was  also  popular  ;  and  the  war  being  continued  by  his  new  min- 
isters with  vi^or  and  success,  no  discontent  appeared  until  after  the 


6  PITT,    EARL  OF  CHATHAM. 

conclusion  of  the  peace.  The  impulse  given  by  Pitt  had  carried  them 
forward  in  the  same  direction  which  he  had  pursued  ;  but  they  were 
equally  incapable  of  profiting  by  the  advantages  which  had  been  al- 
ready gained,  or  of  prosecuting  the  war  until  the  objects  for  which 
it  was  originally  undertaken  should  be  accomplished.  The  victories 
gained  over  France  and  Spain  having  greatly  elated  the  nation,  the 
feeling  which  almost  universally  prevailed  among  the  people  was, 
that  we  should  either  dictate  peace  as  conquerors,  or  continue  the 
war  until  our  adversaries  were  more  effectually  humbled.  This  was 
likewise  Pitt's  opinion.  Accordingly,  when  the  preliminaries  of 
peace  came  to  be  discussed  in  Parliament,  he  went  down  to  the  House 
of  Commons,  though  suffering  severely  from  an  attack  of  gout,  and 
spoke  for  nearly  three  hours  in  the  debate,  giving  his  opinion  on  each 
article  of  the  treaty  in  succession,  and,  upon  the  whole,  maintaining 
that  it  was  inadequate  to  the  conquests  of  our  arms,  and  the  just  ex- 
pectations of  the  country.  Peace  was,  however,  concluded  on  the 
10th  of  February,  1763,  and  Pitt  continued  unemployed. 

After  his  resignation  in  1761,  Pitt  conducted  himself  in  a  manner 
worthy  of  his  high  character.  So  far  from  giving  a  vexatious  and 
undisc-riminating  opposition  to  the  ministry  which  had  succeeded  his 
own,  he  maintained  his  popularity  in  dignified  retirement,  and  came 
forward  only  when  questions  of  great  importance  were  to  be  dis- 
cussed. One  of  these  occurred  in  1764,  on  the  subject  of  general 
warrants,  the  illegality  of  which  he  denounced  with  all  the  energy 
and  vigor  of  his  eloquence.  Another  occasion,  when  he  came  for- 
ward in  all  his  strength,  was  the  consideration  of  the  discontents 
which  had  arisen  on  account  of  the  Stamp  Act.  In  March, 1766,  the 
repeal  of  that  act  having  been  proposed  by  the  Rockingham  minis- 
try, Pitt,  though  not  connected  with  them,  ably  supported  the  meas- 
ure, which  was  carried,  but  whether  prudently  or  the  contrary  is  still 
a  matter  of  dispute.  About  this  time  Pitt  had  devised  to  him  by  will 
a  considerable  estate  in  Somersetshire,  the  property  of  Sir  William 
I'yn-ent  of  Burton-Pynsent  in  that  county,  who,  from  admiration  of 
his  public  character,  disinherited  his  own  relations,  in  order  to  be. 
queath  to  him  the  bulk  of  his  fortune.  After  the  dissolution  of  the 
Rockingham  ministry,  a  new  administration  was  formed,  and  in  1766 
1'iit  was  appointed  lord  privy  seal.  At  the  same  time  he  was  created 
a  peer  by  the  titles  of  Viscount  Pitt  of  Burton  Pynsent,  In  the  county 
of  Somerset,  and  Earl  of  Chatham,  in  the  county  of  Kent. 

Whatever  might  be  his  motives  in  accepting  a  peerage,  it  is  certain 
that  it  proved  very  prejudicial  to  his  character,  and  that  in  conse- 
quence he  sank  as  much  in  popularity  as  he  rose  in  nominal  dignity. 
The  "  great  commoner,"  as  he  was  sometimes  called,  had  formed  a 
rank  for  himself,  on  the  basis  of  his  talents  and  exertions,  which 
titular  honors  might  obscure,  but  could  not  illustrate  ;  and,  with  the 
example  of  Pulteney  before  him,  he  should  have  been  careful  to  pre- 
terv«  it  untarnished  hjr  empty  distinctions,  shared  by  the  mean  and 


PITT,    EARL  OF   CHATHAM.  7 

the  worthless  as  well  as  by  the  great,  the  gifted,  and  the  good.  Lord 
Chatham,  however,  did  not  long  continue  in  office  after  being  elevated 
to  the  peerage.  On  the  2d  of  November,  1768,  he  resigned  the  place 
of  lord  privy  seal,  and  never  afterward  held  any  public  employment ; 
nor  does  he  appear  to  have  been  at  all  desirous  of  returning  to  office. 
He  was  now  sixty,  and  the  gout,  by  which  he  had  so  long  been 
afflicted,  disabled  him,  by  its  frequent  and  violent  attacks,  for  close 
and  regular  application  to  business.  In  the  intervals  of  his  disorder, 
however,  he  failed  not  to  exert  himself  upon  questions  of  great  mag- 
nitude ;  and  in  1775,  1776,  and  1777,  he  most  strenuously  opposed 
the  measures  pursued  by  the  ministers  in  the  contest  with  America. 
His  last  appearance  in  the  House  of  Lords  was  on  the  3d  of  April, 
1778.  He  was  then  very  ill,  and  much  debilitated  ;  but  the  question, 
was  important,  being  a  motion  of  the  Duke  of  Richmond  to  address 
his  Majesty  to  remove  the  ministers,  and  to  make  peace  with  Amer- 
ica on  any  terms.  His  lordship  made  a  long  speech,  in  which  he 
summoned  up  all  his  remaining  strength  to  pour  out  his  disapprobation 
of  a  measure  so  inglorious.  But  the  effort  overcame  him,  for  in  at- 
tempting to  rise  a  second  time,  he  fell  down  in  a  convulsive  fit  ;  and 
though  he  recovered  for  the  time,  his  disorder  continued  to  increase 
until  the  llth  of  May,  when  he  expired  at  his  seat  at  Hayes.  His 
death  was  lamented  as  a  national  loss.  As  soon  as  the  news  reached 
the  House  of  Commons,  which  was  then  sitting,  Colonel  Barre  made 
a  motion  that  an  address  should  be  presented  to  his  Majesty,  re- 
questing that  the  Earl  of  Chatham  should  be  buried  at  the  public  ex- 
pense. But  Mr.  Rigby  having  proposed  the  erection  of  a  statue  to 
his  memory,  as  more  likely  to  perpetuate  the  sense  of  his  great 
merits  entertained  by  the  public,  this  was  unanimously  agreed  to.  A 
bill  was  soon  afterward  passed,  by  which  £4000  a  year  was  settled 
upon  John,  now  Earl  of  Chatham,  and  the  heirs  of  the  late  earl  to 
whom  that  title  might  descend.  His  lordship  was  married  in  1754  to 
Lady  Hester,  sister  of  Earl  Temple,  by  whom  he  had  three  sons  and 
two  daughters. 

The  principal  outlines  of  Pitt's  character  have  been  variously 
sketched,  sometimes  with  and  sometimes  without  any  depth  of 
shadow.  The  truth  is,  that  there  scarcely  ever  lived  a  person  who 
had  less  claim  to  be  painted  altogether  en  beau,  or  who  so  little  mer- 
ited unsparing  censure.  Lord  Macaulay  says,  ' '  That  he  was  a  great 
man,  cannot  for  a  moment  be  doubted  ;  but  his  was  not  a  complete 
and  well-proportioned  greatness.  The  public  life  of  Hampden  or  of 
Somers  resembles  a  regular  drama,  which  can  be  criticised  as  a  whole, 
and  every  scene  of  which  is  to  be  viewed  in  connection  with  the 
main  action.  The  public  life  of  Pitt,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  rude 
though  striking  piece,  abounding  in  incongruities,  and  without  any 
unity  of  plan,  but  redeemed  by  some  noble  passages,  the  effect  of 
which  is  increased  by  the  tameness  or  extravagance  of  what  precedes 
and  of  what  follows.  His  opinions  were  unfixed  ;  and  his  conduct, 


8  FITT,    EARL  OF   CHATHAM. 

at  some  of  the  most  important  conjunctures  of  his  life,  was  evidently 
determined  by  pride  and  resentment.  He  had  one  fault,  which  of 
all  human  faults  is  most  rarely  found  in  company  with  true  greatness. 
He  was  extremely  affected.  He  was  an  almost  solitary  instance  of  a 
man  of  real  genius,  and  of  a  brave,  lofty,  and  commanding  spirit, 
without  simplicity  of  character.  lie  was  an  actor  in  the  closet,  an 
actor  in  the  council,  and  an  actor  in  Parliament ;  and  even  in  private 
society  he  could  not  lay  aside  his  theatrical  tones  and  attitudes.  AVo 
know  that  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  his  partisans  often  com- 
plained that  he  could  never  obtain  admittance  to  Lord  Chatham's 
room  till  everything  was  ready  for  the  representation  ;  till  the  light 
was  thrown  with  Rembrandt-like  effect  on  the  head  of  the  illustrious 
performer  ;  till  the  flannels  had  been  arranged  with  the  air  of  Grecian 
drujM'ry,  and  the  crutch  placed  as  gracefully  as  that  of  Belisarius  or 
Lear."  Yet,  with  all  his  faults  and  affectations,  he  possessed,  in  a 
very  extraordinary  degree,  many  of  the  elements  of  true  greatness. 
lie  had  splendid  talents,  strong  passions,  quick  sensibility,  and 
vehement  enthusiasm  for  the  grand  and  the  beautiful.  There  was 
something  about  him  which  ennobled  even  tergiversation  itself.  He 
often  went  wrong,  very  far  wrong  ;  but,  amid  the  abasement  of 
error,  he  still  retained  what  he  had  received  from  nature,  "  an  in- 
tense and  glowing  mind."  In  an  age  of  low  and  despicable  prostitu- 
tion, the  age  of  Dodiugton  and  Sandys,  it  was  something  to  have  a 
man  who  might  perhaps,  under  some  strong  excitement,  have  been 
tempted  to  ruin  his  country,  but  who  never  would  have  stooptd  to 
pilfer  from  her  ;  a  man  whose  errors  arose,  not  from  a  sordid  desire 
of  gain,  but  from  a  fierce  thirst  for  power,  glory,  and  vengeance. 
"  History  owes  him  this  attestation,  that,  at  a  time  when  anything 
short  of  direct  embezzlement  of  the  public  money  was  considered  ;is 
quite  fair  in  public  men,  he  showed  the  most  scrupulous  disinterested- 
ness ;  that,  at  a  time  when  it  seemed  to  be  generally  taken  for  granted 
that  government  could  be  upheld  only  by  the  basest  and  most  immor- 
al arts,  he  appealed  to  the  better  and  nobler  parts  of  human  nature  ; 
that  he  made  a  brave  and  splendid  attempt  to  do,  by  means  of  public 
opinion,  what  no  other  statesman  of  his  day  thought  it  possible  to 

except  by  means  of  corruption  ;  that  he  looked  for  support,  not, 

Uke  the  1  elhams,  to  a  strong  aristocratical  connection,  not,  like  Bute, 

to  the  personal  favor  of  the  sovereign,  but  to  the  middle  class  of 

tohmen  ;  that  he  inspired  that  class  with  a  firm  confidence  in  hia 

••gnty  and  ability  ;  that,  backed  by  them,  he  forced  an  unwilling 

t  and  mi  unwilling  oligarchy  to  admit  him  to  an  ample  share  of 

that  he  used  his  power  in  such  a  manner  as  dearly 

mod  timt  he  had  sought  it,  not  for  the  sake  of  profit  or  patronage, 

from  a  w,sh  to  establish  for  himself  a  great  and  durable  reputa 

means  of  eminent  services  rendered  to  the  state  " 

T«™Un  rCaa\ng  Piirase3  have  been  employed,  and  much 
orical  exaggeration  has  been  expended,  in  attempts  to  charac- 


PITT,    EABL   OF   CHATHAM.  9 

terize  Lord  Chatham's  style  of  eloquence.  The  following  estimate  by 
Lord  Macaulay,  from  whom  we  have  borrowed  some  of  the  fore- 
going observations,  is  at  once  deep,  discriminating,  and  brilliant : 

"  In  our  time  the  audience  of  a  member  of  Parliament  is  the  nation. 
The  three  or  four  hundred  persons  who  may  be  present  when  a  speech 
is  delivered  may  be  pleased  or  disgusted  by  the  voice  and  action  of  the 
orator  ;  but  in  the  reports  which  are  read  the  next  day  by  hundreds 
of  thousands,  the  difference  between  the  noblest  and  the  meanest  fig- 
ure, between  the  richest  and  the  shrillest  tones,  between  the  most 
graceful  and  the  most  uncouth  gesture,  altogether  vanishes.  A  hun- 
dred years  ago,  scarcely  any  report  of  what  passed  within  the  walls 
of  the  House  of  Commons  was  suffered  to  get  abroad.  In  those 
times,  therefore,  the  impression  which  a  speaker  might  make  on  the 
persons  who  actually  heard  him  was  everything.  The  impression 
out  of  doors  was  hardly  worth  a  thought.  In  the  parliaments  of  that 
time,  therefore,  as  in  the  ancient  commonwealths,  those  qualifications 
which  enhance  the  immediate  efforts  of  a  speech  were  far  more  im- 
portant ingredients  in  the  composition  of  an  orator  than  they  would 
appear  to  be  in  our  time.  All  those  qualifications  Pitt  possessed  in 
the  highest  degree.  On  the  stage,  he  would  have  been  the  finest 
Brutus  or  Coriolanus  ever  seen.  Those  who  saw  him  in  his  decay, 
when  his  health  was  broken,  when  his  mind  was  jangled,  when  he 
had  been  removed  from  that  stormy  assembly  of  which  he  thoroughly 
knew  the  temper,  and  over  which  he  possessed  unbounded  influence, 
to  a  small,  a  torpid,  and  an  unfriendly  audience,  say  that  his  speak- 
ing was  then  for  the  most  part  a  low  monotonous  muttering,  audible 
only  to  those  who  sat  close  to  him  ;  that,  when  violently  excited,  he 
sometimes  raised  his  voice  for  a  few  minutes,  but  that  it  soon  sank 
again  into  an  unintelligible  murmur.  Such  was  the  Earl  of  Chat- 
ham ;  but  such  was  not  William  Pitt.  His  figure,  when  he  first  ap- 
peared in  Parliament,  was  strikingly  graceful  and  commanding,  his 
features  high  and  noble,  his  eye  full  of  fire.  His  voice,  even  when 
it  sank  to  a  whisper,  was  heard  to  the  remotest  benches  ;  when  he 
strained  it  to  its  full  extent,  the  sound  rose  like  the  swell  of  the 
organ  of  a  great  cathedral,  shook  the  house  with  its  peal,  and  was 
heard  through  lobbies  and  down  staircases,  to  the  Court  of  Requests 
and  the  precincts  of  Westminster  Hall.  He  cultivated  all  these  em- 
inent advantages  with  the  most  assiduous  care.  His  action  is  de- 
scribed, by  a  very  malignant  observer,  as  equal  to  that  of  Garrick. 
His  play  of  countenance  was  wonderful  ;  he  frequently  disconcerted 
a  hostile  orator  by  a  single  glance  of  indignation  or  scorn.  Every 
tone,  from  the  impassioned  cry  to  the  thrilling  aside,  was  perfectly 
at  his  command.  It  is  by  no  means  improbable  that  the  pains  which 
he  took  to  improve  his  great  personal  advantages  had  in  some  re- 
spects a  prejudicial  operation,  and  tended  to  nourish  in  him  that  pas- 
sion for  theatrical  effect  which  was  one  of  the  most  conspicuous 
blemishes  in  his  character. 


10  PITT,    EARL  OF   CHATHAM. 

"But  it  was  not  solely  or  principally  to  outward  accomplishments 
that  Pitt  owed  the  vast  influence  which,  during  nearly  thirty  years, 
he  exercised  over  the  House  of  Commons,  lit-  \v;i*  undoubtedly  a 
great  orator  ;  and  from  the  descriptions  of  his  contemporaries,  and 
the  fragments  of  his  speeches  which  still  remain,  it  is  not  difficult  to 
discover  the  nature  and  extent  of  his  oratorical  powers. 

"  He  was  no  speaker  of  set  speeches.  His  few  prepared  dis- 
courses were  complete  failures.  The  elaborate  panegyric  which  ho 
pronounced  on  General  Wolfe  was  considered  as  the  very  worst  of 
all  his  performances.  '  No  man, '  says  a  critic  who  had  often  heard 
him,  '  ever  knew  so  little  what  he  was  going  to  say. '  Indeed,  his 
facility  amounted  to  a  vice  ;  he  was  not  the  master,  but  the  slave  of 
his  own  speech.  So  little  self-command  had  he  when  once  he  felt 
the  impulse,  that  he  did  not  like  to  take  part  in  a  debate  when  his 
mind  was  full  of  an  important  secret  of  state.  '  I  must  sit  still,'  he 
once  said  to  Lord  Shelburne  on  such  an  occasion,  '  lor  when  once  I 
am  up,  everything  that  is  in  my  mind  comes  out.' 

"  'iet  he  was  not  a  great  debater.  That  he  should  not  have  been 
so  when  he  first  entered  the  House  of  Commons  is  not  strange  ; 
scarcely  any  person  has  ever  become  so  without  long  practice  and  ninny 
failures.  It  was  by  slow  degrees,  as  Burke  said,  that  Mr.  Fox  becam^ 
the  most  brilliant  and  powerful  debater  that  Parliament  ever  saw. 
Mr.  Fox  himself  attributed  his  own  success  to  the  resolution  which  he 
formed,  when  very  young,  of  speaking,  well  or  ill,  at  least  once  every 
night.  '  During  five  whole  sessions, '  he  used  to  say,  '  I  spoke  every 
night  but  one  ;  and  I  regret  ouly  that  I  did  not  speak  that  night  too.' 
Indeed,  it  would  be  difficult  to  name  any  great  debater  who  has  not 
made  himself  a  master  of  his  art  at  the  expense  of  his  audience. 

"  But  as  this  art  is  one  which  even  the  ablest  men  have  seldom  ac- 
quired without  long  practice,  so  it  is  one  which  men  of  respectable 
abilities,  with  assiduous  and  intrepid  practice,  seldom  fail  to  acquire. 
It  is  singular  that,  in  such  an  art,  Pitt,  a  man  of  splendid  talents, 
great  fluency,  and  dauntless  boldness,  whose  whole  life  was  passed  in 
parliamentary  conflicts,  and  who  during  several  years  was  the  lead- 
ing minister  of  the  crown  in  the  House  of  Commons,  should  never 
have  attained  to  high  excellence.  He  spoke  without  premeditation  ; 
but  his  speech  followed  the  course  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  not  that 
of  the  previous  discussion.  He  could,  indeed,  treasure  up  in  his 
memory  some  detached  expression  of  a  hostile  orator,  and  make  it 
the  text  for  sparkling  ridicule  or  burning  invective.  Some  of  the 
most  celebrated  bursts  of  his  eloquence  were  called  forth  by  an  un- 
guarded word,  a  laugh,  or  a  cheer.  But  this  was  the  only  sort  of 
reply  in  which  he  appears  to  have  excelled.  He  was  perhaps  the 
only  great  English  orator  who  did  not  think  it  an  advantage  to  havo 
the  hist  word,  and  who  generally  spoke  by  choice  before  his  most 
formidable  opponents.  His  merit  was  almost  entirely  rhetorical. 
lie  did  not  succeed  either  in  exposition  or  refutation  ;  but  his 


PITT,    EAEL   0£   CHATHAM.  11 

speeches  abounded  with  lively  illustrations,  striking  apothegms,  well- 
toid  anecdotes,  happy  allusions,  passionate  appeals.  His  invective 
and  sarcasm  were  tremendous.  Perhaps  no  English  orator  was 
ever  so  much  feared. 

"  But  that  which  gave  most  effect  to  his  declamation  was  the  air 
of  sincerity,  of  vehement  feeling,  or  moral  elevation,  which  belonged 
to  all  that  he  said.  His  style  was  not  always  in  the  purest  taste. 
Several  contemporary  judges  pronounced  it  too  florid.  Walpole, 
in  the  midst  of  the  rapturous  eulogy  which  he  pronounces  on  one  of 
Pitt's  greatest  orations,  owns  that  some  of  the  metaphors  were  too 
forced.  The  quotations  and  classical  stories  of  the  orator  are  some- 
times too  trite  for  a  clever  schoolboy.  But  these  were  niceties  for 
which  the  audience  cared  little.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  orator  in- 
fected all  who  were  near  him  ;  his  ardor  and  his  noble  bearing  put 
fire  into  the  most  frigid  conceit,  and  gave  dignity  to  the  most  puerile 
allusion." 

Such  is  the  character  of  this  great  statesman  and  orator,  as  drawn 
by  one  masterly  hand.  It  may  perhaps  both  instruct  and  interest  our 
readers  if  we  present  another,  delineated  by  an  artist  equally  dis- 
tinguished for  the  vigor,  judgment,  and  fidelity  with  which  he  paints 
such  grand  pieces  for  the  gallery  of  history.  The  preceding,  as  we 
have  already  said,  is  from  the  pen  of  Lord  Macaulay  ;  the  following 
is  understood  to  be  from  that  of  Lord  Brougham  : 

"  The  first  place  among  the  great  qualities  which  distinguished 
Lord  Chatham  is  unquestionably  due  to  firmness  of  purpose,  resolute 
determination  in  the  pursuit  of  his  objects.  This  was  the  character- 
istic of  the  younger  Brutus,  as  he  said,  who  hud  spared  his  life  to  fall 
by  his  hand — Quicquid  vult,  id  vnlde  vult ;  and  although  extremely 
apt  to  be  shown  in  excess,  it  must  be  admitted  to  be  the  foundation 
of  all  true  greatness  of  character.  Everything,  however,  depends 
upon  the  endowments  in  whose  company  it  is  found  ;  and  in  Lord 
Chatham  these  were  of  a  very  high  order.  The  quickness  with  which 
he  could  ascertain  his  object,  and  discover  his  road  to  it,  was  fully 
commensurate  with  his  perseverance  and  his  boldness  in  pursuing  it  ; 
the  firmness  of  grasp  with  which  he  held  his  advantage  was  fully 
equalled  by  the  rapidity  of  the  glance  with  which  he  discovered  it. 
Add  to  this  r,  mind  eminently  fertile  in  resources,  a  courage  which 
nothing  could  daunt  in  the  choice  of  his  means,  a  resolution  equally 
indomitable  in  their  application,  a  genius,  in  short,  original  and 
daring,  which  bounded  over  the  petty  obstacles  raised  by  ordinary 
men — their  squeamishness.  and  their  precedents,  and  their  forms, 
and  their  regularities — and  forced  away  its  path  through  the  en- 
tanglements of  this  base  undergrowth  to  the  worthy  object  ever  in 
his  view,  the  prosperity  and  the  renown  of  his  country.  Far  superior 
to  the  paltry  objects  of  a  grovelling  ambition,  and  regardless  alike  of 
party  and  of  personal  considerations,  lie  constantly  set  before  his 
wyes  the  highest  duty  of  a  public- jnan,  to  further  the  interests  of  his 


ig  1>ITT,    EARL  OF  CHATHAM. 

species  In  pursuing  his  course  toward  that  goal,  he  disregarded 
alike  the  frowns  of  power  and  the  gales  of  popular  applause  ;  exposed 
himself  undaunted  to  the  vengeance  of  the  court,  while  he  battled 
against  its  corruptions,  and  confronted,  unabashed,  the  rudest  shocks 
of  public  indignation,  while  he  resisted  the  dictates  of  pernicious 
agitators  ;  and  could  conscientiously  exclaim,  with  an  illustrious 
statesman  of  antiquity,  '  Ego  hoc  animo  semper  fui  ut  invidiam  vir- 
tute  partain,  gloriam  non  iuvidium  putarem.' 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  entangled  than  tl:e  foreign  policy  of  this 
country  at  the  time  when  he  took  the  supreme  direction  of  her 
affairs  ;  nothing  could  be  more  disastrous  than  the  aspect  of  her  for- 
tunes in  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  With  a  single  ally  in  Europe, 
the  King  of  Prussia,  and  him  beset  by  a  combination  of  all  the  con- 
tinental powers  in  unnatural  union  to  effect  his  destruction  ;  with  an 
army  of  insignificant  amount,  and  commanded  by  men  only  desirous 
of  grasping  at  the  emoluments,  without  doing  the  duties  or  incurring 
the  risks  of  their  profession  ;  with  a  navy  that  could  hardly  keep  the 
sea,  and  whose  chiefs  vied  with  their  comrades  on  shore  in  earning 
the  character  given  them  by  the  new  minister,  of  being  utterly  unfit 
to  be  trusted  in  any  enterprise  accompanied  with  '  the  least  appear 
ance  of  danger  ; '  with  a  generally  prevailing  dislike  of  both  services, 
which  at  once  repressed  all  desire  of  joining  either,  and  damped  all 
public  spirit  in  the  country,  by  extinguishing  all  hope  of  success,  and 
even  all  love  of  glory  :  it  was  hardly  possible  for  a  nation  to  be 
placed  in  circumstances  more  inauspicious  to  military  exertions  ;  and 
yet  war  raged  in  every  quarter  of  the  world  where  our  dominion  ex- 
tended, while  the  territories  of  our  only  ally,  as  well  as  those  of  our 
own  sovereign  in  Germany,  were  invaded  by  France,  and  her  forces 
by  sea  and  land  menaced  our  shores.  In  the  distant  possessions  of 
the  crown  the  same  want  of  enterprise  and  of  spirit  prevailed. 
Armies  in  the  West  were  paralyzed  by  the  inaction  of  a  captain  who 
would  hardly  take  the  pains  to  write  a  dispatch  recording  the  non- 
entity of  his  operations  ;  and  in  the  East,  while  frightful  disasters 
were  brought  upon  our  settlements  by  barbarian  powers,  the  only 
military  capacity  that  appeared  in  their  defence  was  the  accidental 
display  of  genius  and  valor  by  a  merchant's  clerk,  who  thus  raised 
himself  to  celebrity  (Mr.,  afterward  Lord,  Clive).  In  this  forlorn 
state  of  affairs,  rendering  it  as  impossible  to  think  of  peace  as  it 
seemed  hopeless  to  continue  the  yet  inevitable  war,  the  base  and 
sordid  views  of  politicians  kept  pace  with  the  mean  spirit  of  the  mil- 
itary caste  ;  and  parties  were  split  or  united  not  upon  any  difference 
or  agreement  of  public  principle,  but  upon  mere  questions  of  patron- 
age and  share  in  the  public  spoil,  while  all  seemed  alike  actuated  by 
one  only  passion,  the  thirst  alternately  of  power  and  of  gain. 

"  As  soon  as  Mr.  Pitt  took  the  helm,  the  steadiness  of  the  hand  that 
held  it  came  to  be  felt  in  every  motion  of  the  vessel.  There  was  no 
more  of  wavering  councils,  of  torpid  inaction,  of  listless  expectancy, 


HTT,,    EARL   OF   CHATHAM.  13 

of  abtect  despondency.  His  firmness  gave  confidence,  his  spirit 
roused  courage,  his  vigilance  secured  exertion,  in  every  department 
under  his  sway.  Each  man,  from  the  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty 
down  to  the  most  humble  clerk  in  the  victualling  office — each  soldier, 
from  the  commander-in-chief  to  the  most  obscure  contractor  or  com- 
missary—now felt  assured  that  he  was  acting  or  indolent  under  the 
eye  of  one  who  knew  his  duties  and  his  means  as  well  as  his  own, 
and  who  would  very  certainly  make  all  defaulters,  whether  through 
misfeasance  or  through  nonfeasance,  accountable  for  whatever  detri- 
ment the  commonwealth  might  sustain  at  their  hands.  Over  his 
immediate  coadjutors  his  influence  swiftly  obtained  an  ascendent 
which  it  ever  after  retained  uninterrupted.  Upon  his  first  proposition 
for  changing  the  conduct  of  the  war  he  stood  single  among  his  col- 
leagues, and  tendered  his  resignation  should  they  persist  in  their  dis- 
gent  ;  they  at  once  succumbed,  and  from  that  hour  ceased  to  have  an 
opinion  of  their  own  upon  any  branch  of  the  public  affairs.  Nay,  &o 
absolutely  was  he  determined  to  have  the  control  of  those  measures 
of  which  he  knew  the  responsibility  rested  upon  him  alone,  that  be 
insisted  upon  the  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty  not  having  the  corre- 
spondence of  his  own  department ;  and  no  less  eminent  a  naval  char- 
acter than  Lord  Anson,  with  his  junior  lords,  were  obliged  to  sign 
the  orders  issued  by  Mr.  Pitt  while  the  writing  was  covered  over 
from  their  eyes,. 

"  The  effects  of  this  change  in  the  whole  management  of  the  pub- 
lic business,  and  in  all  the  plans  of  the  government,  as  well  as  in 
their  execution,  were  speedily  made  manifest  to  all  the  world.  The 
German  troops  were  sent  home,  and  a  well-regulated  militia  being 
established  to  defend  the  country,  a  large  disposable  force  was  dis- 
tributed over  the  various  points  whence  the  enemy  might  be  an- 
noyed. France,  attacked  on  some  points  and  menaced  on  others, 
was  compelled  to  retire  from  Germany,  soon  afterward  suffered  the 
most  disastrous  defeats,  and,  instead  of  threatening  England  and  her 
allies  with  invasion,  had  to  defend  herself  against  attack,  suffering 
severely  in  several  of  her  most  important  naval  stations.  No  less 
than  sixteen  islands,  and  settlements,  and  fortresses  of  importance, 
were  taken  from  her  in  America,  and  Asia,  and  Africa,  including  all 
her  West  Indian  colonies  except  St.  Domingo,  and  all  her  settlements 
in  the  East.  The  whole  important  province  of  Canada  was  likewise 
conquered,  and  the  Havana  was  taken  from  Spain.  Besides  this,  the 
seas  were  swept  clear  of  the  fleets  that  had  so  lately  been  insulting  all 
our  colonies,  and  even  all  our  coasts.  Many  general  actions  were 
fought  and  gained  ;  one  among  them  the  most^  decisive  that  had  ever 
been  fought  by  our  navy.  Thirty-six  sail  of  the  line  were  taken  or 
destroyed,  fifty  frigates,  forty-five  sloops  of  war.  So  brilliant  a 
course  of  uninterrupted  success  had  never  in  modern  times  attended 
the  arms  of  any  nation  carrying  on  war  with  other  states  equal  to  it 
in  civilization,  and  nearly  a  match  in  power.  But  it  is  a  more  glori- 


14  PITT,    EABL  OF  CHATfiAM. 

ous  feature  in  the  unexampled  administration  which  history  has  to 
record,  when  it  adds  that  all  public  distress  had  disappeared  ;  all 
discontent  in  any  quarter,  both  of  the  colonies  and  parent  state,  had 
ceased  ;  that  no  oppression  was  anywhere  practised,  no  abuse 
suffered  to  prevail ;  that  no  encroachments  were  made  upon  the 
rights  of  the  subject,  no  malversations  tolerated  in  the  possessors  of 
power ;  and  that  England,  for  the  first  time  and  for  the  last  time, 
presented  the  astonishing  picture  of  a  nation  supporting  without  mur- 
mur a  widely  extended  and  costly  war,  and  a  people  hitherto  torn 
with  conflicting  parties  so  united  in  the  service  of  the  common- 
wealth, that  the  voice  of  faction  had  ceased  in  the  land,  and  any  dis- 
cordant whisper  was  heard  no  more.  '  These, '  said  the  son  of  his 
first  and  most  formidable  adversary,  Walpole,  when  informing  his 
correspondent  abroad  that  the  session,  as  usual,  had  ended  without 
any  kind  of  opposition,  or  even  of  debate — '  these  are  the  doings  of 
Mr.  Pitt,  and  they  are  wondrous  in  our  eyes. ' 

"  To  genius  irregularity  is  incident,  and  the  greatest  genius  is  often 
marked  by  eccentricity,  as  if  it  disdained  to  move  in  the  vulgar  orbit. 
Hence  he  who  is  fitted  by  his  nature,  and  trained  by  his  habits,  to  be 
an  accomplished  'pilot  in  extremity,'  and  whose  inclinations  carry 
him  forth  to  seek  the  deep  when  the  waves  run  high,  may  be  found, 
if  not  '  to  steer  too  near  the  shore,'  yet  to  despise  the  sunken  rocks 
which  they  that  can  only  be  trusted  in  calm  weather  would  have 
more  surely  avoided.     To  this  rule  it  cannot  be  said  that  Lord  Chat- 
ham afforded  any  exception  ;  and,  although  a  plot  had  certainly  been 
formed  to  eject  him  from  the  ministry,  leaving  the  chief  control  of 
affairs  in  the  feeble  hands  of  Lord  Bute,  whose  only  support  was 
court  favor,  and  whose  only  talent  lay  in  an  expertness  at  intrigue, 
yet  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  Ihis  scheme  was  only  rendered  prac- 
ticable by  the  hostility  which  the  great  minister's  unbending  habits, 
his  contempt  of  ordinary  men,  and  his  neglect  of  every-day  matters, 
had  raised  against  him  among  all  the  creatures  both  of   Downing 
Street  and  St.  James's.     In  fact,  his  colleagues,  who  necessarily  felt 
tumbled  by  his  superiority,  were  needlessly  mortified   by  the  con- 
stant display  of  it  ;  and  it  would  have  betokened  a  still  higher  reach 
of  understanding,  as  well  as  a  purer  fabric  of  patriotism,  if  he  whose 
it  capacity  threw  those  subordinates  into  the  shade,  and  before 
wlinM-  vi-or  in  action  they  were  sufficiently  willing  to  yield,    had 
(1  !i  little  suavity  in  his  demeanor  with  his  extraordinary  powers, 
it  always  necessary  for  (hem  to  acknowledge  as  well  as  to 
Ineir  inferiority.     It  is  certain  that  the  insulting  arrangement  of 
Admiralty  to  which  reference  has  been  already  made,  while  it 
department  in  the  public  opinion,  rendered  all  connect- 
h  him  his  personal  enemies  ;  and,  indeed,  though  there  have 
days  been  prime  ministers  whom  he  would  never  have  suf- 
erad  to  sit  even  as  puny  lords  at  his  boards,  yet  were  one  like  him- 
to  govern  the  country,  the  Admiralty  chief,  who  might  be 


PITT,    EARL   OF    CHATHAM.  15 

far  inferior  to  Lord  Anson,  would  never  submit  to  the  humiliation 
inflicted  upon  that  gallant  and  skilful  captain.  Mr.  Pitt's  policy 
seemed  formed  upon  the  assumption  that  either  each  public  function- 
ary was  equal  to  himself  in  boldness,  activity,  and  resource,  or  that 
he  was  to  preside  over  and  animate  each  department  in  person  ;  and 
his  confidence  was  such  in  his  own  powers  that  he  reversed  the  max- 
im of  governing,  never  to  force  your  way  where  you  can  win  it,  and 
always  disdained  to  insinuate  where  he  could  dash  in,  or  to  persuade 
where  he  could  command.  It  thus  happened  that  his  colleagues  were 
but  nominally  coadjutors,  and  though  they  durst  not  thwart  him,  yet 
rendered  no  heart-service  to  aid  his^chemes.  Indeed,  it  has  clearly 
appeared  since  his  time  that  they  were  chiefly  induced  to  yield  him 
implicit  obedience,  and  leave  the  undivided  direction  of  all  operations 
in  his  hands,  by  the  expectation  that  the  failure  of  what  they  were 
wont  to  sneer  at  as  '  Mr.  Pitt's  visions,'  would  turn  the  tide  of  public 
opinion  against  him,  and  prepare  his  downfall  from  a  height  of 
which  they  felt  that  there  was  no  one  but  himself  able  to  dispossess 
him." 

The  same  powerful  writer,  having  thus  sketched  the  character  of 
the  statesman,  proceeds  next  to  delineate  that  of  the  orator,  as  far  as 
this  can  now  be  done  from  the  extremely  scanty  and  imperfect  mate- 
rials which  have  been  preserved.  The  fame  of  Lord  Chatham's  elo- 
quence is,  in  truth,  almost  wholly  traditional. 

"  There  is,  indeed,  hardly  any  eloquence,  of  ancient  or  of  modern 
times,  of  which  so  little  that  can  be  relied  on  as  authentic  has  been 
preserved  ;  unless  perhaps  that  of  Pericles,  Julius  Caesar,  and  Lord 
Bolingbroke.  Of  the  actions  of  the  two  first  we  have  sufficient 
records,  as  we  have  of  Lord  Chatham's  ;  of  their  speeches  we  have 
little  that  can  be  regarded  as  genuine  ;  although,  by  unquestionable 
tradition,  we  know  that  each  of  them  was  second  only  to  the  great- 
est orator  of  their  respective  countries  ;  while  of  Bolingbroke  we  only 
know,  from  Dean  Swift,  that  he  was  the  most  accomplished  sneaker 
of  his  time  ;  and  it  is  related  of  Mr.  Pitt  (the  younger),  that  when  the 
conversation  rolled  upon  lost  works,  and  some  said  they  should  prefer 
restoring  the  books  of  Livy,  some  of  Tacitus,  and  some  a  Latin  trag- 
edy, he  at  once  decided  for  a  speech  of  Bolingbroke.  What  we 
know  of  his  own  father's  oratory  is  much  more  to  be  gleaned  from 
contemporary  panegyrics,  and  accounts  of  its  effects,  than  from  the 
scanty,  and  for  the  most  part  doubtful,  remains  which  have  reached  us. 

"All  accounts,  however,  concur  in  representing  those  effects  to 
have  been  prodigious.  The  spirit  and  vehemence  which  animated  its 
greater  passages,  their  perfect  application  to  the  subject-matter  of 
debate,  the  appositeness  of  his  invective  to  the  individual  assailed, 
the  boldness  of  the  feats  which  he  ventured  upon,  the  grandeur  of 
the  ideas  which  he  unfolded,  the  heart-stirring  nature  of  his  appeals, 
are  all  confessed  by  the  united  testimony  of  all  his  contemporaries  ; 
and  the  fragments  which  remain  bear  out  to  a  considerable  extent 


16  PITT,    EARL  OF   CHATHAM. 

• 

such  representations  ;  nor  are  we  likely  to  be  misled  by  those  frag- 
ments, for  the  more  striking  portions  were  certainly  the  ones  least 
likely  to  be  either  forgotten  or  fabricated.  To  these  mighty  attrac- 
tions was  added  the  imposing,  the  animating,  the  commanding  power 
of  a  countenance  singularly  expressive  ;  an  eye  so  piercing  that  hardly 
any  one  could  stand  its  glare  ;  and  a  manner  altogether  singularly 
striking,  original,  and  characteristic,  notwithstanding  a  peculiarly 
defective  and  even  awkward  action.  Latterly,  indeed,  his  infirmities 
precluded  all  action  ;  and  he  is  described  as  standing  in  the  House  of 
Lords,  leaning  upon  his  crutch,  and  speaking  for  ten  minutes  together 
in  an  undertone  of  voice  scarcely  audible,  but  raising  his  notes  to 
their  full  pitch  when  he  broke  out  into  one  of  his  grand  bursts  of  in- 
vective or  exclamation.  But  in  his  earlier  time,  his  whole  manner  is 
represented  as  having  been  beyond  conception  animated  and  impos- 
ing. Indeed,  the  things  which  he  effected  by  it  principally,  or  at  least 
which  nothing  but  a  most  striking  and  commanding  tone  could  have 
made  it  possible  to  attempt,  almost  exceed  belief.  Some  of  these 
sallies  are  indeed  examples  of  that  approach  made  to  the  ludicrous 
by  the  sublime,  which  has  been  charged  upon  him  as  a  prevailing 
fault,  and  represented  under  the  name  of  charlatanei-ie — a  favorite 
phrase  with  his  adversaries,  as  it  in  later  times  has  been  with  the 
ignorant  undervalues  of  Lord  Erskine.  It  is  related  that  once  in  the 
House  of  Commons  he  began  a  speech  with  the  words,  '  Sugar,  Mr. 
Speaker  ' — and  then,  observing  a  smile  to  prevail  in  the  audience,  he 
paused,  looking  fiercely  around,  and  with  a  loud  voice,  rising  in  its 
notes,  and  swelling  into  vehement  anger,  he  is  said  to  have  pro- 
nounced again  the  word  '  Sugar  !  '  three  times  ;  and  having  thus 
quelled  the  house,  and  extinguished  every  appearance  of  levity  or 
laughter,  turned  round,  and  disdainfully  asked,  '  Who  will  laugh  at 
sugar  now  ? '  We  have  this  anecdote  on  good  traditional  authority  ; 
.that  it  was  believed  by  those  who  had  the  best  means  of  knowing 
Lonk-('!i:tth!im  is  certain  ;  and  this  of  itself  shows  their  sense  of  the 
extraordinary  powers  of  his  manner,  and  the  reach  of  his  audacity  in 
trusting  to  those  powers. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  of  reasoning— of  sustained  and  close 
argument— his  speeches  had  but  little.  His  statements  were  desul- 
tory though  striking,  perhaps  not  very  distinct,  certainly  not  all  de- 
tailed, and  as  certainly  every  way  inferior  to  those  of  his  celebrated 
If  he  did  not  reason  cogently,  he  assuredly  did  not  compress 
his  matter  vigorously.  He  was  anything  rather  than  a  concise  or  a 
short  speaker  ;  not  that  his  great  passages  were  at  all  diffuse,  or  in 
leant  degree  loaded  with  superfluous  words  ;  but  he  was  prolix  in 

e  whole  texture  of  his  discourse,  and  he  was  certainly  the  first  who 
ntroduml  into  our  senate  the  practice,  adopted  in  the  American  war 
i>v  .Mr.  Burke,  and  continued  by  others,  of  long  speeches— speeches 

t  two  and  three  hours,  by  which  oratory  has  gained  little  and  busi- 
m«ss  less.  Ilia  discourse  was,  however,  fully  informed  with  matter— 


PITT,    EAEL   OF   CHATHAM.  17 

his  allusions  to  analogous  subjects,  and  his  reference  to  the  history  of 
past  events,  were  frequent — bis  expression  of  his  own  opinions  was 
copious  and  free,  and  stood  very  generally  in  the  place  of  any  elabo- 
rate reasoning  in  their  support.  A  noble  statement  of  enlarged  views, 
a  generous  avowal  of  dignified  sentiments,  a  manly  and  somewhat 
severe  contempt  for  all  petty  or  mean  views,  whether  their  baseness 
proceeded  from  narrow  understanding  or  from  corrupt  bias,  always 
pervaded  his  whole  discourse  ;  and,  more  than  any  other  orator  since 
Demosthenes,  he  was  distinguished  by  the  nobleness  of  feeling  witli 
which  he  regarded,  and  the  amplitude  of  survey  which  he  cast  upon, 
the  subject-matters  of  debate.  His  invective  was  unsparing  and  hard 
to  be  endured,  although  he  was  a  less  eminent  master  of  sarcasm  than 
his  son,  and  rather  overwhelmed  his  antagonist  with  the  burst  of 
words  and  vehement  indignation,  than  wounded  him  by  the  edge  of 
ridicule,  or  tortured  him  with  the  gall  of  bitter  scorn,  or  fixed  his 
arrow  in  the  wound  by  the  barb  of  epigram.  These  things  seemed 
us  it  were  to  betoken  too  much  labor  an(f  too  much  art ;  more  labor 
than  was  consistent  with  absolute  scorn,  more  art  than  could  stand 
with  heartfelt  rage,  or  entire  contempt  inspired  by  the  occasion,  at 
the  moment  and  on  the  spot.  But  his  great  passages — those  by 
which  he  has  come  down  to  us,  those  which  gave  his  eloquence  its 
peculiar  character,  and  to  which  its  dazzling  success  was  owing — 
were  as  sudden  and  unexpected  as  they  were  natural.  Every  one 
was  taken  by  surprise  when  they  rolled  forth  ;  every  one  felt  them  to 
be  so  natural  that  he  could  hardly  understand  why  he  had  not 
thought  of  them  himself,  although  into  no  one's  imagination  had 
they  ever  entered.  If  the  quality  of  being  natural  without  being  ob- 
vious is  a  pretty  correct  description  of  felicitous  expression,  of  what 
is  called  fine  writing,  it  is  a  yet  more  accurate  representation  of  fine. 
passages  or  felicitous  hits  in  speaking.  In  these  all  popular  assem- 
blies take  boundless  delight  ;  by  these,  above  all  others,  are  the 
mjnds  of  an  audience  at  pleasure  moved  or  controlled.  They  form 
the  grand  charm  of  Lord  Chatham's  oratory  ;  they  were  the  dis- 
tinguishing excellence  of  his  great  predecessor,  and  gave  him  at  will 
to  wield  the  fierce  democracy  of  Athens,  and  to  fulmine  over  Greece. " 

Many  years  ago,  a  small  volume  was  published  by  Lord  Qrenville, 
containing  letters  written  by  the  Earl  of  Chatham  to  his  nephew 
Thomas  Pitt,  Lord  Camelford.  They  are  replete  with  excellent  ad- 
vice, conveyed  in  an  easy,  affectionate,  and  not  inelegant  style,  hav- 
ing all  of  them  been  penned  evidently  without  effort,  under  the  sim- 
ple impulse  of  the  kindly  feelings  and  anxious  interest  which  they 
manifest  throughout.  At  the  same  time,  they  might  have  been  writ- 
ten by  a  person  vastly  inferior  to  Lord  Chatham  ;  and  indeed  one  can 
scarcely  avoid  surprise  at  the  absence  of  every  trace  of  that  genius, 
power,  and  originality  for  which  the  writer  was  so  greatly  dis- 
tinguished. 

Alniou,  the  bookseller,  has  wiitten  "  Anecdotes  of  the  Life  of  th« 


18  PITT,    EARL  OF   CHATHAM. 

Earl  of  Chatham,"  3  vols.  8vo  ;  the  Rev.  Mr.  Thackeray  has  illus- 
trated the  subject  more  accurately,  as  well  us  fully,  in  his  "  History 
of  the  Earl  of  Chatham,"  2  vols.  4to.  None  of  his  own  writings 
have  hern  given  to  the  world,  except  a  small  volume  of  letters  to  the 
Bon  of  his  elder  brother,  afterward  Lord  Camelford,  published  some 
years  ago  by  Lord  Grenville  ;  and  his  "  Correspondence,"  in  4  vols. 
8vo,  1838-40.  The  "Correspondence"  illustrates  very  fully  his  life 
and  character,  and  furnishes  valuable  materials  for  the  political  his- 
tory of  his  time.  His  wife,  who  died  in  1803,  bore  him  three  sons 
and  two  daughters.  The  second  son,  the  subject  of  the  next  article, 
gained  a  political  fame  capable  of  rivalling  that  of  his  illustrious 
fatter. 


WILLIAM  PITT. 


WILLIAM  PITT,  the  second  son  of  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham, 
and  of  Lady  Hester  Grenville,  daughter  of  Hester,  Countess  Temple, 
was  born  on  the  28th  of  May,  1759.  The  child  inherited  a  name 
which,  at  the  time  of  his  birth,  was  the  most  illustrious  in  the  civil 
ized  world,  and  was  pronounced  by  every  Englishman  with  pride, 
and  by  every  enemy  of  England  with  mingled  admiration  and  terror. 
During  the  first  year  of  his  life,  every  month  had  its  illuminations 
and  bonfires,  and  every  wind  brought  some  messenger  charged  with 
joyful  tidings  and  hostile  standards.  In  Westphalia  the  English  in- 
fantry won  a  great  battle  which  arrested  the  armies  of  Louis  the  Fif- 
teenth in  the  midst  of  a  career  of  conquest  :  Boscawen  defeated  one 
French  fleet  on  the  coast  of  Portugal  ;  Hawke  put  to  flight  another 
in  the  Bay  of  Biscay  ;  Johnson  took  Niagara  ;  Amhcrst  took  Ticon- 
deroga  ;  Wolfe  died  by  the  most  enviable  of  deaths  under  the  walls 
of  Quebec  ;  Clive  destroyed  a  Dutch  armament  in  the  Hoogley,  and 
established  the  English  supremacy  in  Bengal ;  Coote  routed  Lally  at 
Wandewash,  and  established  the  English  supremacy  in  the  Carnatic. 
The  nation,  while  loudly  applauding  the  successful  warriors,  con- 
sidered them  all  on  sea  and  on  land,  in  Europe,  in  America,  and  in 
Asia,  merely  as  instruments  which  received  their  direction  from  one 
superior  mind.  It  was  the  great  William  Pitt,  the  great  commoner, 
who  had  vanquished  French  marshals  in  Germany,  and  French  ad- 
mirals on  the  Atlantic  ;  who  had  conquered  for  his  country  one  great 
empire  on  the  frozen  shores  of  Ontario,  and  another  under  the  tropi- 
cal sun  near  the  mouths  of  the  Ganges.  It  was  not  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  popularity  such  as  he  at  this  time  enjoyed  should  be  per- 
manent. That  popularity  had  lost  its  gloss  before  his  children  were 
old  enough  to  understand  that  their  father  was  a  great  man.  He  was 
at  length  placed  in  situations  in  which  neither  his  talents  for  admin- 
istration nor  his  talents  for  debate  appeared  to  the  best  advantage. 
The  energy  and  decision  which  had  eminently  fitted  him  for  the  di- 
rection of  war  were  not  needed  in  time  of  peace.  The  lofty  and 
spirit-stirring  eloquence,  which  had  made  him  supreme  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  often  fell  dead  on  the  House  of  Lords.  A  cruel  malady 
racked  his  joints,  and  left  his  joints  only  to  fall  on  his  nerves  and  OA 


20  WILLIAM    PITT. 

his  brain.  During  the  closing  years  of  his  life,  he  .was  odious  to  the 
court,  and  yet  was  not  on  cordial  terms  with  the  great  body  of  the 
opposition.  Chatham  was  only  the  ruin  of  Pitt,  but  au  awful  and 
majestic  ruin,  not  to  be  contemplated  by  any  man  of  sense  and  feel- 
ing without  emotions  resembling  those  which  are  excited  by  the  re- 
mains of  the  Parthenon  and  of  the  Coliseum.  In  one  respect  the  old 
statesman  was  eminently  happy.  Whatever  might  be  the  vicissitudes 
of  his  public  life,  he  never  failed  to  find  peace  and  love  by  his  own 
hearth,  lie  loved  all  his  children,  and  was  loved  by  them  ;  and,  of 
all  his  children,  the  one  of  whom  he  was  fondest  and  proudest  was 
his  second  son. 

The  child's  genius  and  ambition  displayed  themselves  with  a  rare 
and  almost  unnatural  precocity.  At  seven,  the  interest  which  he 
took  in  grave  subjects,  the  ardor  with  which  he  pursued  his  studies, 
and  the  sense  and  vivacity  of  his  remarks  on  books  and  on  events, 
amazed  his  parents  and  instructors.  One  of  his  sayings  of  this  date 
was  reported  to  his  mother  by  his  tutor.  In  August,  1776,  when  the 
world  was  agitated  by  the  news  that  Mr.  Pitt  had  become  Earl  of 
Chatham,  little  William  exclaimed,  "  1  am  glad  that  I  am  not  the 
eldest  son.  I  want  to  speak  in  the  House  of  Commons  like  papa." 
A  letter  is  extant  in  which  Lady  Chatham,  a  woman  of  considerable 
abilities,  remarked  to  her  lord  that  their  younger  son  at  twelve  had 
left  far  behind  him  his  elder  brother,  who  was  fifteen.  "  The  fine- 
ness,'' she  wrote,  "  of  William's  mind  makes  him  enjoy  with  the 
greatest  pleasure  what  would  be  above  the  reach  of  any  other  creat- 
ure of  his  small  age."  At  fourteen  the  lad  was  in  intellect  a  man. 
Hayley,  who  met  him  at  Lyme  in  the  summer  of  1773,  was  aston- 
ished, delighted,  and  somewhat  overawed,  by  hearing  wit  and  wis- 
dom from  so  young  a  mouth.  The  poet,  indeed,  was  afterward 
:>orrv  that  his  shyness  had  prevented  him  from  submitting  the  plan 
of  an  extensive  literary  work,  which  he  was  then  meditating,  to  the 
Judgment  of  this  extraordinary  boy.  The  boy,  indeed,  had  already 
written  a  tragedy,  bad  of  course,  but  not  worse  than  the  tragedies  of 
his  friend.  This  piece  is  still  preserved  at  Chevening,  and  is  in 
some  respects  highly  curious.  There  is  no  love.  The  whole  plot  is 
political  ;  and  it  is  remarkable  that  the  interest,  such  as  it  is,  turna 
on  a  contest  about  a  regency.  On  one  side  is  a  faithful  servant  of  the 
rrmvn,  on  the  other  an  ambitious  and  unprincipled  conspirator.  At 
length  the  king,  who  had  been  missing,  reappears,  resumes  his 
power,  and  rewards  the  faithful  defender  of  his  rights.  A  reader 
who  should  judge  only  by  internal  evidence  would  have  no  Iresitation 
in  pronouncing  that  the  play  was  written  by  some  Pittite  poetaster 
at  the  time  of  the  rejoicings  for  the  recovery  of  George  the  Third  in 


The  pleasure  with  which  William's  parents  observed  the  rapid  de- 
velopment of  his  intellectual  powers  was  alloyed  by  apprehensions 
about  his  health.  He  shot  up  alarmingly  fast  ;  he  was  often  ill,  and 


WILLIAM    PITT.  21 

always  weak  ;  and  it  was  feared  that  it  would  be  in  possible  to  rear 
a  stripling  so  tall,  so  slender,  and  so  feeble.  Port-wine  was  pre- 
scribed by  his  medical  advisers  ;  and  it  is  said  that  he  was,  at  four, 
teen,  accustomed  to  take  this  agreeable  physic  in  quantities  which 
would,  in  our  abstemious  age,  be  thought  much  more  than  sufficient 
for  any  full-grown  man.  This  regimen,  though  it  would  probably 
have  killed  ninety-nine  boys  out  of  a  hundred,  seems  to  have  been 
well  suited  to  the  peculiarities  of  William's  constitution  ;  for  at  fif. 
teen  he  ceased  to  be  molested  by  disease,  and,  though  never  a 
strong  man,  continued,  during  many  years  of  labor  and  anxiety, 
of  nights  passed  in  debate,  and  of  summers  passed  in  Lon- 
don, to  be  a  tolerably  healthy  one.  It  was  probably  on  account 
of  the  delicacy  of  his  frame  that  he  was  not  educated  like  other 
boys  of  the  same  rank.  Almost  all  the  eminent  English  states- 
men and  orators  to  whom  he  was  afterward  opposed  or  allied, 
North,  Fox,  Shelburne,  Wiudham,  Grey,  Wellesley,  Grenville,  Sher- 
idan, Canning,  went  through  the  training  of  great  public  schools. 
Lord  Chatham  had  himself  been  a  distinguished  Etonian  ;  and  it  is 
seldom  that  a  distinguished  Etonian  forgets  his  obligations  to  Eton. 
But  William's  infirmities  required  a  vigilance  and  tenderness  such  as 
could  be  found  only  at  home.  He  was  therefore  bred  under  the  pa- 
ternal roof.  His  studies  were  superintended  by  a  clergyman  named 
Wilson  ;  and  those  studies,  though  often  interrupted  by  illness,  were 
prosecuted  with  extraordinary  success.  Before  the  lad  had  completed 
his  fifteenth  year,  his  knowledge  both  of  the  ancient  languages  and 
of  mathematics  was  such  as  very  few  men  of  eighteen  then  carried 
up  to  college.  He  was  therefore  sent,  toward  the  close  of  the  year 
1773,  to  Pembroke  Hall,  in  the  University  of  Cambridge.  So  young 
a  student  required  much  more  than  the  ordinary  care  which  a  college 
tutor  bestows  on  undergraduates.  The  governor,  to  whom  the 
direction  of  William's  academical  life  was  confided,  was  a  bachelor  of 
arts  named  Pretyman,  who  had  been  senior  wrangler  in  the  preceding 
year,  and  who,  though  not  a  mm  of  prepossessing  appearance  or 
brilliant  parts,  was  eminently  acute  and  laborious,  a  sound  scholar, 
and  an  excellent  geometrician.  At  Cambridge,  Pretyman  was,  dur- 
ing more  than  two  years,  the  inseparable  companion,  and  indeed 
almost  the  only  companion,  of  his  pupil.  A  close  and  lasting  friend- 
ship sprtuig  up  between  the  pair.  The  disciple  was  able,  before  he 
completed  his  twenty-eighth  year,  to  make  his  preceptor  Bishop  of 
Lincoln  and  Dean  of  St.  Paul's  ;  and  the  preceptor  showed  his  grat- 
itude by  writing  a  Life  of  the  disciple,  which  enjoys  the  distinction 
of  being  the  worst  biographical  work  of  its  size  in  the  world. 

Pitt,  till  he  graduated,  had  scarcely  one  acquaintance,  attended 
chapel  regularly  morning  and  evening,  dined  every  day  in  hall,  and 
never  went  to  a  single  evening  party.  At  seventeen,  he  was  admit- 
ted, after  the  bad  fashion  of  those  times,  by  right  of  birth,  without 
any  examination,  to  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts.  But  he  continued 


22  WILLIAM    PITT. 

during  some  years  to  reside  at  college,  and  to  apply  himself  vigor, 
ously,  under  Pretyman's  direction,  to  the  studies  of  the  place,  while 
mixing  freely  in  the  best  academic  society. 

The  stock  of  learning  which  Pitt  laid  in  during  this  part  of  his  life 
was  certainly  very  extraordinary.  In  fact,  it  was  all  that  he  ever 
possessed  ;  for  he  very  early  became  too  busy  to  have  any  spare  time 
for  books.  The  work  in  which  he  took  the  greatest  delight  was 
Newton's  Principia.  His  liking  for  mathematics,  indeed,  amounted 
to  a  passion,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  his  instructors,  themselves  dis- 
tinguished mathematicians,  required  to  be  checked  rather  than  en- 
couraged. Tho  acuteness  and  readiness  with  which  he  solved  prob- 
lems was  pronounced  by  one  of  the  ablest  of  the  moderators,  who  in 
those  days  presided  over  the  disputations  in  the  schools  and  con- 
ducted the  examinations  of  the  Senate  House,  to  be  unrivalled  in  the 
university.  Nor  was  the  youth's  proficiency  in  classical  learning  less 
remarkable.  In  one  respect,  indeed,  he  appeared  to  disadvantage 
when  compared  with  even  second-rate  and  third-rate  men  from  pub- 
lic schools.  He  had  never,  while  under  Wilson's  care,  been  iu  the 
habit  of  composing  in  the  ancient  languages  ;  and  he  therefore  never 
acquired  that  knack  of  versification  which  is  sometimes  possessed  by 
clever  boys  whose  knowledge  of  the  language  and  literature  of  Greece 
and  Rome  is  very  superficial.  It  would  have  been  utterly  out  of  hia 
power  to  produce  such  charming  elegiac  lines  as  those  in  which 
Wellesley  bade  farewell  to  Eton,  or  such  Virgilian  hexameters  as 
those  in  which  Canning  described  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca.  But  it  may 
be  doubted  whether  any  scholar  has  ever,  at  twenty,  had  a  more  solid 
and  profound  knowledge  of  the  two  great  tongues  of  the  old  civilized 
world.  The  facility  with  which  he  penetrated  the  meaning  of  the 
most  intricate  sentences  in  the  Attic  writers  astonished  veteran  cjitics. 
lie  hud  set  his  heart  on  being  intimately  acquainted  with  all  the  ex- 
tant poetry  of  Greece,  and  was  not  satisfied  till  he  had  mastered 
Lycophron's  Cassandra,  the  most  obscure  work  in  the  whole  range  of 
ancient  literature.  This  strange  rhapsody,  the  difficulties  of  which 
have  perplexed  and  repelled  many  excellent  scholars,  "he  read," 
says  his  preceptor,  "  with  an  ease  at  first  which,  if  I  had  not  wit- 
nessed it,  I  should  have  thought  beyond  the  compass  of  human  intel- 
lect." 

To  modern  literature  Pitt  paid  comparatively  little  attention.  He 
knew  no  living  language  except  French  ;  and  French  he  knew  very 
imperfectly.  With  a  few  of  the  best  English  writers  he  was  inti- 
mate, particularly  with  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  The  debate  in 
Pandemonium  was,  as  it  well  deserved  to  be,  one  of  his  favorite  pas- 
sages ;  and  his  early  friends  used  to  talk,  long  after  his  death,  of  the 
rust  emphasis  and  the  melodious  cadence  with  which  they  had  heard 
him  recite  the  incomparable  speech  of  Belial.  He  had  indeed  been 
carefully  trained  from  infancy  in  the  art  of  managing  his  voice,  a 
voice  naturally  clear  and  deep-toned.  Hi?  father,  wjjose  oratory  owed 


WILLIAM   PITT.  23 

no  small  part  of  its  effect  to  that  art,  had  been  a  most  skilful  and 
judicious  instructor.  At  a  later  period,  the  wits  of  Brookes's,  irri- 
tated by  observing,  night  after  night,  how  powerfully  Pitt's  sonorous 
elocution  fascinated  the  rows  of  country  gentlemen,  reproached  him 
with  having  been  "  taught  by  his  dad  on  a  stool." 

His  education,  indeed,  was  well  adapted  to  form  a  great  parliament, 
ary  speaker.  One  argument  often  urged  against  those  classical 
studies  which  occupy  so  large  a  part  of  the  early  life  of  every  gentle- 
man bred  in  the  south  of  our  island  is,  that  they  prevent  him  from 
acquiring  a  command  of  his  mother  tongue,  and  that  it  is  not  unusual 
to  meet  with  a  youth  of  excellent  parts,  who  writes  Ciceronian  Latin 
prose  and  Horatian  Latin  Alcaics,  but  who  would  find  it  impossible 
to  express  his  thoughts  in  pure,  perspicuous,  and  forcible  English. 
There  may  perhaps  be  some  truth  in  this  observation.  But  the  classi- 
cal studies  ot'  Pitt  were  carried  on  in  a  peculiar  manner,  and  had  the 
effect  of  enriching  his  English  vocabulary,  and  of  making  him  won- 
derfully expert  in  the  art  of  constructing  correct  English  sentences. 
His  practice  was  to  look  over  a  page  or  two  of  a  Greek  or  Latin 
author,  to  make  himself  master  of  the  meaning,  and  then  to  read  the 
passage  straight  forward  into  his  own  language.  This  practice,  be- 
gun under  his  first  teacher  Wilson,  was  continued  under  Pretyman. 
It  is  not  strange  that  a  young  man  of  great  abilities,  who  had  been 
exercised  daily  in  this  way  during  ten  years,  should  have  acquired  an 
almost  unrivalled  power  of  putting  his  thoughts,  without  premedita- 
tion, into  words  well  selected  and  well  arranged. 

Of  all  the  remains  of  antiquity,  the  orations  were  those  on  which 
he  bestowed  the  most  minute  examination.  His  favorite  employ- 
ment was  to  compare  harangues  on  opposite  sides  of  the  same  ques- 
tion, to  analyze  them,  and  to  observe  which  of  the  arguments  of  the 
first  speaker  were  refuted  by  the  second,  which  were  evaded,  and 
which  were  left  untouched.  Nor  was  it  only  in  books  that  he  at  this 
time  studied  the  act  of  parliamentary  fencing.  When  he  was  at 
home,  he  had  frequent  opportunities  of  hearing  important  debates  at 
Westminster  ;  and  he  heard  them,  not  only  with  interest  and  enjoy- 
ment, but  with  a  close  scientific  attention,  resembling  that  with 
which  a  diligent  pupil  at  Guy's  Hospital  wajches  every  turn  of  the 
hand  of  a  great  surgeon  through  a  difficult  operation.  On  one  of 
these  occasions,  Pitt,  a  youth  whose  abilities  were  as  yet  known  only 
to  his  own  family  and  to  a  small  knot  of  college  friends,  was  intro- 
duced on  the  steps  of  the  throne  in  the  House  of  Lords  to  Fox,  who 
was  his  senior  by  eleven  years,  and  who  was  already  the  greatest  de- 
bater and  one  of  the  greatest  orators  that  had  appeared  in  England. 
Fox  used  afterward  to  relate  that,  as  the  discussion  proceeded,  Pitt 
repeatedly  turned  to  him,  and  said,  "  But  surely,  Mr.  Fox,  that 
might  be  met  thus  ;"  or,  "  Yes  ;  but  he  lays  himself  open  to  this  re- 
tort." What  the  particular  criticisms  WCFC,  Fox  had  forgotten  ;  but 
he  said  that  he  was  much  struck  at  the  time  by  the  precocity  of  n 


i;4  WILLIAM    PITT. 

lad  who,  through  the  whole  sitting,  seemed  to  be  thinking  only  Low 
all  the  speeches  on  both  sides  could  be  answered. 

One  of  the  young  man's  visits  to  the  House  of  Lords  WPS  a  Mid 
and  memorable  era  in  his  life.  He  had  not  quite  completed  his  nine- 
teenth year,  when,  on  the  7Ui  of  April,  1778,  he  attended  his  father 
to  Westminster.  A  great  debate  was  expected.  It  was  known  that 
France  had  recognized  the  independence  of  the  United  States.  The 
Duke  of  Richmond  was  about  to  declare  his  opinion  that  all  thought 
of  subjugating  those  states  ought  to  be  relinquished.  Chatham  had 
always  maintained  that  the  resistance  of  the  colonies  to  the  mother 
country  was  justifiable.  But  he  conceived,  very  erroneously,  that  on 
the  day  on  which  their  independence  should  be  acknowledged  the 
greatness  of  England  would  be  at  an  end.  Though  sinking  under 
the  weight  of  years  and  infirmities,  he  determined,  in  spite  of  the 
entreaties  of  his"  family,  to  he  in  his  place.  His  son  supported  him  to 
a  seat.  The  excitement  and  exertion  were  too  much  for  the  old 
man.  In  the  very  act  of  addressing  the  peers,  he  fell  back  in  convul- 
sions. A  few  weeks  later  his  corpse  was  borne,  with  gloomy  pomp, 
from  the  Painted  Chamber  to  the  Abbey.  The  favorite  child  and 
namesake  of  the  deceased  statesman  followed  the  coffin  as  chief 
mourner,  and  saw  it  deposited  in  the  transept  where  his  own  was  des- 
tined to  lie. 

His  elder  brother,  now  Earl  of  Chatham,  had  means  sufficient,  and 
oarely  sufficient,  to  support  the  dignity  of  the  peerage.  The  other 
members  of  the  family  were  poorly  provided  for.  William  had  little 
more  than  three  hundred  a  year.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  fol- 
low a  profession.  He  had  already  begun  to  eat  his  terms.  In  the 
spring  of  1780  he  came  of  age.  He  then  quitted  Cambridge,  was 
called  to  the  bar,  took  chambers  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  joined  the 
western  circuit.  In  the  autumn  of  that  year  a  general  election  took 
place  ;  and  he  offered  himself  as  a  candidate  for  the  university  ;  but 
he  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  poll.  It  is  said  that  the  grave  doctors 
who  then  sat,  robed  in  scarlet,  on  the  benches  of  Golgotha,  thought 
it  great  presumption  in  so  young  a  man  to  solicit  so  high  a  distinction. 
He  was,  however,  at  the  request  of  a  hereditary  friend,  the  Duke  of 
Rutland,  brought  into  Parliament  by  Sir  James  Lowther  for  the 
borough  of  Appleby. 

The  dangers  of  the  country  wer«  at  that  time  such  as  might  well 
have  disturbed  even  a  constant  mind.  Army  after  army  had  been 
sent  in  vain  against  the  rebellious  colonists  of  North  America.  On 
pitched  fields  of  battle  the  advantage  had  been  with  the  disciplined 
troops  of  the  mother  country.  But  it  was  not  on  pitched  fields  of 
battle  that  the  event  of  such  a  contest  could  be  decided.  An  armed 
nation,  with  hunger  and  the  Atlantic  for  auxiliaries,  was  not  to  be 
subjugated.  Meanwhile,  the  House  of  Bourbon,  humbled  to  the 
dust  a  few  years  before  by  the  genius  and  vigor  of  Chatham,  had 
seized  the  opportunity  of  revenge.  France  and  Spain  were  united 


WILLIAM  PITT.  25 

against  us,  and  had  recently  been  joined  by  Ilollaad.  The  command 
of  the  Mediterranean  had  been  for  a  time  lost.  The  British  flag  had 
been  scarcely  able  to  maintain  itself  in  the  British  Channel.  The 
northern  powers  professed  neutrality  ;  but  their  neutrality  had  a 
menacing  aspect.  In  the  East,  Hyder  had  descended  on  the  Carnatic, 
had  destroyed  the  little  army  of  Baillie,  and  had  spread  terror  even 
to  the  ramparts  of  Fort  St.  George.  The  discontents  of  Ireland 
threatened  nothing  less  than  civil  war.  In  England  the  authority  o 
the  government  had  sunk  to  the  lowest  point.  The  king  and  th 
House  of  Commons  were  alike  unpopular.  The  cry  for  parliamentary 
reform  was  scarcely  less  loud  and  vehement  than  in  the  autumn  of 
1830.  Formidable  associations,  headed,  not  by  ordinary  demagogues, 
but  by  men  of  high  rank,  stainless  character,  and  distinguished 
ability,  demanded  a  revision  of  the  representative  system.  The  pop- 
ulace, emboldened  by  the  impotence  and  irresolution  of  the  govern- 
ment, had  recently  broken  loose  from  all  restraint,  besieged  the 
chambers  of  the  legislature,  hustled  peers,  hunted  bishops,  attacked 
the  residences  of  ambassadors,  opened  prisons,  burned  and  pulled 
down  houses.  London  had  presented  during  some  days  the  aspect 
of  a  city  taken  by  storm  ;  and  it 'had  been  necessary  to  form  a  camp 
among  the  trees  of  St.  James's  Park. 

In  spite  of  dangers  'and  difficulties,  abroad  and  at  home,  George 
the  Third,  with  a  firmness  which  had  little  affinity  with  virtue  or 
with  wisdom,  persisted  in  his  determination  to  put  down  the  Ameri- 
can rebels  by  force  of  arms  ;  and  his  ministers  submitted  their  judg- 
ment to  his.  Some  of  them  were  probably  actuated  merely  by  selfish 
cupidity,  but  their  chief,  Lord  North,  a  man  of  high  honor,  amiable 
temper,  winning  manners,  lively  wit,  and  excellent  talents  both  for 
business  and  for  debate,  must  be  acquitted  of  all  sordid  motives.  He 
remained  at  a  post  from  which  he  had  long  wished  and  had  repeatedly 
tried  to  escape,  only  because  he  had  not  sufficient  fortitude  to  resist 
the  entreaties  and  reproaches  of  the  king,  who  silenced  all  arguments 
by  passionately  asking  whether  any  gentleman,  any  man  of  spirit, 
could  have  the  heart  to  desert  a  kind  master  in  the  hour  of  ex- 
tremity. 

The  opposition  consisted  of  two  parties  which  had  once  been  hostile 
to  each  other,  and  which  had  been  very  slowly,  and,  as  it  soon  ap- 
peared, very  imperfectly  reconciled,  but  which  at  this  conjuncture 
seemed  to  act  together  with  cordiality.  The  larger  of  these  parties 
consisted  of  the  great  body  of  the  Whig  aristocracy.  Its  head  war 
Charles,  Marquis  of  Rockingham,  a  man  of  sense  and  virtue,  and  in 
wealth  and  parliamentary  interest  equalled  by  very  few  of  the  Eng 
]ish  nobles,  but  afflicted  with  a  nervous  timidity  which  prevented 
him  from  taking  a  prominent  part  in  debate.  In  the  House  of  Com- 
mons the  adherents  of  Rockingham  were  led  by  Fox,  whose  dissi- 
pated habits  and  ruined  fortunes  were  the  talk  of  the  whole  town, 
kut  whose  commanding  genius,  and  whose  sweet,  generous,  an<J 

A.B.-17 


26  WILLIAM   PITT. 

affectionate  disposition  extorted  the  admiration  and  love  of  those 
who  most  lamented  the  errors  of  his  private  life.  Burke,  superior  to 
Fox  in  largeness  of  comprehension,  in  extent  of  knowledge,  and  in 
splendor  of  imagination,  but  less  skilled  in  that  kind  of  logic  and  in 
that  kind  of  rhetoric  which  convince  and  persuade  great  assemblies, 
was  willing  to  be  the  lieutenant  of  a  young  chief  who  might  have  been 
his  son. 

A  smaller  section  of  the  opposition  was  composed  of  the  old  follow- 
ers of  Chatham.  At  their  head  was  William,  Earl  of  Shelburne,  dis- 
tinguished both  as  a  statesman  and  as  a  lover  of  science  and  letters. 
With  him  were  leagued  Lord  Camdeu,  who  had  formerly  held  the 
great  seal,  and  whose  integrity,  ability,  and  constitutional  knowledge 
commanded  the  public  respect ;  Barre,  an  eloquent  and  acrimonious 
cleclaimer  ;  and  Dunning,  who  had  long  held  the  first  place  at  the 
English  bar.  It  was  to  tiiis  party  that  Pitt  was  naturally  attracted. 

On  the  2Clh  of  February,  1781,  he  made  his  first  speech  in  favor  of 
Burke 'S  plan  of  economical  reform.  Fox  stood  up  at  the  same 
moment,  but  instantly  gave  way.  The  lofty  yet  animated  deport- 
ment of  the  young  member,  his  perfect  self-possession,  the  readiness 
with  which  he  replied  to  the  orators  who  had  preceded  him,  the  silver 
tones  of  his  voice,  the  perfect  structure  of  his  unpremeditated  sen- 
tences, astonished  and  delighted  his  hearers.  -Burke,  moved  even  to 
tears,  exclaimed,  "It  is  not  a  chip  of  the  old  block  ;  it  is  the  old 
block  itself."  "  Pitt  will  be  one  of  the  first  men  in  Parliament,"  said 
a  member  of  the  opposition  to  Fox.  "  He  is  so  already,"  answered 
vFox,  in  whose  nature  envy  had  no  place.  It  is  a  curious  fact,  well 
remembered  by  some  who  were  very  recently  living,  that  soon  aftei 
this  debate  Pitt's  name  was  put  up  by  Fox  at  Brookes's. 

On  two  subsequent  occasions  during  that  session  Pitt  addressed  the 
house,  and  on  both  fully  sustained  the  reputation  which  he  had  ac- 
quired on  his  first  appearance.  In  the  summer,  after  the  prorogation, 
he  again  went  the  western  circuit,  held  several  briefs,  and  acquitted 
himself  in  such  a  manner  that  he  was  highly  complimented  by  Buller 
from  the  bench,  and  by  Dunning  at  the  bar. 

On  the  27th  of  November  the  Parliament  reassembled.  Only  forty- 
eight  hours  before  had  arrived  tidings  of  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis 
and  his  army  ;  and  it  consequently  became  necessary  to  rewrite  the 
royal  speech.  Every  man  in  the  kingdom,  except  the  king,  was  now 
convinced  that  it  was  mere  madness  to  think  of  conquering  the 
United  States.  In  the  debate  on  the  report  of  the  address,  Pitt  spoke 
with  even  more  energy  and  brilliancy  than  on  any  former  occasion. 
He  was  warmly  applauded  by  his  allies  ;  but  it  was  remarked  that 
no  person  on  his  own  side  of  the  house  was  so  loud  in  eulogy  as 
Henry  Dundas,  the  Lord  Advocate  of  Scotland,  who  spoke  from  the 
ministerial  ranks.  That  able  and  versatile  politician  distinctly  fore- 
saw the  approaching  downfall  of  thu  government  with  which  he  Was 
connected,  and  was  preparing  to  make  his  own  escape  from  the  ruin. 


WILLIAM   PITT.  2? 

From  that  night  dates  his  connection  with  Pitt,  a  connection  which 
soon  became  a  close  intimacy,  and  which  lasted  till  it  was  dissolved 
by  death. 

About  a  fortnight  later,  Pitt  spoke  in  the  committee  of  supply  on 
the  army  estimates.  Symptoms  of  dissension  had  begun  to  appear 
on  the  treasury  bench.  Lord  George  Germaine,  the  secretary  of 
state,  who  was  especially  charged  witli  the  direction  of  the  war  hi 
America,  had  held  language  not  easily  to  be  reconciled  with  declara- 
tions made  by  the  first  lord  of  the  treasury.  Pitt  noticed  the  dis- 
crepancy with  much  force  and  keenness.  Lord  George  and  Lord 
North  began  to  whisper  together  ;  and  Welbore  Ellis,  an  ancient 
placeman,  who  had  been  drawing  salary  almost  every  quarter  since 
the  days  of  Henry  Pelham,  bent  down  between  them  to  put  in  a 
word.  Such  interruptions  sometimes  discompose  veteran  speakers. 
Pitt  stopped,  and,  looking  at  the  group,  said,  with  admirable  readi- 
ness, "  I  shall  wait  till  Nestor  has  composed  the  dispute  between 
Agamemnon  and  Achilles." 

After  several  defeats,  or  victories  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from 
defeats,  the  ministry  resigned.  The  king,  reluctantly  and  un- 
graciously, consented  to  accept  Rockingham  as  first  minister.  Fox 
and  Shelburne  became  secretaries  of  state.  Lord  John  Cavendish, 
one  of  the  most  upright  and  honorable  of  men,  was  made  chancellor 
of  the  exchequer.  Thurlow,  whose  abilities  and  force  of  character 
had  made  him  the  dictator  of  the  House  of  Lords,  continued  to  hold 
the  great  seal. 

To  Pitt  was  offe'red,  through  Shelburne,  the  vice-treasurership  of 
Ireland,  one  of  the  easiest  and  most  highly  paid  places  in  the  gift  of 
the  crown  ;  but  the  offer  was,  without  hesitation,  declined.  The 
young  statesman  had  resolved  to  accept  no  post  which  did  not  entitle 
him  to  a  seat  in  the  cabinet  ;  and,  a  few  days  later,  he  announced 
that  resolution  in  the  House  of  Commons.  It  must  be  remembered 
that  the  cabinet  was  then  a  much  smaller  and  more  select  body  than 
at  present.  We  have  seen  cabinets  of  sixteen.  In  the  time  of  our 
grandfathers  a  cabinet  of  ten  or  eleven  was  thought  inconveniently 
large.  Seven  was  a  usual  numbir.  Eviin  Burke,  who  had  taken 
the  lucrative  office  of  paymaster,  was  not  in  the  cabinet.  Many 
therefore  thought  Pitt's  declaration  indecent.  He  himself  was  sorry 
that  he  had  made  it.  The  words,  he  s;iid  in  private,  had  escaped 
him  in  the  heat  of  speaking  ;  and  he  had  no  sooner  uttered  them  than 
he  would  have  given  the  world  t-">  recall  them.  They,  however,  did 
him  no  harm  with  the  public.  The  second  William  Pitt,  it  was  said, 
had  shown  thfto  he  had  inherited  the  spirit  as  well  as  the  genius  of  the 
first.  In  the  sou,  as  in  the  father,  there  might  perhaps  he  too  much 
pride  ;  but  there  was  nothing  low  or  sordid.  It  might  be  called  ar 
rogance  in  a  young  barrister,  living  in  chambers  on  three  hundred  a 
year,  to  refuse  a  salary  of  five  thousand  a  year,  merely  because  he 
{lid  not  choose  to  bind  himself  to  speak  or  vote  for  plans  which  h« 


28  WILLIAM   PITT. 

had  no  share  in  framing  ;  but  surely  such  arrogance  was  not  very 
far  removed  from  virtue. 

Pitt  gave  a  general  support  to  the  administration  of  Rockingham, 
but  omitted,  in  the  mean  time,  no  opportunity  of  courting  that  ultra- 
whig  party  which  the  persecution  of  Wilkes  and  the  Middlesex  elec- 
tion had  called  into  existence,  and  which  the  disastrous  events  of 
war,  and  the  triumph  of  republican  principles  in  America,  had  made 
formidable  both  in  numbers  and  in  temper.  He  supported  a  motion 
for  shortening  the  duration  of  parliaments.  He  made  a  motion  for  a 
committee  to  examine  into  the  state  of  the  representation,  and,  in  the 
speech  by  which  that  motion  was  introduced,  avowed  himself  the 
enemy  of  the  close  boroughs,  the  strongholds  of  that  corruption  to 
which  he  attributed  all  the  calamities  of  the  nation,  and  which,  as  he 
phrased  it  in  one  of  those  exact  and  sonorous  sentences  of  which  he 
had  a  boundless  command,  had  grown  with  the  growth  of  England 
and  strengthened  witli  her  strength,  but  had  not  diminished  with  her 
diminution,  or  decayed  with  her  decay.  On  this  occasion  he  was 
supported  by  Fox.  The  motion  was  lost  by  only  twenty  votes  in  a 
house  of  more  than  three  hundred  members.  The  reformers  never 
again  had  so  good  a  division  till  the  year  1881. 

The  new  administration  was  strong  in  abilities,  and  was  more  pop- 
ular than  any  administration  which  had  held  office  since  the  first  year 
of  George  the  Third,  but  was  hated  by  the  king,  hesitatingly  .sup- 
ported by  the  Parliament,  and  torn  by  internal  dissensions.  The 
chancellor  was  disliked  and  distrusted  by  almost  all  his  colleagues. 
The  two  secretaries  of  state  regarded  each  other  with  no  friendly  feel- 
ing. The  line  between  their  departments  had  not  been  traced  with 
precision  ;  and  there  were  consequently  jealousies,  encroachments, 
and  complaints.  It  was  all  that  Rockingham  could  do  to  keep  the 
peace  in  his  cabinet ;  and  before  the  cabinet  had  existed  three 
months,  Rockingham  died. 

In  an  instant  all  was  confusion.  The  adherents  of  the  deceased 
statesman  looked  on  the  Duke  of  Portland  as  their  chief.  Tin:  king 
placed  Shelburne  at  the  head  of  the  treasury.  Fox,  Lord  John  Cav- 
endish, and  Burke,  immediately  resigned  their  offices  ;  and  the  new 
prime  minister  was  left  to  constitute  a  government  out  of  very  de- 
fective materials.  His  own  parliamentary  talents  were  great  ;  but 
he  could  not  be  in  the  place  where  parliamentary  talents  were  most 
needed.  It  was  necessary  to  rind  some  member  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons who  could  confront  the  great  orators  of  the  opposition  ;  and 
Pitt  aVone  had  the  eloquence  and  the  courage  which  were  required. 
Hi'  was  offered  the  great  place  of  chancellor  of  the  exchequer,  and 
he  accepted  it.  He  had  scarcely  completed  his  twenty-third  year. 

The  Parliament  was  speedily  prorogued.  During  the  recess,  a  ne- 
gotiation for  peace  which  had  been  commenced  under  Rockingham 
was  brought  to  a  successful  termination.  England  acknowledged 
the  independence  of  her  revolted  colonies  ;  and  she  ceded  to  her 


WILLIAM   PITT.  29 

European  enemies  some  places  in  the  Mediterranean  and  in  the  Gulf 
of  Mexico.  But  the  terms  which  she  obtained  were  quite  as  advan- 
tageous and  honorable  as  the  events  of  the  war  entitled  her  to  expect, 
or  as  she  was  likely  to  obtain  by  persevering  in  a  contest  against  im- 
mense odds.  All  her  vital  parts,  all  the  real  sources  of  her  power  re- 
mained uninjured.  She  preserved  even  her  dignity  ;  for  she  ceded 
to  the  House  of  Bourbon  only  part  of  what  she  had  won  from  that 
house  in  previous  wars.  She  retained  her  Indian  empire  undimiuish- 
ed  ;  and,  in  spite  of  the  mightiest  efforts  of  two  great  monarchies, 
her  flag  still  waved  on  the  rock  of  Gibraltar.  There  is  not  the  slight- 
est reason  to  believe  that  Fox,  if  he  had  remained  in  office,  would 
have  hesitated  one  moment  about  concluding  a  treaty  on  such  con- 
ditions. Unhappily  that  great  and  most  amiable  man  was,  at  this 
crisis,  hurried  by  his  passions  into  an  error  which  made  his  genius 
and  his  virtues,  during  a  long  course  of  years,  almost  useless  to  his 
country. 

He  saw  that  the  great  body  of  the  House  of  Commons  was  divided 
into  three  parties,  his  own,  that  of  North,  and  that  of  Shelburne  ; 
that  none  of  those  three  parties  was  large  enough  to  stand  alone  ; 
that,  therefore,  unless  two  of  them  united,  there  must  be  a  miserabby 
feeble  administration,  or,  more  probably,  a  rapid  succession  of 
miserably  feeble  administrations,  and  this  at  a  time  when  a  strong 
government  was  essential  to  the  prosperity  and  respectability  of  the 
nation.  It  was  then  necessary  and  right  that  there  should  be  a  coa- 
lition. To  every  possible  coalition  there  were  objections.  But,  of 
all  possible  coalitions,  that  to  which  there  were  the  fewest  objections 
was  undoubtedly  a  coalition  between  Shelburue  and  Fox.  It  would 
have  been  generally  applauded  by  the  followers  of  both.  It  might 
have  been  made  without  any  sacrifice  of  public  principle  on  the  part 
of  either.  Unhappily,  recent  bickerings  had  left  in  the  mind  of  Fox 
a  profound  dislike  and  distrust  of  bhelburne.  Pitt  attempted  to 
mediate,  and  was  authorized  to  invite  Fox  to  return  to  the  service  of 
the  crown.  "  Is  Lord  Shelburue,"  said  Fox,  "  to  remain  prime  min- 
ister?" Pitt  answered  in  the  aflirmative.  "  It  is  impossible  that  I 
can  act  under  him, "  said  Fox.  "Then  negotiation  is  at  an  end," 
said  Pitt;  "for  I  cannot  betray  him."  Thus  the  two  statesmen 
parted.  They  were  never  again  in  a  private  room  together. 

As  Fox  and  his  friends  would  not  treat  with  Shelburne,  nothing 
remained  to  them  but  to  treat  with  North.  That  fatal  coalition, 
which  is  emphatically  called  "  The  Coalition,"  was  formed.  Not 
three  quarter*  of  a  year  had  elapsed  since  Fox  and  Burke  had  threat- 
ened North  with  impeachment,  and  had  described  him,  night  aftei; 
sight,  as  the  mos-t  arbitrary,  the  most  corrupt,  the  most  incapable  of 
ministers.  They  now  allied  themselves  with  him  for  the  purpose  of 
driving  from  office  a  statesman  with  whom  they  cannot  be  said  to 
have  differed  as  to  any  important  question.  Nor  had  they  even  the 
prudence  and  the  patience  to  wait  for  some  occasion  on  which  they 


30  WILLIAM   PITT. 

might,  without  inconsistency,  have  combined  with  their  old  enemies 
in  opposition  to  the  government.  That  nothing  might  be  wanting  to 
the  scandal,  the  great  orators  who  had,  during  seven  years,  thundered 
against  the  war,  determined  to  join  with  the  authors  of  that  war  in 
passing  a  vote  of  censure  on  the  peace. 

The  Parliament  met  before  Christmas,  1782.  But  it  was  not  till 
January,  1783,  that  the  preliminary  treaties  were  signed.  On  the 
17th  of  February  they  were  taken  into  consideration  by  the  House  of 
Commons.  There  had  been,  during  some  days,  floating  rumors  that 
Fox  and  North  had  coalesced  ;  and  the  debate  indicated  but  too 
clearly  that  those  rumors  were  not  unfounded.  Pitt  was  suffering 
from  indisposition  :  he  did  not  rise  till  his  own  strength  and  that  of 
his  hearers  were  exhausted  ;  and  he  was  consequently  less  successful 
than  on  any  former  occasion.  His  admirers  owned  that  his  speech 
was  feeble  and  petulant.  He  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  advise  Sher- 
idan to  confine  himself  to  amusing  theatrical  audiences.  This  igno- 
ble sarcasm  gave  Sheridan  an  opportunity  of  retorting  with  great 
felicity.  "  After  what  1  have  seen  and  heard  to-night,"  he  said,  "  I 
really  feel  strongly  tempted  to  venture  on  a  competition  with  so  great 
an  artist  as  Ben  Jonson,  and  to  bring  on  the  stage  a  second  Angry 
Boy."  On  a  division,  the  address  prdposed  by  the  supporters  of  the 
government  was  rejected  by  a  majority  of  sixteen. 

But  Pitt  was  not  a  man  to  be  disheartened  by  a  single  failure,  or 
to  be  put  down  by  the  most  lively  repartee.  When,  a  few  days  later, 
the  opposition  proposed  a  resolution  directly  censuring  the  treaties, 
he  spoke  with  an  eloquence,  energy,  and  dignity,  which  raised  his 
fame  and  popularity  higher  than  ever.  To  the  coalition  of  Fox 
and  North  he  alluded  in  language  which  drew  forth  tumultuous  ap- 
plause from  his  followers.  "  If,"  he  said,  "  this  ill  omened  and  un- 
natural marriage  be  not  yet  consummated,  I  know  of  a  just  and  law- 
ful impedient ;  and,  in  the  name  of  the  public  weal,  I  forbid  the 
banns." 

The  ministers  were  again  left  in  a  minority,  and  Shelburne  con- 
sequently tendered  his  resignation.  It  was  accepted  ;  but  the  king 
struggled  long  and  hard  before  he  submitted  to  the  terms  dictated 
by  Fox,  whose  faults  he  detested,  and  whose  high  spirit  and  power- 
ful intellect  he  detested  still  more.  The  first  place  at  the  board  of 
treasury  was  repeatedly  offered  to  Pitt ;  but  the  offer,  though  tempt- 
ing, was  steadfastly  declined.  The  young  man,  whose  judgment 
was  as  precocious  as  his  eloquence,  saw  that  his  time  was  coming, 
but  was  not  come,  and  was  deaf  to  royal  importunities  and  re- 
preaches.  His  Majesty,  bitterly  complaining  of  Pitt's  faint-hearted- 
ness,  tried^  to  break  the  coalition.  Every  art  of  seduction  was  prac- 
tised on  North,  but  in  vain.  During  several  weeks  the  country  re- 
mained without  a  government.  It  was  not  till  all  devices  had  failed, 
the  aspect  of  the  House  of  Commons  became  threatening, 
that  the  king  gave  way.  The  Duke  of  Portland  was  declared  first 


WILLIAM   PITT.  31 

lord  of  the  treasury.  Tlmrlow  was  dismissed.  Fox  and  North  be- 
came secretaries  of  state,  with  power  ostensibly  equal.  But  Fox  was 
the  real  prime  minister. 

The  year  was  far  advanced  before  the  new  arrangements  were 
completed  ;  and  nothing  very  important  was  done  during  the  remain- 
der of  the  session.  Pitt,  now  seated  on  the  opposition  bench, 
brought  the  question  of  parliamentary  reform  a  second  time  under 
the  consideration  of  the  Commons.  He  proposed  to  add  to  the  house 
at  once  a  hundred  county  members  and  several  members  for  metro- 
politan districts,  and  to  enact  that  every  borough  of  which  an  election, 
committee  should  report  that  the  majority  of  voters  appeared  to  be 
corrupt,  should  lose  the  franchise.  The  motion  was  rejected  by  293 
votes  to  149. 

After  the  prorogation,  Pitt  visited  the  continent  for  the  first  and 
last  time.  His  travelling  companion  was  one  of  his  most  intimate 
friends,  a  young  man  of  hi^own  age,  who  had  already  distinguished 
himself  in  Parliament  by  an  engaging  natural  eloquence,  set  off  by 
the  sweetest  and  most  exquisitely  modulated  of  human  voices,  and 
whose  affectionate  heart,  caressing  manners,  and  brilliant  wit,  made 
him  the  most  delightful  of  companions,  William  Wilberforce.  That 
was  the  time  of  Anglomania  in  France  ;  and  at  Paris  the  son  of  the 
great  Chatham  was  absolutely  hunted  by  men  of  letters  and  women 
of  fashion,  and  forced,  much  against  his  will,  into  political  disputa- 
tion. One  remarkable  saying  which  dropped  from  him  during  this 
tour  has  been  preserved.  A  French  gentleman  expressed  some  sur- 
prise at  the  immense  influence  which  Fox,  a  man  of  pleasure,  ruined 
by  the  dice-box  and  the  turf,  exercised  over  the  English  nation. 
"You  have  not,"  said  Pitt,  "been  under  the  wand  of  the  magi 
cian." 

In  November,  1783,  the  Parliament  met  again.  The  government  had 
irresistible  strength  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  seemed  to  be 
scarcely  less  strong  iu  the  House  of  Lords,  but  was,  in  truth,  sur- 
rounded on  every  side  by  dangers.  The  king  was  impatiently  wait- 
ing for  the  moment  at  which  he  could  emancipate  himself  from  t 
yoke  which  galled  him  so  severely  that  he  liad^mose  than  oncff 
seriously  thought  of  retiring  to  Hanover  ;  and  the  king  was  scarcely 
more  eager  for  a  change  than  the  nation.  Fox  and  North  had  com- 
mitted a  fatal  error.  They  ought  to  have  known  that  coalitions  be- 
tween parties  which  have  long  been  hostile,  can  succeed  only  when 
the  wish  for  coalition  pervades  the  lower  ranks  of  both.  If  the  lead- 
ers unite  before  there  is  any  disposition  to  union  among  the  fol- 
lowers, the  probability  is  that  there  will  be  a  mutiny  in  both  camps, 
and  that  the  two  revolted  armies  will  make  a  truce  with  each  other, 
in  order  to  be  revenged  on  those  by  whom  they  think  that  they  have 
been  betrayed.  Thus  it  was  in  178.3.  At  the  beginning  of  that 
eventful  year,  North  had  been  the  recognized  head  of  the  old  Tory 
party,  which,  though  for  a  moment  prostrated  by  the  disastrous  issue 


32  WILLIAM   PITT. 

of  the  American  war,  was  still  a  great  power  in  the  state.  To  him 
the  clergy,  the  universities,  and  that  large  body  of  country  gentlemen 
whose  rallying  cry  was  "  Church  and  king,  had  long  looked  up 
with  respect  and  confidence.  Fox  had,  on  the  other  hand,  been  the 
idol  of  the  Whigs,  and  of  the  whole  body  of  Protestant  dissenters. 
The  coalition  at  once  alienated  the  most  zealous  Tories  from  North, 
and  the  most  zealous  Whigs  from  Fox.  The  University  of  Oxford, 
which  had  marked  its  approbation  of  North's  orthodoxy  by  electing 
him  chancellor,  the  city  of  London,  which  had  been,  during  two- 
and-twenty  years,  at  war  witli  the  court,  were  equally  disgusted. 
Squires  and  rectors,  who  had  inherited  the  principles  of  the  cavaliers 
of  the  preceding  century,  could  not  forgive  their  old  leader  for  com- 
bining with  disloyal  subjects  in  order  to  put  a  force  on  the  sovereign. 
The  members  of  the  Bill  of  Itights  Society  and  of  the  Reform  Asso- 
ciations were  enraged  by  learning  that  their  favorite  orator  now  called 
the  great  champion  of  tyranny  and  corruption  his  noble  friend. 
Two  great  multitudes  were  at  once  left  without  any  head,  and  both 
at  once  turned  their  eyes  on  Pitt.  One  party  saw  in  him  the  only 
man  who  could  rescue  the  king  ;  the  other  saw  in  him  the  only  man 
who  could  purify  the  Parliament.  He  was  supported  on  one  side  by 
Archbishop  Markham,  the  preacher  of  divine  right,  and  by  Jenkin- 
son,  the  captain  of  the  praetorian  band  of  the  king's  friends  ;  on  the 
other  side  by  Jebb  and  Priestley,  Sawbridge  and  Cartwright,  Jack 
Wilkcs  and  Home  Tooke.  On  the  benches  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, however,  the  ranks  of  the  ministerial  majority  were  unbroken  ; 
and  that  any  statesman  would  venture  to  brave  such  a  majority  was 
thought  impossible.  No  prince  of  the  Hanoverian  line  had  ever, 
under  any  provocation,  ventured  to  appeal  from  the  representative 
body  to  the  constituent  bod}'.  The  ministers,  therefore,  notwith- 
standing the  sullen  looks  and  muttered  words  of  displeasure  with 
which  their  suggestions  were  received  in  the  closet,  notwithstanding 
the  roar  of  obloquy  which  was  rising  louder  and  louder  every  day 
from  every  corner  of  the  island,  thought  themselves  secure. 

Such  was  their  confidence  in  their  strength  that,  as  soon  as  the 
Parliament  had  met,  they  brought  forward  a  singularly  bold  and 
original  plan  for  the  government  of  the  British  territories  in  India. 
What  was  proposed  was  that  the  whole  authority,  which  till  that 
time  had  been  exercised  over  those  territories  by  the  East  India  Com- 
pany, should  be  transferred  to  seven  commissioners,  who  were  to  be 
named  by  Parliament,  and  were  not  to  be  removable  at  the  pleasure 
of  the  crown.  Earl  Fitzwilliam,  the  most  intimate  personal  friend 
of  b  ox,  was  to  be  chairman  of  this  board,  and  the  eldest  son  of  North 
was  to  be  one  of  the  members. 

As  soon  as  the  outlines  of  the  scheme  were  known,  all  the  hatred 
which  the  coalition  had  excited  burst  forth  with  an  astounding  ex- 
The  question  which  ought  undoubtedly  to  have  been  con- 
sidered as  paramount  to  every  other  was,  whether  the  proposed 


WILLIAM   PITT.  33 

change  was  likely  to  be  beneficial  or  injurious  to  the  thirty  millions 
of  people  who  were  subject  to  the  company.  But  that  question  can- 
not be  said  to  have  been  even  seriously  discussed.  Burke,  who, 
whether  right  or  wrong  in  the  conclusions  to  which  he  came,  had  at 
least  the  merit  of  looking  at  the  subject  in  the  right  point  of  view, 
vainly  reminded  his  hearers  of  that  mighty  population  whose  daily 
rice  might  depend  on  a  vote  of  the  British  Parliament.  He  spoke, 
with  even  more  than  his  wonted  power  of  thought  and  language, 
about  the  desolation  of  Rohilcund,  about  the  spoliation  of  Benares, 
about  the  evil  policy  which  had  suffered  the  tanks  of  the  Carnatic  to 
go  to  ruin  ;  but  he  could  scarcely  obtain  a  hearing.  The  contending 
parties,  to  their  shame  it  must  be  said,  would  listen  to  none  but  Eng- 
lish topics.  Out  of  doors  the  cry  against  the  ministry  was  almost 
universal.  Town  and  country  were  united.  Corporations  exclaimed 
against  the  violation  of  the  charter  of  the  greatest  corporation  in  the. 
realm.  Tories  and  democrats  joined  in  pronouncing  the  proposed 
board  an  unconstitutional  btody.  It  was  to  consist  of  Fox'e  nomi- 
nees. The  effect  of  his  bill  ftas  to  give,  not  to  the  crown,  but  to  him 
personally,  whether  in  office  or  in  opposition,  an  enormous  power,  a 
patronage  sufficient  to  counterbalance  the  patronage  of  the  Treasury 
and  of  the  Admiralty,  and  to  decide  the  elections  for  fifty  boroughs. 
He  knew,  it  was  said,  that  he  was  hateful  alike  to  king  and  people  ; 
and  he  had  devised  a  plan  which  would  make  him  independent  of 
both.  Some  nicknamed  him  Cromwell,  and  some  Carlo  Khan. 
Wilber force  with  his  usual  felicity  of  expression,  and  with  very  un- 
usual bitterness  of  feeling,  described  the  scheme  as  the  genuine  off- 
spring of  the  coalition,  as  marked  with  the  features  of  both  its  par- 
ents, the  corruption  of  one  and  the  violence  of  the  other.  In  spite 
of  all  opposition,  however,  the  bill  was  supported  in  every  stage  by 
great  majorities,  was  rapidly  passed,  and  was  sent  up  to  the  Lords. 
To  the  general  astonishment,  when  the  second  reading  was  moved  in 
the  upper  house,  the  opposition  proposed  an  adjournment,  and  car- 
ried it  by  eighty-seven  votes  to  seventy-nine.  The  cause  of  this 
strange  turn  of  fortune  was  soon  known.  Pitt's  cousin,  Earl  Tem- 
ple, had  been  in  the  royal  closet,  and  had  there  been  authori/cd  to 
let  it  be  known  that  his  Majesty  would  consider  all  who  voted  for  the 
bill  as  his  enemies.  The  ignominious  commission  was  performed, 
and  instantly  a  troop  of  lords  of  the  bedchamber,  of  bishops  who 
wished  to  be  translated,  and  of  Scotch  peers  who  wished  to  be  re- 
elected,  made  haste  to  change  sides.  On  a  later  day,  the  Lords  re- 
jected the  bill.  Fox  and  North  were  immediately  directed  to  send 
their  seals  to  tl\e  palace  by  their  uuder-secretaries  ;  and  Pitt  was  ap- 
pointed first  lord  of  the  treasury  and  chancellor  of  the  exchequer. 

The  general  opinion  was,  that  there  would  be  an  immediate  disso- 
lution. But  Pitt  wisely  determined  to  give  the  public  feeling  tims 
to  gather  strength.  On  this  point  he  differed  from  his  kinsman  Tem- 
ple. The  consequence  was,  that  Temple,  who  had  been  appointed 


34  WILLIAM    PITT. 

one  of  the  secretaries  of  state,  resigned  his  office  forty-eight  hours 
after  he  had  accepted  it,  ami  thus  relieved  the  new  government  from 
a  great  load  of  unpopularity  ;  for  all  men  of  sense  and  honor,  how- 
ever strong  might  be  their  dislike  of  the  India  bill,  disapproved  of 
the  manner  in  which  that  bill  had  been  thrown  out.  Temple  carried 
away  with  him  the  scandal  which  the  best  friends  of  the  new  govern- 
ment could  not  but  lament.  The  fame  of  the  young  prime  minister 
preserved  its  whiteness.  He  could  declare  with  perfect  truth,  that 
if  unconstitutional  machinations  had  been' employed,  he  had  been  no 
party  to  them. 

He  was,  however,  surrounded  by  difficulties  and  dangers.  In  the 
House  of  Lords,  indeed,  he  had  a  majority  ;  nor  could  any  orator  of 
the  opposition  in  that  assembly  be  considered  as  a  match  for  Thur- 
low,  who  was  now  again  chancellor,  or  for  Camden,  who  cordially 
supported  the  son  of  his  old  friend  Chatham.  But  in  the  other 
house  there  was  not  a  single  eminent  speaker  among  the  official  men 
who  sat  round  Pitt.  His  most  useful  assistant  was  Dundas,  who, 
though  he  had  not  eloquence,  had  sense,  knowledge,  readiness,  and 
boldness.  On  the  opposite  benches  was  a  powerful  majority,  led  by 
Fox,  who  was  supported  by  Burke,  North,  and  Sheridan.  The  heart 
of  the  young  minister,  stout  as  it  was,  almost  died  within  him.  He 
could  not  once  close  his  eyes  on  the  night  which  followed  Temple's 
resignation.  But,  whatever  his  internal  emotions  might  be,  his  lan- 
guage and  deportment  indicated  nothing  but  unconquerable  firmness 
and  haughty  confidence  in  his  own  powers.  His  contest  against  the 
House  of  Commons  lasted  from  the  17th  of  December,  1783,  to  the 
8th  of  March,  1784.  In  sixteen  divisions  the  opposition  triumphed. 
Again  and  again  the  king  was  requested  to  dismiss  his  ministers. 
But  he  was  determined  to  go  to  Germany  rather  than  yield.  Pitt's 
re-solution  never  wavered.  The  cry  of  the  nation  in  his  favor  became 
vehement  and  almost  furious.  Addresses  assuring  him  of  public 
support  came  up  daily  from  every  part  of  the  kingdom.  The  free- 
dom of  the  city  of  London  was  presented  to  him  in  a  gold  box.  lie 
went  in  state  to  receive  this  mark  of  distinction.  He  was  sumptu- 
ously feasted  in  Grocers'  Hall  ;  and  the  shopkeepers  of  the  Strand 
and  Fleet  Street  illuminated  their  houses  in  his  honor.  These  things 
could  not  but  produce  an  effect  within  the  walls  of  Parliament.  The 
ranks  of  the  majority  began  to  waver  ;  a  few  passed  over  to  the  en- 
emy ;  some  skulked  away  ;  many  were  for  capitulating  while  it  waa 
Ktill  possible  to  capitulate  with  the  honors  of  war.  Negotiations 
were  opened  with  the  view  of  forming  an  administration  on  a  wide 
la-is,  but  they  had  scarcely  been  opened  when  they  were  closed. 
The  opposition  demanded,  as  a  preliminary  article  of  the  treaty,  that 
Pitt  should  resign  the  treasury  ;  and  with  this  demand  Pitt  stead- 
fastly refused  to  comply.  While  the  contest  was  raging,  the  clerk- 
ship  of  the  Pells,  a  sinecure  plac«  for  life,  worth  three  thousand  a 
year,  and  tenable  with  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons,  became 


WILLIAM   PITT.  35 

Tacant.  The  appointment  was  with  the  chancellor  of  the  exche- 
quer ;  nobody  doubted  that  he  would  appoint  himself  ;  and  nobody 
could  have  blamed  him  if  he  had  done  so  ;  for  such  sinecure  offices 
had  always  been  defended  on  the  ground  that  they  enabled  a  few 
men  of  eminent  abilities  and  small  incomes  to  live  without  any  pro- 
fession, and  to  devote  themselves  to  the  service  of  the  state.  Pitt,  in 
spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  his  friends,  gave  the  Pells  to  his  father's 
old  adherent,  Colonel  Barre,  a  man  distinguished  by  talent  and  elo- 
quence, but  poor  and  afflicted  with  blindness.  By  this  arrangement 
a  pension  which  the  Rockingham  administration  had  granted  to 
Barre  was  saved  to  the  public^  Never  was  there  a  happier  stroke  of 
policy.  About  treaties,  wars,  expeditions,  tariffs,  budgets,  there  will 
always  be  room  for  dispute.  The  policy  which  is  applauded  by  half 
the  nation  may  be  condemned  by  the  other  half.  But  pecuniary  dis- 
interestedness everybody  comprehends.  It  is  a  great  thing  for  a  man 
who  has  only  three  hundred*  a  year  to  be  able  to  show  that  he  con- 
siders three  thousand  a  yeaH\as  mere  dirt  beneath  his  feet,  when  com- 
pared with  the  public  interest  and  the  public  esteem.  Pitt  had  his 
reward.  No  minister  was  ever  more  rancorously  libelled  ;  but  even 
when  he  was  known  to  be  overwhelmed  with  debt,  when  millions 
were  passing  through  his  hands,  when  the  wealthiest  magnates  of  the 
realm  were  soliciting  him  for  marquisates  and  garters,  his  bitterest 
enemies  did  not  dare  to  accuse  him  of  touching  unlawful  gain. 

At  length  the  hard-fought  fight  ended.  A  final  remonstrance, 
drawn  up  by  Burke  with  admirable  skill,  was  carried  on  the  8th  of 
March  by  a  single  vote  in  a  full  house.  Had  the  experiment  been  re- 
peated, the  supporters  of  the  coalition  would  probably  have  been  in 
a  minority.  But  the  supplies  had  been  voted  ;  the  mutiny  bill  had 
been  passed  ;  and  the  Parliament  was  dissolved. 

The  popular  constituent  bodies  all  over  the  country  were  in  gen- 
eral enthusiastic  on  the  side  of  the  new  government.  A  hundred  and 
sixty  of  the  supporters  of  the  coalition  lost  their  seats.  The  first 
lord  of  the  treasury  himself  came  in  at  the  head  of  the  poll  for  the 
University  of  Cambridge.  His  young  friend,  Wilberforce,  was 
elected  knight  of  the  great  shire  of  York,  in  opposition  to  the  whole 
influence  of  the  Fitzwilliams,  Cavendishes,  Dundases,  and  Saviles. 
In  the  midst  of  such  triumphs  Pitt  completed  his  twenty-fifth  year. 
He  was  now  the  greatest  subject  that  England  had  seen  during  many 
generations.  He  domineered  absolutely  over  the  cabinet,  and  was 
the  favorite  at  once  of  the  sovereign,  of  the  Parliament,  and  of  the 
nation.  His  father  had  never  been  so  powerful,  nor  Walpole,  nor 
Marl  borough. 

This  narrative  has  now  reached  a  point  beyond  which  a  full  his- 
tory of  the  life  of  Pitt  would  be  a  history  of  England,  or  rather  of  the 
whole  civilized  world  ;  and  for  such  a  history  this  is  not  the  proper 
place.  Here  a  very  slight  sketch  must  suffice  ;  and  in  that  sketch 
prominence  will  be  given  to  such  points  as  may  enable  a  reader  who 


36  WILLIAM   PlTf. 

is  already  acquainted  with  the  general  course  of  events  to  form  ti 
just  notion  of  the  character  of  the  man  on  whom  so  much  depended. 

If  we  wish  to  arrive  at  a  correct  judgment  of  Pitt's  merits  and  de- 
fects, we  must  never  forget  that  he  belonged  to  a  peculiar  class  of 
stuu-smen,  and  that  he  must  be  tried  by  a  peculiar  standard.  It  is 
not  easy  to  compare  him  fairly  witli  such  men  as  Ximenes  and  Sully, 
Kichelieu  and  Oxenstiern,  John  Do  Wilt  and  Warren  Hastings. 
The  means  by  which  those  politicians  governed  great  communities 
were  of  quite  a  different  kind  from  those  which  Pitt  was  under  the 
necessity  of  employing.  Some  talents,  which  they  never  had  any  op- 
portunity  of  showing  that  they  possessed,  were  developed  in  him  to 
an  extraordinary  degree.  In  some  qualities,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
which  they  owe  a  large  part  of  their  fame,  he  was  decidedly  their 
inferior.  They  transacted  business  in  their  closets,  or  at  boards 
where  a  few  confidential  councillors  sat.  It  was  his  lot  to  be  born 
in  an  age  and  in  a  country  in  which  parliamentary  government  was 
completely  established  ;  his  whole  training  from  infancy  was  such  as 
fitted  him  to  bear  a  part  in  parliamentary  government  ;  and  from  the 
prime  of  his  manhood  to  his  death,  all  the  powers  of  his  vigorous 
mind  were  almost  constantly  exerted  in  the  work  of  parliamentary 
government.  He  accordingly  became  the  greatest  master  of  the 
whole  art  of  parliamentary  government  that  has  ever  existed,  a  greater 
than  Montague  or  Walpole,  a  greater  than  his  father  Chatham  or  his 
rival  Fox,  a  greater  than  either  of  his  illustrious  successors  Canning 
and  Peel. 

Parliamentary  government,  like  every  other  contrivance  of  man, 
has  its  advantages  and  its  disadvantages.  On  the  advantages  there 
is  no  need  to  dilate.  The  history  of  England  during  the  'hundred 
and  seventy  years  which  have  elapsed  since  the  House  of  Commons 
licrume  the  most  powerful  body  in  the  state,  her  immense  and  still 
growing  prosperity,  her  freedom,  her  tranquillity,  her  greatness  in 
arts,  in  sciences,  and  in  arms,  her  maritime  ascendency,  the  marvels 
of  her  public  credit,  her  American,  her  African,  her  Australian,  her 
Asiatic  empires,  sufficiently  prove  the  excellence  of  her  institutions. 
But  those  institutions,  though  excellent,  are  assuredly  not  perfect. 
Parliamentary  government  is  government  by  speaking.  In  such  a 
government,  the  power  of  speaking  is  the  most  highly  prized  of  all 
the  qualities  which  a  politician  can  possess  ;  and  that  power  may 
exist,  in  the  highest  degree,  without  judgment,  without  fortitude, 
without  skill  in  reading  the  characters  of  men  or  the  signs  of  the 
times,  without  any  knowledge  of  the  principles  of  legislation  or  of 
political  economy,  and  without  any  skill  in  diplomacy  or  in  the  ad- 
ministration of  war.  Nay,  it  may  well  happen  that  those  very  intel- 
lectual qualities  which  give  a  peculiar  charm  to  the  speeches  of  a 
ic  man,  may  be  incompatible  with  the  qualities  which  would  fit 
him  to  meet  a  pressing  emergency  with  promptitude  and  firmness. 
It  was  thus  with  Charles  Townahend.  It  was  thus  with  Windham, 


WILLIAM   PITT.  37 

It  was  a  privilege  to  listen  to  those  accomplished  and  ingenious  ora- 
tors. But  in  a  perilous  crisis  they  would  have  been  found  far  infe- 
rior in  all  the  qualities  of  rulers  to  such  a  man  as  Oliver  Cromwell, 
who  talked  nonsense,  or  as  William  the  Silent,  who  did  not  talk  at 
all.  When  parliamentary  government  is  established,  a  Charles 
Towushend  or  a  Windham  will  almost  always  exercise  much  greater 
influence  than  such  men  as  the  great  Protector  of  England,  or  as  the 
founder  of  the  Batavian  commonwealth.  In  such  a  government,  par- 
liamentary talent,  though  quite  distinct  from  the  talents  of  a  good 
executive  or  judicial  officer,  will  be  a  chief  qualification  for  execu- 
tive and  judicial  office.  From  the  Book  of  Dignities  a  curious  list 
might  be  'made  out  of  chancellors  ignorant  of  the  principles  of  equity, 
and  first  lords  of  the  admiralty  ignorant  of  the  principles  of  naviga- 
tion, of  colonial  ministers  who  could  not  repeat  the  names  of  the  col- 
onies, of  lords  of  the  treasury  who  did  not  know  the  difference  be- 
tween funded  and  unfunded  debt,  and  of  secretaries  of  the  India 
board  who  did  not  know  whether  the  Mahrattas  were  Mahometans 
or  Hindoos.  On  these  grouads,  some  persons,  incapable  of  seeing 
more  than  one  side  of  a  question,  have  pronounced  parliamentary 
government  a  positive  evil,  and  have  maintained  that  the  administra- 
tion would  be  greatly  improved  if  the  power,  now  exercised  by  a 
large  assembly,  were  transferred  to  a  single  person.  Men  of  sense 
will  probably  think  the  remedy  very  much  worse  than  the  disease, 
and  will  be  of  opinion  that  there  would  be  small  gain  in  exchanging 
Charles  Townsheud  and  Windham  for  the  prince  of  the  peace,  or  the 
poor  slave  and  dog  Steenie. 

Pitt  was  emphatically  the  man  of  parliamentary  government,  the 
type  of  his  class,  the  minion,  the  child,  the  spoiled  child,  of  the 
House  of  Commons.  For  the  House  of  Commons  he  had  a  heredi- 
tary, an  infantine  love.  Through  his  whole  boyhood,  the  House  of 
Commons  was  never  out  of  his  thoughts,  or  out  of  the  thoughts  of 
his  instructors.  Reciting  at  his  father's  knee,  reading  Thucydidcs 
and  Cicero  into  English,  analyzing  the  great  Attic  speeches  on  UK; 
embassy  and  on  the  crown,  he  was  constantly  in  training  for  the 
conflicts  of  the  House  of  Commons.  He  was  a  distinguished  mem- 
ber of  the  House  of  Commons  at  twenty-one.  The  ability  which  he 
•hail  displayed  in  the  House  of  Commons  made  him  the  most  power- 
ful subject  in  Europe  Before  he  was  twenty-five.  It  would  have 
been  happy  for  himself  and  for  his  country  if  his  elevation  had  been, 
deferred.  Eight  or  ten  years,  during  which  he  would  have  had  lei- 
sure and  opportunity  for  reading  and  reflection,  for  foreign  travel,  for 
social  intercourse  and  free  exchange  of  thought  on  equal  terms  with 
a  great  variety  of  companions,  would  have  supplied  what,  without 
any  fault  on  his  part,  was  wanting  to  his  powerful  intellect.  He 
had  all  the  knowledge  that  he  could  be  expected  to  have  ;  that  is  to 
say,  all  the  knowledge  that  a  man  can  acquire  while  he  is  a  student 
at  Cambridge,  and  all  the  knowledge  that  a  man  can  acquire  when 


86  WILLIAM   PITT. 

be  is  first  lord  of  the  treasury  and  chancellor  of  the  exchequer.  Hat 
Ihe  stock  of  general  information  which  he  brought  from  college,  ex- 
traordinary for  a  boy,  was  far  inferior  to  what  Fox  possessed,  and 
beggarly  when  compared  with  the  massy,  the  splendid,  the  various 
Ireasures  laid  up  in  the  large  mind  of  Burke.  After  Pitt  became 
minister,  he  had  no  leisure  to  learn  more  than  was  necessary  for  the 
purposes  of  the  day  which  was  passing  over  him.  "\Vhnt  was  neces- 
sary for  those  purposes  such  a  man  could  learn  with  little  difficulty. 
He  was  surrounded  by  experienced  and  able  public  servants.  He 
could  at  any  moment  command  their  best  assistance.  From  the 
stores  which  they  produce1 1  his  vigorous  mind  rapidly  collected  the 
materials  for  a  good  parliamentary  case  ;  and  that  was  enough. 
Legislation  and  administration  were  with  him  secondary  matters. 
To  the  work  of  framing  statutes,  of  negotiating  treaties,  of  orgaui/.iug 
fleets  and  armies,  of  sending  forth  expeditions,  he  gave  only  the  leav- 
ings of  liis  time  and  the  dregs  of  his  fine  intellect.  The  strength  and 
sap  of  his  mind  were  all  drawn  in  a  different  direction.  It  was  when 
the  House  of  Commons  was  to  be  convinced  and  persuaded  that  he 
put  forth  all  his  powers. 

Of  those  powers  we  must  form  our  estimate  chiefly  from  tradition  ; 
for  of  all  the  eminent  speakers  of  Ihe  last  age,  Pitt  has  suffered  most 
from  the  reporters.  Even  while  he  was  still  living,  critics  remarked 
that  his  eloquence  could  not  be  preserved,  that  he  must  be  heard  to 
be  appreciated.  They  more  than  once  applied  to  him  the  sentence 
in  which  Tacitus  describes  the  fate  of  a  senator  whose  rhetoric  was 
admired  in  the  Augustan  age  :  "  Haterii  canorum  illud  et  profluens 
cum  ipso  simul  exstinctum  est."  There  is,  however,  abundant  evi- 
dence that  nature  had  bestowed  on  Pitt  the  talents  of  a  great  orator  ; 
and  those  talents  had  been  developed  in  a  very  peculiar  manner  ; 
first  by  his  education,  and  secondly  by  the  high  official  position  to 
which  he  rose  early,  and  in  which  he  passed  the  greater  part  of  his 
public  life. 

At  his  first  appearance  in  Parliament  he  showed  himself  superior  to 
ail  his  contemporaries  in  command  of  language.  He  could  pour 
forth  a  long  succession  of  round  and  stately  periods,  without  pre- 
meditation, without  ever  pausing  for  a  word,  without  ever  repeating 
a  word,  in  a  voice  of  siher  clearness,  and  with  a  pronunciation  so 


lectical  fence,  and  less  of  that  highest  sort  of  eloquence  which  con- 
sists of  reason  and  passion  fused  together,  than  Fox.  Yet  the  almost 
unanimous  judgment  of  those  who  were  in  the  habit  of  listening  to 
that  remarkable  race  of  men  placed  Pitt,  as  a  speaker,  above  Burke, 
above  Windhum,  above  Slu.Vulan,  and  not  below  Fox.  His  declama- 
tion waa  copious,  polished,  und  splendid.  In  power  of  sarcasm  he 
wm  probably  not  surpassed  by  au>  speaker,  ancient  or  modern  ;  acd 


WILLIAM   PITT.  39 

of  this  formidable  weapon  he  made  merciless  use.  In  two  parts  of 
the  oratorical  art  which  are  of  the  highest  value  to  a  minister  of  state 
he  was  singularly  expert.  No  man  knew  better  how  to  be  luminous 
or  how  to  be  obscure.  When  he  wished  to  be  understood  he  nevet 
failed  to  make  himself  understood.  He  could  with  ease  present  to 
his  audience,  not  perhaps  an  exact  or  profound,  but  a  clear,  popular, 
and  plausible  view  of  the  most  extensive  and  complicated  subject. 
Nothing  was  out  of  place  ;  nothing  was  forgotten  ;  minute  details, 
dates,  sums  of  money,  were  all  faithfully  preserved  in  his  memory. 
Even  intricate  questions  of  finance,  when  explained  by  him,  seemed 
clear  to  the  plainest  man  among  his  hearers.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  he  did  not  wish  to  be  explicit — and  no  man  who  is  at  the  head 
of  affairs  always  wishes  to  be  explicit — he  had  a  marvellous  power  of 
saying  nothing  in  language  which  left  on  his  audience  the  impression 
that  he  had  said  a  great  deal.  He  was  at  once  the  only  man  who 
could  open  a  budget  without  notes,  and  the  only  man  who,  as  Wind- 
ham  said,  could  speak  that  most  elaborately  evasive  and  unmeaning 
of  human  compositions,  a  king's  speech,  without  premeditation. 

The  effect  of  oratory  will  always,  to  a  great  extent,  depend  on  the 
character  of  the  orator.  There  perhaps  never  were  two  speakers 
whose  eloquence  had  more  of  what  may  be  called  the  race,  more  of 
the  flavor  imparted  by  moral  qualities,  than  Fox  and  Pitt,  The 
speeches  of  Fox  owe  a  great  part  of  their  charm  to  that,  warmth  and 
softness  of  heart,  that  sympathy  with  human  suffering,  'that  admira- 
tion for  everything  great  and  beautiful,  and  that  hatred  of  cruelty 
and  injustice,  which  interest  and  delight  us  even  in  the  most  defec- 
tive reports.  No  person,  on  the  other  hand,  could  hear  Pitt  without 
perceiving  him  to  be  a  man  of  high,  intrepid,  and  commanding 
spirit,  proudly  conscious  of  his  own  rectitude  and  of  his  own  intel- 
lectual superiority,  incapable  of  the  low  vices  of  fear  and  envy,  but 
too  prone  to  feel  and  to  show  disdain.  Pride,  indeed,  pervaded  the 
whole  man,  was  written  in  the  harsh,  rigid  lines  of  his  face, 
was  marked  by  the  way  in  which  he  walked,  in  which  he 
sat,  in  which  he  stood,  and,  above  all,  in  which  he  bowed.  Such 
pride,  of  course,  inflicted  many  wounds.  It  may  confidently  be 
affirmed  that  there  cannot  be  found,  in  all  the  ten  thousand  invectives 
written  against  Fox,  a  word  indicating  that  his  demeanor  had  ever 
made  a  single  personal  enemy.  On  the  other  hand,  several  men  of 
note  who  had  been  partial  to  Pitt,  and  who  to  the  last  continued  to 
approve  his  public  conduct  and  to  support  his  administration,  Cum- 
berland, for  example,  Boswell,  and  Matthias,  were  so  much  irritated 
by  the  contempt  with  which  he  treated  them,  that  they  complained 
in  print  of  their  wrongs.  But  his  pride,  though  it  made  him  bitterly 
disliked  by  individuals,  inspired  the  great  body  of  his  followers  in 
Parliament  and  throughout  the  country  with  respect  and  confidence. 
They  took  him  at  his  own  valuation.  They  saw  that  his  self-esteem 
wae  not  that  ol  an  upstart,  who  was  drunk  with  good-luck  and  witk 


40  WILLIAM   PITT. 

applause,  and  who,  if  fortune  turned,  would  sink  from  arrogance 
into  abject  humility.  It  was  that  of  the  magnanimous  man  so  finely 
described  by  Aristotle  in  the  Ethics,  of  the  man  who  thinks  himself 
worthy  of  great  things,  being  in  truth  worthy.  It  sprung  from  a 
consciousness  of  great  powers  and  great  virtues,  and  was  never  so 
conspicuously  displayed  as  in  the  midst  of  difficulties  and  dangers 
which  would  have  unnerved  and  bowed  down  any  ordinary  mind. 
It  was  closely  connected  too  with  an  ambition  which  had  no  mix- 
ture of  low  cupidity.  There  was  something  noble  in  the  cynical 
disdain  with  which  the  mighty  minister  scattered  riches  and  titles 
to  right  and  left  among  those  who  valued  them,  while  he  spurned 
them  out  of  his  own  wajr.  Poor  himself,  he  was  surrounded  by 
friends  on  whom  he  had  bestowed  three  thousand,  six  thousand, 
ten  thousand  a  year.  Plain  Mister  himself,  he  had  made  more  lords 
than  any  three  ministers  that  had  preceded  him.  The  garter,  for 
which  the  first  dukes  in  the  kingdom  were  contending,  was  repeatedly 
offered  to  him,  and  offered  in  vain. 

The  correctness  of  his  private  life  added  much  to  the  dignity  of  his 
ptiblic  character.  In  the  relations  of  son,  brother,  uncle,  master, 
friend,  his  conduct  was  exemplary.  In  the  small  circle  of  his  inti- 
mate associations,  he  was  amiable,  affectionate,  even  playful.  They 
loved  him  sincerely  ;  they  regretted  him  long  ;  and  they  would 
hardly  admit  tthat  he  who  was  so  kind  and  gentle  with  them  could 
be  stern  and  'haughty  with  others.  He  indulged,  indeed,  somewhat 
too  freely  in  wine,  which  he  had  early  been  directed  to  take  as  a  medi- 
cine, and  which  use  had  made  a  necessary  of  life  to  him.  But  it  was 
very  seldom  that  any  indication  of  undue  excess  could  be  detected  in 
his  tones  or  gestures  ;  and,  in  truth,  two  bottles  of  port  were  little 
more  to  him  than  two  dishes  of  tea.  He  had,  when  he  was  first  in- 
troduced into  the  clubs  of  St.  James's  Street,  shown  a  strong  taste 
for  play  ;  but  he  had  the  prudence  and  the  resolution  to  stop  before 
this  taste  had  acquired  the  strength  of  habit.  From  the  passion 
which  generally  exercises  the  most  tyrannical  dominion  over  the  young 
he  possessed  an  immunity,  which  is  probably  to  be  ascribed  partly 
to  his  temperament,  and  partly  to  his  situation.  His  constitution 
was  feeble  :  lie  was  very  shy  ;  and  he  was  very  busy.  The  strictness 
of  his  morals  furnished  such  buffoons  as  Peter  Pindar  and  Captain 
Morris  with  an  inexhaustible  theme  for  merriment  of  no  very  delicate 
kind.  But  the  great  body  of  the  middle  class  of  Englishmen  could 
not  see  the  joke.  They  warmly  praised  the  young  statesman  for 
commanding  his  passions,  and  for  covering  his  frailties,  if  he  had 
frailties,  with  decorous  obscurity,  and  would  have  been  very  far  in- 

leed  from  thinking  better  of  him  if  he  had  vindicated  himself  from 
tin'  taunts  of  his  enemies  by  taking  under  his  protection  a  Nancy  Par- 
sons or  a  Marianne  Clark. 
No  part  of  the  immense  popularity  which  Pitt  long  enjoyed  is  to 

ie  attributed  to  the  eulogies  of  wits  and  poets.     It  might  have  been 


WILLIAM    PITT.  41 

naturally  expected  that  a  man  of  genius,  of  learning,  of  taste,  an  ora- 
tor whose  diction  was  often  compared  to  Unit  of  Tully,  the  represent- 
ative, too,  of  a  great  university,  would  have  taken  a  peculiar  pleas- 
ure in  befriending  eminent  writers,  to  whatever  political  party  they 
might  have  belonged.  The  love  of  literature  had  induced  Augustus 
to  heap  beuelits  on  Pompeiaus,  Sorners  to  be  the  protector  of  non- 
jurors,  Hurley  to  make  the  fortunes  of  Whigs.  But  it  could  not  move 
Pitt  to  show  any  favor  cveu  to  Pittites.  He  was  doubtless  right  in 
thinking  that,  in  general,  poetry,  history,  and  philosophy  ought  to  be 
suffered,  like  calico  and  cutlery,  to  tiiid  their  proper  price  in  the 
market,  and  that  to  teach  men  of  letters  to  look  habitually  to  the 
stale  for  their  recompense,  is  bad  for  the  state  and  bad  for  letters. 
Assuredly  nothing  can  be  more  absurd  or  mischievous  than  to  waste 
the  public  money  in  bounties,  for  the  purpose  of  inducing  people 
who  ought  to  be  weighing  out  grocery  or  measuring  out  drapery  to 
write  bad  or  middling  books.  But,  though  the  sound  rule  is  that 
authors  should  be  left  to  be  remunerated  by  their  readers,  there  will, 
in  every  generation,  be  a  few  exceptions  to  this  rule.  To  distinguish 
these  special  cases  from  the  masses,  is  au  employment  well  worthy 
of  the  faculties  of  a  great  and  accomplished  ruler  ;  and  Pitt  would 
assuredly  have  had  little  difficulty  in  rinding  such  cases.  While  he 
was  in  power,  the  greatest  philologist  of  the  age,  his  own  contem- 
porary at  Cambridge,  was  reduced  to  earn  a  livelihood  by  the  lowest 
literary  drudgery,  aud  to  spend  in  writing  squibs  for  the  M<>rnunj 
Chronicle  years  to  which  we  might  have  owed  an  all  but  perfect  text 
of  the  whole  tragic  aud  comic  drama  of  Athens.  The  greatest  histo- 
rian of  the  age,  forced  by  poverty  to  leave  his  country,  completed  his 
immortal  work  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Leman.  The  political  het.ro- 
doxy  of  Porson  and  the  religious  heterodoxy  of  Gibbon  may  per- 
haps be  pleaded  in  defence  of  the  minister  by  whom  those  eminent 
men  were  neglected.  But  there  were  other  cases  in  which  no  such 
excuse  could  be  set  up.  Scarcely  had  Pitt  obtained  possession  of  un- 
bounded power,  when  an  aged  writer  of  the  highest  eminence,  who 
had  made  very  little  by  his  writings,  and  who  was  sinking  into  thu 
grave  under  a  load  of  infirmities  aud  sorrows,  wanted  live  or  six  hun- 
dred pounds  to  enable  him,  during  the  winter  or  two  which  might 
still  remain  to  him,  to  draw  his  breath  more  easily  iu  the  soft  climate 
of  Italy.  Not  a  farthing  was  to  be  obtained  ;  and  before  Christmas  the 
author  of  the  English  Dictionary  and  of  the  Lives  of  the  Poets  had 
gasped  his  last  in  the  river  fog  and  coal  smoke  of  Fleet  Street.  A  few 
mouths  after  the  death  of  Johnson  appeared  the  Task,  incomparably 
the  best  poem  that  any  Englishman  iheu  living  had  produced — a 
poem,  too,  which  could  hardly  fail  to  excite  in  a  well-constituted 
mind  a  feeling  of  esteem  and  compassion  for  the  poet,  a  man  of 
genius  aud  virtue,  whose  means  were  scanty,  and  whom  the  most 
cruel  of  all  the  calamities  incident  to  humanity  had  made  incapable  of 
supporting  himself  by  vigorous  and  sustained  exertion.  Nowhere 


42  WILLIAM    PITT. 

had  Chatham  been  praised  with  more  enthusiasm,  or  in  verse  more 
worthy  of  the  subject,  than  in  the  Task.  The  son  of  Chatham, 
however,  contented  himself  with  reading  and  admiring  the  book,  and 
left  the  author  to  starve.  The  pension  which,  long  after,  enabled 
poor  Cowper  to  close  his  melancholy  life,  unmolested  by  duns  and 
bailiffs,  was  obtained  for  him  by  the  strenuous  kindness  of  Lord 
Spencer.  What  a  contrast  between,  the  way  in  which  Pitt  acted  tow- 
ard Johnson,  and  the  way  in  which  Lord  Grey  acted  toward  his 
political  enemy  Scott,  when  Scott,  worn  out  by  misfortune  and  dis- 
ease, was  advised  to  try  the  effect  of  the  Italian  air  !  What  a  con- 
trast between  the  way  in  which  Pitt  acted  toward  Cowper,  and 
the  way  in  which  Burke,  a  poor  man  and  out  of  place,  acted  toward 
Crabbe  !  Even  Dundas,  who  made  no  pretensions  to  literary  taste, 
and  was  content  to  be  considered  as  a  hard-headed  and  somewhat 
coarse  man  of  business,  was,  when  compared  with  his  eloquent  and 
classically  educated  friend,  a  Maecenas  or  a  Leo.  Dundas  made 
Burns  an  exciseman,  with  seventy  pounds  a  year  ;  and  this  was 
more  than  Pitt,  during  his  long  tenure  of  power,  did  for  the  encour- 
agement of  letters.  Even  those  who  may  think  that  it  is,  in  general, 
no  part  of  the  duty  of  a  government  to  reward  literary  merit,  will 
hardly  deny  that  a  government,  which  has  much  lucrative  church 
preferment  in  its  gift,  is  bound,  in  distributing  that  preferment,  not 
to  overlook  divines  whose  writings  have  rendered  great  service  to  the 
cause  of  religion.  But  it  seems  never  to  have  occurred  to  Pitt  that 
he  lay  under  any  such  obligation.  All  the  theological  works  of  the 
numerous  bishops  whom  he  made  and  translated  are  not,  when  put 
together,  worth  fifty  pages  of  the  Horae  Paulina?,  of  the  Natural 
Theology,  or  of  the  Views  of  the  Evidences  of  Christianity.  But  on 
Paley  the  all-powerful  minister  never  bestowed  the  smallest  benefice. 
\rtists  Pitt  treated  as  contemptuously  as  writers.  For  painting  he 
did  simply  nothing.  Sculptors,  who  had  been  selected  to  execute 
monuments  voted  by  Parliament  had  to  haunt  the  antechambers  of 
the  treasury  during  many  years  before  they  could  obtain  a  farthing 
from  him.  One  of  them,  after  vainly  soliciting  the  minister  for  pay- 
ment during  fourteen  years,  had  the  courage  to  present  a  memorial 
to  the  king,  and  thus  obtained  tardy  and  ungracious  justice.  Archi- 
tects it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  employ  ;  and  the  worst  that  could 
be  found  seemed  to  have  been  employed.  Not  a  single  fine  public 
building  of  any  kind  or  in  any  style  was  erected  during  his  long  ad- 
ministration. It  may  be  confidently  affirmed  that  no  ruler  whose 
abilities  and  attainments  would  bear  any  comparison  with  his  has 
ever  shown  such  cold  disdain  fpr  what  is  excellent  in  arts  and  letters. 
His  first  administration  lasted  seventeen  years.  That  long  period  is 
divided  by  a  strongly  marked  line  into  two  almost  exactly  equal 
parts.  The  first  part  ended  and  the  second  began  in  the  autumn  of 
1792.  Throughout  both  parts  Pitt  displayed  in  the  highest  degree  the 
talents  of  a  parliamentary  leader.  During  the  first  part  he  was  a  for- 


WILLIAM   PITT.  43 

tunate,  and,  in  many  respects,  a  skilful  administrator.  With  th« 
difficulties  which  he  had  to  encounter  during  the  second  part  he  was 
altogether  incapable  of  contending1 ;  but  his  eloquence  and  his  per- 
fect mastery  of  the  tactics  of  the  House  of  Commons  concealed  his 
incapacity  from  the  multitude. 

The  eight  years  which  followed  the  general  election  of  1784  were  as 
tranquil  and  prosperous  as  any  eight  years  in  the  whole  history  of  Eng- 
land. Neighboring  nations  which  had  lately  been  in  arms  against 
her,  and  which  had  flattered  themselves  that,  in  losing  her  American 
colonies,  she  had  lost  a  chief  source  of  her  wealth  and  of  her  power, 
saw,  with  wonder  and  vexation,  that  she  was  more  wealthy  and  more 
powerful  than  ever.  Her  trade  increased.  Her  manufactures  flour- 
ished. Her  exchequer  was  full  to  overflowing.  Very  idle  apprehensions 
were  generally  entertained  that  the  public  debt,  though  much  less 
than  a  third  of  the  debt  which  we  now  bear  with  ease,  would  be 
found  too  heavy  for  the  strength  of  the  nation.  Those  apprehensions 
might  not,  perhaps,  have  been  easily  quieted  by  reason.  But  Pitt 
quieted  them  by  a  juggle.  He  succeeded  in  persuading  first  himself, 
arid  then  the  whole  nation,  his  opponents  included,  that  a  new  sink- 
ing fund,  which,  so  far  as  it  differed  from  former  sinking  funds, 
differed  for  the  worst,  would,  by  virtue  of  some  mysterious  power  of 
propagation  belonging  to  money,  put  into  the  pocket  of  the  public 
creditor  great  sums  not  taken  out  of  the  pocket  of  the  taxpayer. 
The  country,  terrified  by  a  danger  which  was  no  danger,  hailed  with 
delight  and  boundless  confidence  a  remedy  which  was  no  remedy. 
The  minister  was  almost  universally  extolled  as  the  greatest  of  finan- 
ciers. Meanwhile  both  the  branches  of  the  House  of  Bourbon  found 
that  England  was  as  formidable  an  antagonist  as  she  had  ever  been. 
France  had  formed  a  plan  for  reducing  Holland  to  vassalage.  But 
England  interposed,  and  France  receded.  Spain  interrupted  by  vio- 
lence the  trade  of  our  merchants  with  the  regions  near  the  Oregon . 
But  England  armed,  and  Spain  receded.  Within  the  island  there 
was  profound  tranquillity.  The  king  was,  for  the  first  time,  popular. 
During  the  twenty-three  years  which  had  followed  his  accession  he 
had  not  been  loved  by  his  subjects.  His  domestic  virtues  were  ac- 
knowledged. But  it  was  generally  thought  that  the  good  qualities  by 
which  he  was  distinguished  in  private  life  were  wanting  to  his  political 
character.  As  a  sovereign,  he  was  resentful,  unforgiving,  stubborn, 
cunning.  Under  his  rule  the  country  had  sustained  cruel  disgraces 
and  disasters  ;  and  every  one  of  those  disgraces  and  disasters  was 
imputed  to  his  strong  antipathies,  and  to  his  perverse  obstinacy  in  the 
wrong.  One  statesman  after  another  complained  that  he  had  been 
induced  by  royal  caresses,  entreaties,  and  promises,  to  undertake  the 
direction  of  affairs  at  a  difficult  conjuncture,  and  that,  as  soon  as  he 
had,  not  without  sullying  his  fame  and  alienating  his  best  friends, 
served  the  turn  for  which  he  was  wanted,  his  ungrateful  master  be- 
gan to  intrigue  against  him,  and  j.o  canvass  against  him.  Grenville, 


14  WILLIAM   PITT. 

Rockingham,  Chatham,  men  of  widely  different  characters,  but  all 
three  upright  and  high -spirited,  agreed  in  thinking  that  the  prince 
under  whom  they  had  successively  held  the  highest  place  in  the  gov- 
ernment was  one  of  the  most  insincere  of  mankind.  His  confidence 
was  reposed,  they  said,  not  in  those  known  and  responsible  counsel- 
lors to  whom  he  had  delivered  the  seals  of  office,  but  in  secret  advisers 
•who  stole  up  the  back  stairs  into  his  closet.  In  Parliament,  his  min- 
isters, while  defending  themselves  against  the  attacks  of  the  oppo- 
sition in  front,  were  perpetually,  aOris  instigation,  assailed  on  the 
Hank  or  in  the  rear  by  a  vile  baud  of  mercenaries  who  called  them- 
selves  his  friends.  These  men  constantly,  while  in  possession  of 
lucrative  places  in  his  service,  spoke  and  voted  against  bills  which  he 
had  authorized  the  first  lord  of  the  treasury  or  the  secretary  of 
state  to  bring  in.  But  from  the  day  in  which  Pitt  was  placed  at  the 
head  of  affairs  there  was  an  end  of  secret  influence.  His  haughty  and 
aspiring  spirit  was  not  to  be  satisfied  with  the  mere  show  of  power. 
Any  attempt  to  undermine  him  at  court,  any  mutinous  movement 
among  his  followers  in  the  House  of  Commons,  was  certain  to  be  at 
once  put  down.  He  had  only  to  tender  his  resignation  ;  and  he 
could  dictate  his  own  terms.  For  he,  and  he  alone,  stood  between 
the  king  and  the  coalition.  He  was  therefore  little  less  than  mayor 
of  the  palace.  The  nation  loudly  applauded  the  king  for  having  the 
wisdom  to  repose  entire  confidence  in  so  excellent  a  minister.  His 
Majesty's  private  virtues  now  began  to  produce  their  full  effect.  He 
was  generally  regarded  as  the  model  of  a  respectable  country  gentle- 
man, honest,  good-natured,  sober,  religious.  He  rose  early  ;  he  dined 
temperately  ;  he  was  strictly  faithful  to  his  wife  ;  he  never  missed 
church  ;  mid  at  church  he  never  missed  a  response.  His  people 
heartily  prayed  that  he  might  long  reign  over  them  ;  and  they  prayed 
the  more  heartily  because  his  virtues  were  set  off  to  the  best  advan- 
tage by  the  vices  and  follies  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  lived  in  close 
intimacy  with  the  chiefs  of  the  opposition. 

How  strong  this  feeling  was  in  the  public  mind  appeared  signally 
on  one  great  occasion.  In  the  autumn  of  1788  the  king  became  in- 
sane. The  opposition,  eager  for  office,  committed  the  great  indiscre- 
tion of  asserting  that  the  heir-apparent  had,  by  the  fundamental  laws 
of  England,  a  right  to  be  regent  with  the  full  powers  of  royalty, 
itt,  on  the  other  hand,  maintained  it  to  be  the  constitutional  doc- 
trine that,  when  a  sovereign  is,  by  reason  of  infancy,  disease,  or  ab- 
sence, incapable  of  exercising  the  regal  functions,  it  belongs  to  the 
estates  of  the  realm  to  determine  who  shall  be  the  vicegerent,  and 
i  what  portion  of  the  executive  authority  such  vicegerent 
shall  be  intrusted.  A  long  and  violent  contest  followed,  in  which 

tt  was  supported  by  the  great  body  of  the  people  with  as  much  en- 
thusiasm  as  during  the  first  months  of  his  administration.  Tories 
with  one  voice  applauded  him  for  defending  the  sick-bed  of  a  virtu, 
ous  and  unhappy  •overeign  against  a  disloyal  faction  and  an  undutifu] 


WILLIAM   PITT.  45 

son.  Not  a  few  "Whigs  applauded  him  for  asserting  the  authority  of 
parliaments  and  the  principles  of  the  revolution,  in  opposition  to  a  doc- 
trine which  seemed  to  have  too  much  affinity  with  the  servile  theory 
of  indefeasible  hereditary  right.  The  middle  class,  always  zealous 
on  the  side  of  decency  and  the  domestic  virtues,  looked  forward 
with  dismay  to  a  reign  resembling  that  of  Charles  II.  The  palace, 
Which  had  now  been,  during  thirty  years,  the  pattern  of  an  English 
home,  would  be  a  public  nuisance,  a  school  af  profligacy.  To  the 
good  king's  repast  of  mutton  and  .lemonade,  dispatched  at  three 
o'clock,  would  succeed  midnight  banquets,  from  which  the  guests 
would  be  carried  home  speechless.  To  the  backgammon-board  at 
which  the  good  king  played  for  a  little  silver  with  his  equerries, 
would  succeed  faro-tables,  from  which  young  patricians  who  had  sat 
down  rich  would  rise  up  beggars.  The  drawing-room,  from  which 
the  frown  of  the  queen  had  repelled  a  whole  generation  of  frail  beau- 
ties, would  now  be  again  what  it  had  been  in  the  days  of  Barbara 
Palmer  and  Louisa  de  Querouaile.  Nay,  severely  as  the  public  rep- 
robated the  prince's  many  illicit  attachments,  his  one  virtuous  at- 
tachment was  reprobated  more  severely  still.  Even  in  grave  and 
pious  circles  his  Protestant  mistresses  gave  less  scandal  than  his 
Popish  wife.  That  he  must  be  regent  nobody  ventured  to  deny. 
But  he  and  his  friends  were  so  unpopular  that  Pitt  could,  with  gen- 
eral approbation,  propose  to  limit  the  powers  of  the  regent  by  re- 
strictions to  which  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  subject  a  prince 
beloved  and  trusted  by  the  country.  Some  interested  men,  fully  ex- 
pecting a  change  of  administration,  went  over  to  the  opposition.  But 
the  majority,  purified  by  these  desertions,  closed  its  ranks,  and  pre- 
sented a  more  firm  array  than  ever  to  the  enemy.  In  every  division 
Pitt  was  victorious.  When  at  length,  after  a  stormy  interregnum  of 
three  months,  it  was  announced,  on  the  very  eve  of  the  inauguration 
of  the  regent,  that  the  king  was  himself  again,  the  nation  was  wild 
with  delight.  On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  his  Majesty  re- 
sumed his  functions,  a  spontaneous  illumination,  the  most  general 
that  had  ever  been  seen  in  England,  brightened  the  whole  vast  space 
from  Highgate  to  Tooting,  and  from  Hammersmith  to  Greenwich. 
On  the  day  on  which  he  returned  thanks  in  the  cathedral  of  his  cap. 
ital,  all  the  horses  and  carriages  within  a  hundred  miles  of  London 
were  too  few  for  the  multitudes  which  nocked  to  see  him  pass 
through  the  streets.  A  second  illumination  followed,  which  was 
even  superior  to  the  first  in  magnificence.  Pitt  with  difficulty  es- 
caped from  the  tumultuous  kindness  of  an  innumerable  multitude, 
which  insisted  on  drawing  his  coach  from  St.  Paul's  churchyard  to 
Downing  Street.  This  was  the  moment  at  which  his  fame  and  for- 
tune may  be  said  to  have  reached  the  zenith.  His  influence  in  the  closet 
was  as  great  as  that  of  Carr  or  Villiers  had  been.  His  dominion  over 
the  Parliament  was  more  absolute  than  that  of  Walpole  or  Pelham  had 
been.  He  was  at  the  same  time  as  high  in  the  favor  of  the  populace 


46  WILLIAM   PITT. 

as  ever  Wilkes  or  Sacheverell  had  been.  Nothing  did  more  to  raise 
his  character  than  his  noble  poverty.  It  was  well  known  that,  if  he 
had  been  dismissed  from  office  after  more  than  rive  years  of  bound- 
less power,  he  would  hardly  have  carried  out  with  him  a  sum 
suiBcient  to  furnish  the  set  of  chambers  in  which,  he  cheerfully  de- 
clared, he  naeaiit  to  resume  the  practice  of  the  law.  His  admirers, 
however,  were  by  no  means  disposed  to  suffer  him  to  depend  on  daily 
toil  for  his  daily  bread.  The  voluntary  contributions  which  were 
awaiting  bis  acceptance  in  the  city  of  London  alone  would  have 
sufficed  to  make  him  a  rich  man.  But  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
his  haughty  spirit  would  have  stooped  to  accept  a  provision  so  hon- 
orably earned  and  so  honorably  bestowed. 

To  such  a  height  of  power  and  glory  had  this  extraordinary  man 
risen  at  twenty-nine  years  of_  age.  And  now  the  tide  was  on  the 
turn.  Only  ten  days  after  the  triumphant  procession  to  St.  Paul's, 
the  States- General  of  France,  after  an  interval  of  a  hundred  and 
seventy-four  years,  met  at  Versailles. 

The  nature  of  the  great  Revolution  which  followed  was  long  very 
imperfectly  understood  in  this  country.  Burke  saw  much  farther 
than  any  of  his  contemporaries  ;  but  whatever  his  sagacity  descried 
was  refracted  and  discolored  by  his  passions  and  his  imagination. 
More  than  three  years  .elapsed  before  the  principles  of  the  English 
administration  underwent  any  material  change.  Nothing  could  as 
yet  be  milder  or  more  strictly  constitutional  than  the  minister's 
domestic  policy.  Not  a  single  act  indicating  an  arbitrary  temper  or  a 
jealousy  of  the  people  could  be  imputed  to  him.  He  had  never  applied 
tr  Parliament  for  any  extraordinary  powers.  He  had  never  used  with 
harshness  the  ordinary  powers  intrusted  by  the  constitution  to  the  ex- 
ecutive government.  Not  a  single  state  prosecution  which  would  even 
now  be  called  oppressive  had  been  instituted  by  him.  Indeed,  the  only 
oppressive  state  prosecution  instituted  during  the  first  eight  years 
of  his  administration  was  that  of  Stockdale,  which  is  to  be  attributed 
not  to  the  government,  but  to  the  chiefs  of  the  opposition.  In 
office,  Pitt  had  redeemed  the  pledges  which  he  had,  at  his  entrance 
into  public  life,  given  to  the  supporters  of  parliamentary  reform. 
He  had,  in  1785,  brought  forward  a  judicious  plan  for  the  improve- 
ment of  the  representative  system,  and  had  prevailed  on  the  king,  not 
only  to  refrain  from  talking  against  that  plan,  but  to  recommend  it 
to  the  houses  in  a  speech  from  the  throne.*  This  attempt  failed  ; 
but  there  can  be  little  doubt  that,  if  the  French  Revolution  hud  not 
produced  a  violent  reaction  of  public  feeling,  Pitt  would  have  per- 
formed, with  little  difficulty  and  no  danger,  that  great  work  which, 
at  a  later  period,  Lord  Grey  could  accomplish  only  by  means  which 

*  The  speech  with  which  the  king  opened  the  session  of  1785  concluded  with  an 
urannce  that  his  Majesty  would  heartily  concur  in  every  measure  winch  conld 
tend  to  secure  the  true  principles  of  the  constitution.  These  words  were  at  the 
time  understood  to  refer  to  Pitt's  Reform  Bill 


WILLIAM  PITT.  47 

for  a  time  loosened  the  very  foundations  of  the  commonwealth. 
When  the  atrocities  of  the  slave  trade  were  first  brought  under  the 
consideration  of  Parliament,  no  abolitionist  was  more  zealous  than 
Pitt.  When  sickness  prevented  Wilberforce  from  appearing  in  pub- 
lic, his  place  was  most  efficiently  supplied  by  his  friend  the  minister. 
A  humane  bill,  which  mitigated  the  horrors  of  the  middle  passage, 
was,  in  1788,  carried  by  the  eloquence  and  determined  spirit  of  Pitt, 
in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  some  of  his  own  colleagues  ;  and  it  ought 
always  to  be  remembered  to  his  honor  that,  in  order  to  carry  that 
bill,  he  kept  the  houses  sitting,  in  spite  of  many  murmurs,  long  after 
the  business  of  the  government  had  been  done,  and  the  appropriation 
act  passed.  In  1791  he  cordially  concurred  with  Fox  in  maintaining 
the  sound  constitutional  doctrine  that  au  impeachment  is  not  ter- 
minated by  a  dissolution.  In  the  course  of  the  same  year  the  two 
great  rivals  contended  side  by  side  in  a  far  more  important  cause. 
They  are  fairly  entitled  to  divide  the  high  honor  of  having  added  to 
our  statute-book  the  inestimable  law  which  places  the  liberty  of  the 
press  under  the  protection  of  juries.  On  one  occasion,  and  one  alone, 
Pitt,  during  the  first  half  of  his  long  administration,  acted  in  a  man- 
ner unworthy  of  an  enlightened  Whig.  In  the  debate  on  the  test  act, 
he  stooped  to  gratify  the  master  whom  he  served,  the  university  which 
he  represented,  and  the  great  body  of  clergymen  arid  country  gentle- 
men on  whose  support  he  rested,  by  talking,  with  little  heartiness, 
indeed,  and  with  no  asperity,  the  language  of  a  Tory.  With  this 
single  exception,  his  conduct  from  the  end  of  1783  to  the  middle  of 
1792  was  that  of  an  honest  friend  of  civil  and  religious  liberty. 

Nor  did  anything,  during  that  period,  indicate  that  he  loved  war, 
or  harbored  any  malevolent  feeling  against  any  neighboring  nation. 
Those  French  writers  who  have  represented  him  as  a  Hannibal  sworn 
in  childhood  by  his  father  to  bear  eternal  hatred  to  France,  as  having, 
by  mysterious  intrigues  and  lavish  bribes,  instigated  the  leading 
Jacobins  to  commit  those  excesses  which  dishonored  the  Revolution, 
as  having  been  the  real  author  of  the  first  coalition,  know  nothing  of 
his  character  or  of  his  history.  So  far  was  he  from  being  a  deadly 
enemy  to  France,  that  his  laudable  attempts  to  bring  about  a  closer 
connection  with  that  country  by  means  of  a  wise  and  liberal  treaty  of 
commerce,  brought  on  him  the  severe  censure  of  the  opposition.  *  He 
was  told  in  the  House  of  Commons  that  he  was  a  degenerate  son,  and 
that  his  partiality  for  the  hereditary  foes  of  our  island  was  enough  to 
make  his  great  father's  bones  stir  under  the  pavement  of  the  Abbey. 

And  this  man,  whose  name,  if  he  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  die 
in  1792,  would  now  have  been  associated  with  peace,  with  freedom, 
with  philanthropy,  with  temperate  reform,  with  mild  and  constitu- 
tional administration,  lived  to  associate  his  name  with  arbitrary  gov- 
ernment, with  harsh  laws  harshly  executed,  with  alien  bills,  with 
gagging  bills,  with  suspensions  of  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act,  with  cruel 
punishments  inflicted  on  some  political  agitators,  with  unjustifiable 


48  WILLIAM   PITT. 

prosecutions  instituted  against  others,  and  with  the  most  costly  and 
most  sanguinary  wara  of  modern  times.  He  lived  to  be  held  up  to 
obloquy  as  the  stern  oppressor  of  England,  and  the  indefatigable  dis- 
turber of  Europe.  Poets,  contrasting  his  curlier  with  his  later  years, 
likened  him  sometimes  to  the  apostle  who  kissed  in  order  to  betray, 
and  sometimes  to  the  evil  angels  who  kept  not  their  first  estate.  A 
satirist  of  great  genius  introduced  the  fiends  of  Famine,  Slaughter, 
and  Fire,  proclaiming  that  they  had  received  their  commission  from 
one  whose  name  was  formed  of  four  letters,  and  promising  to  give 
their  employer  ample  proofs  of  gratitude.  Famine  would  gnaw  Hie, 
multitude  till  they  should  rise  up  against  him  in  madness.  The 
demon  of  Slaughter  would  impel  them  to  tear  him  from  limb  to  limb. 
But  Fire  boasted  that  she  aione  could  reward  him  as  he  deserved,  and 
that  she  would  cling  round  him  to  all  eternity.  By  the  French  press 
and  the  French  tribune  every  crime  that  disgraced  and  every  calamity 
that  afflicted  France  was  ascribed  to  the  monster  Pitt  and  his  guineas. 
While  the  Jacobins  were  dominant,  it  was  he  who  had  corrupted  the 
Gironde,  who  had  raised  Lyons  and  Bordeaux  against  the  conven- 
tion, who  had  suborned  Paris  to  assassinate  Lepelletier,  and  Cecilia 
Kegnault  to  assassinate  Robespierre.  When  the  Thermidorian  reac- 
tion came,  all  the  atrocities  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  were  imputed  to 
him.  Collot  D'Herbois  and  Fouquier  Thinville  had  been  his  pen- 
sioners. It  was  he  who  had  hired  the  murderers  of  September,  who 
had  dictated  the  pamphlets  of  Marat  and  the  Carmagnoles  of  Barrere, 
who  had  paid  Lebon  to  deluge  Arras  with  bloqd,  and  Carrier  to  choke 
the  Loire  with  corpses. 

The  truth  is,  that  he  liked  neither  war  nor  arbitrary  government, 
lie  was  a  lover  of  peace  and  freedom,  driven,  by  a  stress  against 
which  it  was  hardly  possible  for  any  will  or  any  intellect  to  struggle, 
out  of  the  course  to  which  his  inclinations  pointed,  and  for  which  his 
;iliilitics  ;md  acquirements  fitted  him,  and  forced  into  a  policy  repug- 
nant  to  his  feelings  and  unsuited  to  his  talents. 

The  charge  of  apostasy  is  grossly  unjust.  A  man  ought  no  more 
to  be  culled  an  apostate  because  his  opinions  alter  with  the  opinions 
of  the  great  body  of  his  contemporaries,  than  he  ought  to  be  called 
an  oriental  traveller  because  he  is  always  going  round  from  west  to 
east%wilh  the  globe  and  everything  that  is  upon  it.  Between  the 
spring  of  17H!)  and  the  close  of  1792,  the  public  mind  of  England  un- 
derwent a  great  change.  If  the  change  of  Pitt's  sentiments  attracted 
peculiar  notice,  it  was  not  because  he  changed  more  than  his  neigh- 
bors ;  for  in  fact  he  changed  less  than  most  of  them  ;  but  because 
his  position  was  far  more  conspicuous  than  theirs,  because  he  was, 
till  Honaparte  appeared,  the  individual  who  filled  the  greatest  space 
in  the  eyes  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  civilized  world.  During  a  short 
time  the  nation,  and' Pitt,  as  one  of  the  nation,  looked  with  interest 
and  approbation  on  the  French  Revolution.  But  soon  vast  confisca- 
tions, the  violent  sweeping  away  of  ancient  institutions,  the  domina- 


WILLIAM   PITT.  49 

tion  of  clubs,  the  barbarities  of  mobs  maddened  by  famine  and 
hatred,  produced  a  reaction  here.  The  court,  the  nobility,  the 
gentry,  the  clergy,  the  manufacturers,  the  merchants — in  short, 
nineteen  twentieths  of  those  who  had  good  roofs  over  their  heads  and 
good  coats  on  their  backs,  became  eager  and  intolerant  Antijacobins. 
This  feeling  was  at  least  as  strong  among  the  minister's  adversaries 
as  among  his  supporters.  Fox  in  vain  attempted  to  restrain  his  fol- 
lowers. All  his  genius,  all  his  vast  personal  influence,  could  not  pre- 
vent them  from  rising  up  against  him  in  general  mutiny.  Burke  set 
the  example  of  revolt  ;  and  Burke  was  in  no  long  time  joined  by 
Portland,  Spencer,  Fitzwilliam,  Loughborough,  Carlisle,  Malmesbury, 
Windham,  Elliot.  In  the  House  of  Commons,  the  followers  of  the 
great  Whig  statesman  and  orator  diminished  from  about  a  hundred 
and  sixty  to  fifty  In  the  House  of  Lords  he  had  but  ten  or  twelve 
adherents  left.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  there  would  have  been  a 
similar  mutiny  on  the  ministerial  benches  if  Pitt  had  obstinately 
resisted  the  general  wish.  Pressed  at  once  by  his  master  and  by  his 
colleagues,  by  old  friends,  and  by  old  opponents,  he  abandoned, 
slowly  and  reluctantly,  the  policy  which  was  dear  to  his  heart.  He, 
labored  hard  to  avert  the  European  war.  AVhen  the  European  war 
broke  out,  he  still  flattered  himself  that  it  would  not  be  necessary  for 
this  country  to  take  either  side.  In  the  spring  of  1792,  he  congrat- 
ulated Parliament  on  the  prospect  of  long  and  profound  peace,  and 
proved  his  sincerity  by  proposing  large  remissions  of  taxation. 
Down  to  the  end  of  that  year  he  continued  to  cherish  the  hope  that 
England  might  be  able  to  preserve  neutrality.  But  the  passions 
which  raged  on  both  sides  of  the  Channel  were  not  to  be  restrained. 
The  republicans  who  ruled  France  were  inflamed  by  a  fanaticism 
resembling  that  of  the  Mussulmans,  who,  with  the  Koran  in  one 
hand  and  the  sword  in  the  other,  went  forth,  conquering  and  convert- 
ing, eastward  to  the  Bay  of  Bengal,  and  westward  to  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules.  The  higher  and  middle  classes  of  England  were  animate.  1 
by  a  zeal  not  less  fiery  than  that  of  the  Crusaders  who  raised  tin-  cry 
of  Deus  vult  at  Clermont.  The  impulse  which  drove  the  two  nations 
to  a  collision  was  not  to  be  arrested  by  the  abilities  or  by  the  authority 
of  any  single  man.  As  Pitt  was  in  front  of  his  fellows,  and  towered 
high  above  them,  he  sueined  to  lead  them.  But  in  fact  he  was  violently 
pushed  on  by  them,  and,  had  he  held  back  but  a  little  more  than  he 
did,  would  have  been  thrust  out  of  their  way  or  trampled  under  their 
feet. 

He  yielded  to  the  current  ;  and  from  that  day  his  misfortunes  be- 
gan. The  truth  is,  that  there  were  only  two  consistent  courses  before 
him.  Since  he  did  not  choose  to  oppose  himself,  side  by  side  with 
Fox,  to  the  public  feeling,  he  should  have  taken  the  advice  of 
Burke,  and  should  have  availed  himself  of  that  feeling  to  the  full  ex- 
tent. If  it  was  impossible  to  preserve  peace,  he  should  have  adopted 
the  only  policy  which  could  lead  to  victory.  Ha  should  have  pro- 


50  WILLIAM   PlW. 

claimed  a  holy  war  for  religion,  morality,  property,  order,  public 
law,  and  should  have  thus  opposed  to  the  Jacobins  an  energy  equal 
to  their  own.  Unhappily  he  tried  to  find  a  middle  path  ;  and  he 
found  one  which  united  all  that  was  worst  in  both  extremes.  He 
went  to  war  :  but  he  would  not  understand  the  peculiar  character  of 
that  war.  He  was  obstinately  blind  to  the  plain  fact  that  he  was 
contending  against  a  state  which  was  also  a  sect ;  and  that  the  new 
quarrel  between  England  and  France  was  of  quite  a  different  kind 
from  the  old  quarrels  about  colonies  in  America  and  fortresses  in  the 
Netherlands.  He  had  to  combat  frantic  enthusiasm,  boundless  am- 
bition, restless  activity,  the  wildest  and  most  audacious  spirit  of  in- 
novation ;  and  he  acted  as  if  he  had  to  deal  with  the  harlots  and  fops 
of  the  old  court  at  Versailles,  with  Madame  de  Pompadour  and  the 
Abbe  de  Bernis.  It  was  pitiable  to  hear  him,  year  alter  year,  prov- 
ing to  an  admiring  audience  that  the  wicked  republic  was  exhausted, 
that  she  could  not  hold  out,  that  her  credit  was  gone,  that  her  assig- 
nats  were  not  worth  more  than  the  paper  of  which  they  were  made  ; 
as  if  credit  was  necessary  to  a  government  of  which  the  principle 
was  rapine,  as  if  Alboin  could  not  turn  Italy  into  a  desert  till  he  had 
negotiated  a  loan  at  five  per  cent,  as  if  the  exchequer  bills  of  Attila 
had  been  at  par.  It  was  impossible  that  a  man  who  so  completely 
mistook  the  nature  of  a  contest  could  carry  on  that  contest  success- 
fully. Great  as  Pitt's  abilities  were,  his  military  administration  was 
that  of  a  driveller.  He  was  at  the  head  of  a  nation  engaged  in  a 
struggle  for  life  and  death,  of  a  nation  eminently  distinguished  by  all 
the  physical  and  all  the  moral  qualities  Tvhich  make  excellent  soldiers. 
The  resources  at  his  command  were  unlimited.  The  Parliament  was 
even  more  ready  to  grant  him  men  and  money  than  he  was  to  usk 
for  thc'in.  In  such  an  emergency,  and  with  such  means,  such  a 
statesman  as  Richelieu,  as  Louvois,  as  Chatham,  as  Welleslcy,  would 
have  created  in  a  few  months  one  of  tbe  finest  armies  in  the  world, 
and  would  soon  have  discovered  and  brought  forward  generals 
worthy  to  command  such  an  army.  Get  many  might  have  been 
saved  by  another  Blenheim  ;  Flanders  recovered  by  another  Kami- 
lies  ;  another  Poitiers  might  have  delivered  the  Royalist  and  Catholic 
provinces  of  France  from  a  yoke  which  they  abhorred,  and  might 
have  spread  terror  even  to  the  barriers  of  Paris.  But  the  fact  is,  that, 
after  eight  years  of  war,  after  a  vast  destruction  of  life,  after  an  ex- 
penditure of  wealth  far  exceeding  the  expenditure  of  the  American 
war,  of  the  Seven  Years'  War,  of  the  war  of  the  Austrian  Succes- 
sion, and  of  the  war  of  the  Spanish  Succession  united,  the  English 
army,  under  Pitt,  was  the  laughing-stock  of  all  Europe.  It  could 
not  boast  of  one  single  brilliant  exploit.  It  had  never  showed  itself 
on  the  continent  but  to  be  beaten,  chased,  forced  to  re-embark,  or 
forced  to  capitulate.  To  take  some  sugar  island  in  the  West  Indies, 
to  scatter  some  m>>b  of  half-naked  Irish  peasants,  such  were  the  most 
splendid  victories  won  by  the  Biiiibh  troops  under  Pitt's  auspices. 


WILLIAM   PITT.  51 

The  English  navy  no  mismanagement  could  ruin.  But  during  a 
long  period  whatever  mismanagement  could  do  was  done.  The  Earl 
of  Chatham,  without  a  single  qualification  for  high  public  trust,  was 
made,  by  fraternal  partiality,  first  lord  of  the  admiralty,  and  was 
kept  in  that  great  post  during  two  years  of  a  war  in  which  the  very 
existence  of  the  state  depended  on  the  efficiency  of  the  fleet.  lie 
continued  to  doze  away  and  trifle  away  the  time  which  ought  to  have 
been  devoted  to  the  public  service,  till  the  whole  mercantile  body, 
though  generally  disposed  to  support  the  government,  complained 
bitterly  that  our  flag  gave  no  protection  to  our  trade.  Fortunately 
he  was  succeeded  by  George  Earl  Spencer,  one  of  those  chiefs  of  the 
Whig  party  who,  in  the  great  schism  caused  by  the  French  Re  volu- 
tion, had  followed  Burke.  Lord  Spencer,  though  inferior  to  many 
of  his  colleagues  as  an  orator,  was  decidedly  the  best  administrator 
among  them.  To  him  it  was  owing  that  a  long  and  gloomy  succes- 
sion of  days  of  fasting,  and,  most  emphatically,  of  humiliation,  was 
interrupted,  twice  in  the  short  space  of  eleven  months,  by  days  of 
thanksgiving  for  great  victories. 

It  may  seem  paradoxical  to  say  that  the  incapacity  which  Pitt 
showed  in  all  that  related  to  the  conduct  of  the  war  is,  in  some  sense, 
the  most  decisive  proof  that  he  was  a  man  of  very  extraordinary  abil- 
ities. Yet  this  is  the  simple  truth.  For  assuredly  one  tenth  part  of 
his  errors  and  disasters  would  have  been  fatal  to  the  power  and  influ- 
ence of  any  minister  who  had  not  possessed,  in  the  highest  degree, 
the  talents  of  a  parliamentary  leader.  While  his  schemes  were  con- 
founded, while  his  predictions  were  falsified,  while  the  coalitions 
which  he  had  labored  to  form  were  falling  to  pieces,  while  the  expe- 
ditions which  he  had  sent  forth  at  enormous  cost  were  ending  in  rout 
and  disgrace,  while  the  enemy  against  whom  he  was  feebly  contend- 
ing was  subjugating  Flanders  and  Brabant,  the  electorate  of  Mentz 
and  the  electorate  of  Treves,  Holland,  Piedmont,  Liguria,  Lombardy, 
his  authority  over  the  House  of  Commons  was  constantly  becoming 
more  and  more  absolute.  There  was  his  empire.  There  were  his 
victories,  his  Lodi  and  his  Arcola,  his  Rivoli  and  his  Marengo.  If 
some  great  misfortune,  a  pitched  battle  lost  by  the  allies,  the  annexa- 
tion of  a  new  department  to  the  French  republic,  a  sanguinary  in- 
surrection in  Ireland,  a  mutiny  in  the  fleet,  a  panic  in  the  city,  a  run 
on  the  bank,  had  spread  dismay  through  the  ranks  of  his  majority, 
that  dismay  lasted  only  till  he  rose  from  the  treasury  bench,  drew  upT 
his  haughty  head,  stretched  his  arm  with  commanding  gesture,  and 
poured  forth,  in  deep  and  sonorous  tones,  the  lofty  language  of  in- 
extinguishable hope  and  inflexible  resolution.  Thus,  through  a  long 
and  calamitous  period,  every  disaster  that  happened  without  the  walls 
of  Parliament  was  regularly  followed  by  a  triumph  within  them.  At 
length  he  had  no  longer  an  opposition  to  encounter.  Of  the  great 
party  which  had  contended  against  him  during  the  first  eight  years 
Of  hiu  administration,  more  lhau  one  half  now  marched  under  h_ia 


52  WILLIAM   PITT. 

standard,  with  his  old  competitor  the  Duke  of  Portland  at  their  head , 
ami  the  rest  had,  after  many  vain  struggles,  quitted  the  field  in  de- 
spair. Fox  had  retired  to  the  shades  of  St.  Anne's  Hill,  and  hud 
there  found,  in  the  society  of  friends  whom  no  vicissitude  could 
estrange  from  him,  of  a  woman  whom  he  tenderly  loved,  and  of  the 
illustrious  dead  of  Athens,  of  Rome,  and  of  Florence,  ample  com- 
pensation for  all  the  misfortunes  of  his  public  life.  Session  followed 
session  with  scarcely  a  single  division.  In  the  eventful  year  1799, 
the  largest  minority  that  could  be  mustered  against  the  government 
was  twenty-five.  '  *  : 

In  Pitt's  domestic  policy  there  was  at  this  time  assuredly  no  want 
of  vigor.  While  he  offered  to  French  Jacobinism  a  resistance  so  fee- 
ble that  it  only  encouraged  the  evil  which  he  wished  to  suppress,  he 
put  down  English  Jacobinism  with  a  strong  hand.  The  Habeas  Cor- 
pus Act  was  repeatedly  suspended.  Public  meetings  were  placed  un- 
der severe  restraints.  The  government  obtained  from  Parliament 
power  to  send  out  of  the  country  aliens  who  were  suspected  of  evil 
designs  ;  and  that  power  was  not  suffered  to  be  idle.  Writers  who 
propounded  doctrines  adverse  to  monarchy  and  aristocracy  were 
proscribed  and  punished  without  mercy.  It  was  hardly  safe  for  a 
republican  to  avow  his  political  creed  over  his  beefsteak  and  his  bot- 
tle of  port  at  a  chop-house.  The  old  laws  of  Scotland  against  sedi- 
tion, laws  which  were  considered  by  Englishmen  as  barbarous,  and 
which  a  succession  of  governments  had  suffered  to  rust,  were  now 
furbished  up  and  sharpened  anew.  Men  of  cultivated  minds  and 
polished  manners  were,  for  offences  which  at  Westminster  would 
have  been  treated  as  mere  misdemeanors,  sent  to  herd  with  felons  ;it 
Botany  Bay.  Some  reformers,  whose  opinions  were  extravagant, 
and  whose  language  was  intemperate,  but  who  had  never  dreamt  d 
of  subverting  the  government  by  physical  force,  were  indicted  for 
high  treason,  and  were  saved  from  the  gallows  only  by  the  righteous 
verdicts  of  juries.  This  severity  was  at  the  time  loudly  applauded 
by  alarmists  whom  fear  had  made  cruel,  but  will  be  seen  in  a  very 
different  light  by  posterity.  The  truth  is,  that  the  Englishmen  who 
wished  for  a  revolution  were,  even  in  number,  not  formidable,  and, 
in  everything  but  number,  a  faction  utterly  contemptible,  without 
arms,  or  funds,  or  plans,  or  organization,  or  leafier.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  Pitt,  strong  as  he  was  in  the  support  of  the  great  body 
of  the  nation,  might  easily  have  repressed  the  turbulence  of  the  dis- 
contented minority  by  firmly  yet  temperately  enforcing  the  ordinary 
law.  Whatever  vigor  he  showed  during  this  unfortunate  part  ot  his 
life  was  vigor  out  of  place  and  season.  He  was  all  feebleness  and 
languor  in  his  conflict  with  the  foreign  enemy  who  was  really  to  be 
dreaded,  and  reserved  all  his  energy  and  resolution  for  the  domes- 
tic enemy  who  might  safely  have  been  despised. 

One  part  only  of  Pitt's  conduct  during  the  last  eight  years  of  the 
eighteenth  century  deserves  high  praise.  He  was  the  first  English. 


WILLIAM   PITT.  53 

minister  who  formed  great  designs  for  the  benefit  of  Ireland.  The 
manner  in  which  the  Roman  Catholic  population  of  that  unfortunate 
country  had  been  kept  down  during  many  generations  seemed  to  him 
unjust  and  cruel  ;  and  it  was  scarcely  possible  for  a  man  of  his  abili- 
ties not  to  perceive  that,  in  ?  contest  against  the  Jacobins,  the  Roman 
Catholics  were  his  natural  allies.  Had  he  been  able  to  do  all  that  he 
wished,  it  is  probable  that  a  wise  and  liberal  policy  would  have 
averted  the  rebellion  of  1798.  But  the  difficulties  which  he  encoun- 
tered were  great,  perhaps  insurmountable  ;  and  the  Roman  Catholics 
were,  rather  by  his  misfortune  than  by  his  fault,  thrown  into  the 
hands  of  the  Jacobins.  There  was  a  third  great  rising  of  the  Irishry 
against  the  Englishry,  a  rising  not  less  formidable  than  the  risings  of 
1641  and  1089.  The  Englishry  remained  victorious  ;  and  it  was  nec- 
essary for  Pitt,  as  it  had  been  necessary  for  Oliver  Cromwell  and 
William  of  Orange  before  him,  to  consider  how  the  victory  should  be 
used.  It  is  only  just  to  his  memory  to  say  that  he  formed  a  scheme 
of  policy  so  grand  and  so  simple,  so  righteous  a-nd  so  humane,  that 
it  would  alone  entitle  him  to  a  high  place  among  statesmen.  He  de- 
termined to  make  Ireland  one  kingdom  with  England,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  to  relieve  the  Roman  Catholic  laity  from  civil  disabilities, 
and  to  grant  a  public  maintenance  to  the  Roman  Catholic  clergy. 
Had  he  been  able  to  carry  these  noble  designs  into  effect,  the  Union 
would  have  been  a  Union  indeed.  It  would  have  been  inseparably 
associated  in  the  minds  of  the  great  majority  of  Irishmen  with  civil 
and  religious  freedom  ;  and  the  old  parliament  in  College  Green 
would  have  been  regretted  only  by  a  small  knot  of  discarded  jobbers 
and  oppressors,  and  would  have  been  remembered  by  the  body  of  the 
nation  with  the  loathing  and  contempt  due  to  the  most  tyrannical 
and  the  most  corrupt  assembly  that  had  ever  sat  in  Europe.  But 
Pitt  could  execute  only  one  half  of  what  he  had  projected.  He  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  the  consent  of  the  parliaments  of  both  kingdoms 
to  the  Union  ;  but  that  reconciliation  of  races  and  sects,  without 
which  the  Union  could  exist  only  in  name,  was  not  accomplished. 
He  was  well  aware  that  he  was  likely  to  find  difficulties  in  the  closet. 
But  he  flattered  himself  that,  by  cautious  and  dexterous  manage- 
ment, those  difficulties  might  be  overcome.  Unhappily,  there  were 
traitors  and  sycophants  in  high  place,  who  did  not  suffer  him  to  take 
his  own  time  and  his  own  way,  but  prematurely  disclosed  his  scheme 
to  the  king,  and  disclosed  it  in  the  manner  most  likely  to  irritate  and 
alarm  a  weak  and  diseased  mind.  His  Majesty  absurdly  imagined 
that  his  coronation  oath  bound  him  to  refuse  his  assent  to  any  bill 
for  relieving  Roman  Catholics  from  civil  disabilities.  To  argue  with 
him  was  impossible.  Dundas  tried  to  explain  the  matter,  but  was 
told  to  keep  his  Scotch  metaphysics  to  himself.  Pitt,  and  Pitt's 
ablest  colleagues,  resigned  their  offices.  It  was  necessary  that  the 
king  should  make  a  new  arrangement.  But  by  this  time  his  auger 
and  distress  had  brought  back  the  malady  which  had,  many  jrears  be- 


54  WILLIAM    PITT. 

fore,  incapacitated  him  for  the  discharge  of  his  functions.  He  actu- 
ally assembled  his  family,  read  the  coronation  oath  to  them,  and  told 
them  that,  if  he  broke  it,  the  crown  would  immediately  pass  to  the 
House  of  Savoy.  It  was  not  until  after  an  interregnum  of  several 
weeks  that  he  regained  the  full  use  of  his  small  faculties,  and  that  a 
ministry  after  his  own  heart  was  at  length  formed. 

The  materials  out  of  which  he  had  to  construct  a  government  were 
neither  solid  nor  splendid.  To  that  party,  weak  in  numbers,  but 
strong  in  every  kind  of  talent,  which  was  hostile  to  the  domestic  and 
foreign  policy  of  his  late  advisers,  he  could  not  have  recourse.  For 
that  party,  while  it  differed  from  his  late  advisers  on  every  point  on 
which  they  had  been  honored  with  his  approbation,  cordially  agreed 
with  them  as  to  the  single  matter  which  had  brought  on  them  his  dis- 
pleasure. All  that  was  left  to  him  was  to  call  up  the  rear  rank  of  the 
old  ministry  to  form  the  front  rank  of  a  new  ministry.  In  an  age 
pre-emiiiently  fruitful  of  parliamentary  talents,  a  cabinet  was  formed 
containing  hardly  a- single  man  who,  in  parliamentary  talents,  could 
be  considered  as  even  of  the  second  rate.  The  most  important 
offices  in  the  state  were  bestowed  on  decorous  and  laborious  medioc- 
rity. Henry  Addington  was  at  the  head  of  the  treasury.  He  had 
been  an  early,  indeed  a  hereditary  friend  of  Pitt,  and  had  by  Pitt's 
influence  been  placed,  while  still  a  young  man,  in  the  chair  of  the 
House  of  Commons.  He  was  universally  admitted  to  have  been  the 
best  speaker  that  had  sat  in  that  chair  since  the  retirement  of  Ons- 
low.  But  nature  had  not  bestowed  on  him  very  vigorous  faculties  ; 
and  the  highly  respectable  situation  which  he  had  long  occupied  with 
honor  had  rather  unfitted  than  fitted  him  for  the  discharge  of  his 
new  duties.  His  business  had  been  to  bear  himself  evenly  between 
contending  factions.  He  had  taken  no  part  in  the  war  of  words  ; 
and  he  had  always  been  addressed  with  marked  deference  by  the 
great  orators  who  thundered  against  each  other  from  his  right  and 
from  his  left.  It  was  not  strange  that  when,  for  the  first  time,  he 
h;id  to  encounter  keen  and  vigorous  antagonists,  who  dealt  hard 
blows  without  the  smallest  ceremony,  he  should  have  been  awkward 
and  uuready,  or  that  the  air  of  dignity  and  authority  which  he  had 
acquired  in  his  former  post,  and  of  which  he  had  not  divested  himself, 
should  have  made  his  helplessness  laughable  and  pitiable.  Neverthe- 
less, during  many  months,  his  power  seemed  to  stand  firm.  He  was 
a  favorite  with  the  king,  whom  he  resembled  in  narrowness  of  mind, 
and  to  whom  he  was  more  obsequious  than  Pitt  had  ever  been.  The 
nation  was  put  into  high  good-humor  by  a  peace  with  France.  The 
enthusiasm  with  which  the  upper  and  middle  classes  had  rushed  into 
the  war  had  spent  itself.  Jacobinism  was  no  longer  formidable. 
Everywhere  there  was  a  strong  reaction  against  what  was  called  the 
atheistical  and  anarchical  philosophy  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Jonaparte,  now  First  Consul,  was  busy  in  constructing  out  of  the 
rums  of  old  institutions  a  new  ecclesiastical  establishment  and  a  new. 


WlLLUM    PITT.  55 

erder  of  knighthood.  That  nothing  less  than  the  dominion  of  the 
whole  civilized  world  would  satisfy  his  selfish  ambition  was  not  yet 
suspected  ;  nor  did  even  wise  men  see  any  reason  to  doubt  that  he 
might  be  as  safe  a  neighbor  as  any  prince  of  the  House  of  Bourbon 
had  been.  The  treaty  of  Amiens  was  therefore  hailed  by  the  great 
body  of  the  English  people  with  extravagant  joy.  The  popularity  of 
the  minister  was  for  the  moment  immense.  His  want  of  parliament- 
ary ability  was,  as  yet,  of  little  consequence ;  for  he  had  scarcely 
any  adversary  to  encounter.  The  old  opposition,  delighted  by  the 
peace,  regarded  him  with  favor.  A  new  opposition  had  indeed  been 
formed  by  some  of  the  late  ministers,  and  was  led  by  Grenville  in 
the  House  of  Lords,  and  by  Windham  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
But  the  new  opposition  could  scarcely  muster  ten  votes,  and  was  re- 
garded with  no  favor  by  the  country.  On  Pitt  the  ministers  relied  as 
on  their  firmest  support.  He  had  not,  like  some  of  his  colleagues, 
retired  in  anger.  He  had  expressed  the  greatest  respect  for  the  con^ 
scientious  scruple  which  had  taken  possession  of  the  royal  mind  ; 
and  he  had  promised  his  successors  all  the  help  in  his  power.  In 
private  his  advice  was  at  their  service.  In  Parliament  he  took  his 
seat  on  the  bench  behind  them  ;  and,  in  more  than  one  debate,  de- 
fended them  with  powers  far  superior  to  their  own.  The  king  per- 
fectly understood  the  value  of  such  assistance.  On  one  occasion,  at 
the  palace,  he  took  the  old  minister  and  the  new  minister  aside.  "  If 
we  three,"  he  said,  "  keep  together,  all  will  go  well." 

But  it  was  hardly  possible,  human  nature  being  what  it  is,  and, 
more  especially,  Pitt  and  Addington  being  what  they  were,  that 
this  union  should  be  durable.  Pitt,  conscious  of  superior  powers, 
imagined  that  the  place  which  he  had  quitted  was  now  occupied  by 
a  mere  puppet  which  he  had  set  up,  which  he  was  to  govern  while 
he  suffered  it  to  remain,  and  which  he  was  to  fling  aside  as  soon  as  he 
wished  to  resume  his  old  position.  Nor  was  it  long  before  he  began 
to  pine  for  the  power  which  he  had  relinquished.  He  had  been  so 
early  raised  to  supreme  authority  in  the  state,  and  had  enjoyed  that 
authority  so  long,  that  it  had  become  necessary  to  him.  In  retire- 
ment his  days  passed  heavily.  He  could  not,  like  Fox,  forget  the 
pleasures  and  cares  of  ambition  in  the  company  of  Euripides  or 
Herodotus.  Pride  restrained  him  from  intimating,  even  to  his  dear- 
est friends,  that  he  wished  to  be  again  minister.  But  he  thought  it 
strange,  almost  ungrateful,  that  his  wish  had  not  been  divined,  that 
it  had  not  been  anticipated,  by  one  whom  he  regarded  as  his  deputy. 

Addington,  on  the  other  hand,  was  by  no  means  inclined  to  de- 
scend from  his  high  position.  He  was,  indeed,  under  a  delusion 
much  resembling  that  of  Abou  Hassan  in  the  Arabian  tale.  His 
brain  was  turned  by  his  short  and  unreal  caliphate.  He  took  hit 
elevation  quite  seriously,  attributed  it  to  his  own  merit,  and  consid- 
ered himself  as  one  of  the  great  triumvirate  of  English  statesmen,  as 
worthy  to  make  a  third  with  Pitt  and  Fox. 


5(5  WILLIAM   PITT. 

Such  being  the  feelings  of  the  late  minister  and  of  the  pres- 
ent minister,  a  rupture  was  inevitable  ;  and  there  was  no  want 
of  persons  bent  on  making  that  rupture  speedy  and  violent.  Some 
of  these  persons  wounded  Addington's  pride  by  representing 
him  as  a  lackey,  sent  to  keep  a  place  on  the  treasury  bench 
till  his  master  should  find  it  convenient  to  come.  Others  took 
every  opportunity  of  praising  him  at  Pitt's  expense.  Pitt  had 
waged  a  long,  a  bloody,  a  costly,  an  unsuccessful  war.  Adding- 
ton  had  made  peace.  Pitt  had  suspended  the  constitutional 
liberties  of  Englishmen.  Under  Addington  those  liberties  were  again 
enjoyed.  Pitt  had  wasted  the  public  resources.  Addiugton  was 
carefully  nursing  them.  It  was  sometimes  but  too  evident  that  these 
compliments  were  not  unpleasing  to  Addington.  Pitt  became  cold 
and  reserved.  During  many  months  he  remained  at  a  distance  from 
London.  Meanwhile  his  most  intimate  friends,  in  spite  of  his  decla- 
rations that  he  made  no  complaint,  and  that  he  had  no  wish  for 
office,  exerted  themselves  to  effect  a  change  of  ministry.  His  favor- 
ite disciple,  George  Canning,  young,  ardent,  ambitious,  with  great 
powers  and  great  virtues,  but  with  a  temper  too  restless  and  a  wit 
too  satirical  for  his  own  happiness,  was  indefatigable.  He  spoke  ;  he 
wrote  ;  he  intrigued  ;  he  tried  to  induce  a  large  number  of  the  sup- 
porters of  the  government  to  sign  a  round  robin  desiring  a  change  ; 
he  made  game  of  Addington  and  of  Addington's  relations  in  a  suc- 
cession of  lively  pasquinades.  The  minister's  partisans  retorted  with 
equal  acrimony,  if  net  with  equal  vivacity.  Pitt  could  keep  out  of 
the  affray  only  by  keeping  out  of  politics  altogether  ;  and  this  it 
soon  became  impossible  for  him  to  do.  Had  Napoleon,  content  with 
the  first  place  among  the  sovereigns  of  the  continent,  and  with  a  mil- 
itary reputation  surpassing  that  of  Marlborough  or  of  Turenne,  de- 
voted himself  to  the  noble  task  of  making  France  happy  by  mild  ad- 
ministration and  wise  legislation,  our  country  might  have  long  con- 
tinued to  tolerate  a  government  of  fair  intentions  and  feeble  abilities. 
Unhappily,  the  treaty  of  Amiens  had  scarcely  been  signed,  when  the 
restless  ambition  and  the  insupportable  insolence  of  the  First  Consul 
convinced  the  great  body  of  the  English  people  that  the  peace,  so 
eagerly  welcomed,  was  only  a  precarious  armistice.  As  it  became 
clearer  and  clearer  that  a  war  for  the  dignity,  the  independence,  the 
very  existence  of  the  nation  was  at  hand,  men  looked  with  increasing 
uneasiness  on  the  weak  and  languid  cabinet,  which  would  have  to 
contend  against  an  enemy  who  united  more  than  the  power  of  Lewis 
the  Ureat  to  more  than  the  genius  of  Frederick  the  Great.  It  is  true 
that  Addington  might  easily  have  been  a  better  war  minister  than 
Pitt,  and  could  not  possibly  have  been  a  worse.  But  Pitt  had  cast  a 
spell  on  the  public  mind.  The  eloquence,  the  judgment,  the  calm 
and  disdainful  firmness  which  he  had,  during  many  years,  displayed 

i  Parliament,  deluded  the  world  into  the  belief  thai  lie  must  be  emi- 
nently qualified  to  superintend  every  department  of  politics  ;  and 


WILLIAM    PITT.  67 

t'aey  imagined,  even  after  the  miserable  failures  of  Dunkirk,  of  Qui- 
beron,  and  of  the  Holder,  that  he  was  the  only  statesman  who  could 
eope  with  Bonaparte.  This  feeling  was  nowhere  stronger  than 
among  Addington's  own  colleagues.  The  pressure  put  on  him  was 
so  strong,  that  he  could  not  Ikelp  yielding  lo  it  ;  yet,  even  in  yielding. 
he  showed  how  far  he  was  from  knowing  his  own  place.  His  first 
proposition  was,  that  some  insignificant  nobleman  should  lie  first 
ford  of  the  treasury  and  nominal  head  of  the  administration,  and  that 
the  rcaC  power  should  be  divided  between  Pitt  and  himself,  who 
were  to  be  secretaries  of  state.  Pitt,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
refused  even  to  discuss  such  a  scheme,  and  talked  of  it  with  bitter 
mirth.  "  Which  secretaryship  wsw  offered  to  you  ?"  his  friend  WU- 
berforcc  asked.  "  Really,"  said  Pitt,  "  I  had  not  the  curiosity  to  in 
quire."  Addington  was  frightened  into  bidding  higher.  He  offered 
to  resign  the  treasury  to  Pitt,  on  condition  that  there  should  be  no 
extensive  change  in  the  government.  But  Pitt  would  listen  to  no 
such  terms.  Then  came  a  dispute  such  as  often  arises  after  ncgotia 
tion.s  orally  conducted,  even  when  the  negotiators  are  men  of  strict 
honor.  Pitt  gave  one  account  of  what  had  passed  ;  Addington  gava 
another  ;  and  though  the  discrepancies  were  not  such  as  necessarily 
implied  any  intentional  violation  of  truth  on  either  side,  both  were 
greatly  exasperated. 

.Meanwhile  the  quarrel  with  the  First  Consul  had  come  to  a  crisis. 
On  the  10th  of  May,  1803,  the  king  sent  a  message  calling  on  th« 
House  of  Commons  to  support  him  in  withstanding  the  ambitions 
and  encroaching  policy  of  France  ;  and  on  the  22d  the  House  took 
the  message  into  consideration. 

Pitt  hail  uow  been  living  many  months  in  retirement.  There  ha(' 
been  a  general  election  since  he  had  spoken  in  Parliament,  and  there 
were  two  hundred  members  who  had  never  heard  him.  It  was 
known  that  on  this  occasion  he  would  be  in  his  place,  and  curiosity 
was  wound  up  to  the  highest  point.  Unfortunately,  the  short-band 
writers  were,  in  consequence  of  some  mistake,  shut  out  on  that  day 
from  the  gallery,  so  that  the  newspapers  contained  only  a  very  mea- 
gre report  of  the  proceedings.  But  several  accounts  of  what  passed 
arc  extant  ;  and  of  those  accounts,  the  most  interesting  is  contained 
in  an  unpublished  letter  written  by  a  very  young  member,  John 
William  Ward,  afterward  Earl  of  Dudley.  When  Pitt  rose,  lie  waf 
received  with  loud  cheering.  At  every  pause  in  his  .speech  there 
was  a  burst  of  applause.  The  peroration  is  said  to  have  been  one  of 
the  most  animated  and  magnificent  ever  heard  in  Parliament. 
"  Pitt's  speech,"  Fox  wrote  a  few  days  later,  "was  admired  very 
much,  and  very  justly.  I  think  it  was' the  best  he  ever  made  in  that 
style."  The  debate  was  adjourned;  and  on  the  second  night  Fox 
replied  in  an  oration  which,  as  the  most  zealous  Pittites  were  forced 
to  acknowledge,  left  the  palm  of  eloquence  doubtful.  Addingtom 
made  a  pitiable  appearance  between  the  two  great  rivals  ;  and  it  was 

A.B.— 18 


58  WILLIAM    PITT. 

observed  that  Pitt,  while  exhorting  the  Commons  to  stand  resolutely 
by  the  executive  government  against  France,  said  not  a  word  indicat- 
ing esteem  or  friendship  for  the  prime  minister. 

War  was  speedily  declared.  The  First  Consul  threatened  to  in- 
T»de  England  at  the  head  of  the  conquerors  of  Belgium  and  Italy, 
and  formed  a  great  camp  near  the  Straits  of  Dover.  On  the  other 
side  of  those  straits  the  whole  population  of  our  island  was  ready  to 
rise  up  as  one  man  in  defence  of  the  soil.  At  this  conjuncture,  as  at 
some  other  great  conjunctures  in  our  history,  the  conjuncture  of 
1660,  for  example,  and  the  conjuncture  of  1688,  there  was  a  general 
disposition  among  honest  and  patriotic  men  to  forget  old  quarrels, 
and  to  regard  as  a  friend  every  person  who  was  ready,  in  the  exist- 
ing emergency,  to  do  his  part  toward  the  saving  of  the  state.  A 
coalition  of  all  the  first  men  in  the  country  would,  at  that  moment, 
have  been  as  popular  as  the  coalition  of  1783  had  been  unpopular. 
Alone  in  the  kingdom,  the  king  looked  with  perfect  complacency  on 
a  cabinet  in  which  no  man  superior  to  himself  in  genius  was  to  be 
found,  and  was  so  far  from  being  willing  to  admit  all  his  ablest  sub- 
jects to  office,  that  lie  was  bent  on  excluding  them  all. 

A  few  months  passed  before  the  different  parties  which  agreed  in 
regarding  the  government  with  dislike  and  contempt  came  to  an 
understanding  with  each  other.  But  in  the  spring  of  1804,  it  became 
evident  that  the  weakest  of  ministries  would  have  to  defend  itself 
against  the  strongest  of  oppositions  ;  an  opposition  made  up  of 
three  oppositions,  each  of  which  would,  separately,  have  been  for- 
midable from  ability,  and  which,  when  united,  were  also  formidable 
from  number.  The  party  which  had  opposed  the  peace,  headed 
by  (Jrenville  and  Wiudham,  and  the  party  which  had  opposed  the 
renewal  of  the  war,  headed  by  Fox,  concurred  in  thinking  that  tin; 
men  now  in  power  were  incapable  of  either  making  a  good  peace  or 
waging  a  vigorous  war.  Pitt  had,  in  1802,  spoken  for  peace  against 
the  party  of  Grenville,  and  had,  in  1803,  spoken  for  war  against  the 
party  of  Fox.  But  of  the  capacity  of  the  cabinet,  and  especially  of 
its  chief,  for  the  conduct  of  great  affairs,  he  thought  'as  meanly  as 
either  Fox  or  Grenville.  Questions  were  easily  found  on  which  all 
the  enemies  of  the  government  could  act  cordially  together.  The 
unfortunate  first  lord  of  the  treasury,  who  had,  during  the  earlier 
months  of  his  administration,  been  supported  by  Pitt  on  one  side 
and  by  Fox  on  the  other,  now  had  to  answer  Pitt,  and  to  be  an 
Bwered  by  Fox.  Two  sharp  debates,  followed  by  close  divisions, 
made  him  weary  of  his  post.  It  was  known,  too,  that  the  upper 
house  was  even  more  hostile  to  him  than  the  lower,  that  the  Scotch 
representative  peers  wavered,  that  there  were  signs  of  mutiny  among 
the  bishops.  In  the  cabinet  itself  there  was  discord,  and,  worse 
than  discord,  treachery.  It  was  necessary  to  give  way  :  the  minis- 
try was  dissolved  ;  and  the  task  of  forming  a  government  was  in- 
trusted to  Pitt. 


WILLIAM    PITT.  59 

Pitt  was  of  opinion  that  there  was  now  an  opportunity,  such  as 
had  never  before  offered  itself,  and  such  as  might  never  offer  itself 
again,  of  uniting  in  the  publie  service,  on  honorable  terms,  all  the 
eminent  talents  of  the  kingdom.  The  passions  to  which  the  FrencU 
Revolution  had  given  birth  were  extinct.  The  madness  of  the  inno- 
vator and  the  madness  of  the  alarmist  had  alike  had  their  day. 
Jacobinism  and  Anti-jacobinism  had  gone  out  of  fashion  together. 
The  most  liberal  statesman  did  not  think  that  season  propitious  for 
schemes.of  parliamentary  reform  ;  and  the  most  conservative  states- 
man could  not  pretend  that  there  was  any  occasion  for  gagging  bills 
and  suspensions  of  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act.  The  great  struggle  for  in- 
dependence and  national  honor  occupied  all  minds  ;  and  those  who 
were  agreed  as  to  the  duty  of  maintaining  that  struggle  with  vigor 
might  well  postpone  to  a  more  convenient  time  all  disputes  about 
matters  comparatively  unimportant.  Strongly  impressed  by  these 
considerations,  Pitt  wished  to  form  a  ministry  including  all  the  first 
men  in  the  country.  The  treasury  he  reserved  for  himself  ;  and  to 
Fox  he  proposed  to  assign  a  share  of  power  little  inferior  to  his  own. 

The  plan  was  excellent  ;  but  the  king  would  not  hear  of  it.  Dull, 
obstinate,  unforgiving,  and,  at  that  time,  half  mad,  he  positively  re- 
fused to  admit  Fox  into  his  service.  Anybody  else,  even  men  who 
had  gone  as  far  as  Fox,  or  farther  than  Fox,  in  what  his  Majesty 
considered  as  Jacobinism,  Sheridan,  Grey,  Erskiue,  should  be  gra- 
ciously received  ;  but  Fox  never.  During  several  hours  Pitt  labored 
in  vain  to  reason  down  this  senseless  antipathy.  That  he  was  per- 
fectly sincere  there  can  be  no  doubt ;  but  it  was  not  enough  to  be  sin- 
cere ;  he  should  have  been  resolute.  Had  he  declared  himself  de- 
termined not  to  take  office  without  Fox,  the  royal  obstinacy  would- 
have  given  way,  as  it  gave  way,  a  few  months  later,  when  opposed 
to  the  immutable  resolution  of  Lord  Grenville.  In  an  evil  hour  Pitt 
yielded.  He  flattered  himself  with  the  hope  that,  though  he  con- 
sented to  forego  the  aid  of  his  illustrious  rival,  there  would  still  re- 
main ample  materials  for  the  formation  of  an  efficient  ministry. 
That  hope  was  cruelly  disappointed.  Fox  entreated  his  friends  to 
leave  personal  considerations  out  of  the  question,  and  declared  that 
he  would  support,  with  the  utmost  cordiality,  an  efficient  and  patri- 
otic ministry  from  which  he  should  be  himself  excluded.  Not  only 
hi-s  friends,  however,  but  Grenville,  and  Grenville's  adherents,  an- 
swered with  one  voice,  that  the  question  was  not  personal ;  that  a 
great  constitutional  principle  was  at  stake,  and  that  they  would  not 
take  office  while  a  man  eminently  qualified  to  render  service  to  the 
commonwealth  was  placed  under  a  ban  merely  because  he  was  dis- 
liked at  court.  All  that  was  left  to  Pitt  was  to  construct  a  govern- 
ment out  of  the  wreck  of  Addingtou's  feeble  administration.  The 
small  circle  of  his  personal  retainers  furnished  him  with  a  very  few 
useful  assistants,  particularly  Dundas,  who  had  been  created  Vls- 
Melville,  Lord  llarrowby,  and  Canning. 


60  WILLIAM    PITT. 

Such  was  the  inauspicious  manner  in  which  Pitt  entered  on  his 
second  administration.  The  whole  history  of  that  administration 
was  of  a  piece  with  the  commencement.  Almost  every  month 
lirought  some  new  disaster  or  disgrace.  To  the  war  with  France 
was  soon  added  a  war  with  Spain.  The  opponents  of  the  minister 
were  numerous,  able,  and  active.  His  most  useful  coadjutors  he 
juon  lost.  Sickness  deprived  him  of  the  help  of  Lord  Harrow  by. 
]t  was  discovered  that  Lord  Melville  had  been  guilty  of  highly  cul- 
pable laxity  in  transactions  relating  to  public  money.  He  was  cen- 
sured by  the  House  of  Commons,  driven  from  office,  ejected  from 
the  privy  council,  and  impeached  of  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors. 
The  blow  fell  heavy  on  Pitt.  It  gave  him,  he  said  in  Parliament,  a 
deep  pang  ;  and,  as  he  uttered  the  word  pang,  his  lip  quivered  ;  his 
voice  shook  ;  he  paused  ;  and  his  hearers  thought  that  he  was  about 
to  burst  into  tears.  Such  tears  shed  by  Eldou  would  have  moved 
nothing  but  laughter.  Shed  by  the  warm-hearted  and  open-hearted 
Fox,  they  would  have  moved  sympathy,  but  would  have  caused  no 
surprise,  But  a  tear  from  Pitt  would  have  been  something  porten- 
tous.  lie  suppressed  his  emotion,  however,  and  proceeded  with  his 
usual  majestic  self-possession. 

His  difficulties  compelled  him  to  resort  to  various  expedients.  At 
one  time  Addington  was  persuaded  to  accept  office  with  a  peerage  ; 
but  lie  brought  no  additional  strength  to  the  government.  Though 
he  went  through  the  form  of  reconciliation,  it  was  impossible  for 
liiin  lo  forget  the  past.  While  he  remained  in  place  he  was  jealous 
and  punctilious  ;  and  he  soon  retired  again.  At  another  time  Pitt 
renewed  his  efforts  to  overcome  his  master's  aversion  to  Fox  ;  and  it 
was  rumored  that  the  king's  obstinacy  was  gradually  giving  way. 
But,  meanwhile,  it  was  impossible  for  the  minister  to  conceal  from 
the  public  eye  the  decay  of  his  health  and  the  constant  anxiety  wliieh 
gnawed  at  his  heart.  His  sleep  was  broken.  His  food  ceased  to 
nourish  him.  All  who  passed  him  in  the  park,  all  who  had  inter- 
views with  him  in  Downing  Street,  saw  misery  written  in  bis  luce. 
The  peculiar  look  which  he  wore  during  the  last  months  of  his  life 
was  often  pathetically  described  by  Wilberforce,  who  used  to  call  it 
the  Austerlit/,  look. 

Still  the  vigor  of  Pitt's  intellectual  faculties,  and  the  intrepid 
haughtiness  of  his  spirit,  remained  unaltered.  He  had  staked  every 
thing  on  a  great  venture.  He  had  succeeded  in  forming  another 
mighty  coalition  against  the  Freucli  ascendency.  The  united  forces 
of  Austria,  Russia,  and  England  might,  he  hoped,  oppose  an  insur- 
mountable barrier  to  the  ambition  of  the  common  enemy.  But  the 
genius  and  energy  of  Napoleon  prevailed.  While  the  English  troops 
were  preparing  to  embark  for  Germany,  while  the  Russian  troops 
were  slowly  coming  up  from  Poland,  he,  with  rapidity  unprece- 
dented in  modern  war,  moved  a  hundred  thousand  men  from  the 
shore*  of  the  ocean  to  the  Black  Forest,  and  compelled  a  great  Aus- 


WILLIAM    PITT.  61 

tnan  army  to  surrender  at  Ulm.  To  the  first  faint  rumors  of  this 
calamity  Pitt  would  give  uo  credit.  He  was  irritated  by  the  alarms 
of  those  around  him.  "  Do  not  believe  a  word  of  it,"  he  said  ;  "  it 
is  all  a  fiction."  The  next  day  he  received  a  Dutch  newspaper  con- 
taining the  capitulation.  He  knew  no  Dutch.  It  was  Sunday  ;  and 
the  public  offices  were  shut.  He  carried  the  paper  to  Lord  Malmes- 
bury,  who  had  beeu  minister  in  Holland  ;  and  Lord  Malmesbury 
translated  it.  Pitt  tried  to  bear  up,  but  the  shock  was  too  great ;  and 
he  went  away  with  death  in  his  face. 

The  news  of  the  battle  of  Trafalgar  arrived  four  days  later,  and 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  revive  him.  Forty-eight  hours  after  that 
most  glorious  and  most  mournful  of  victories  had  been  announced  to 
the  country  came  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  ;  and  Pitt  dined  at  Guild- 
hall. His  popularity  had  declined.  But  on  this  occasion  the  multi- 
tude, greatly  excited  by  the  recent  tidings,  welcomed  him  enthusias- 
tically, took  off  his  horses  in  Cheapside,  and  drew  his  carriage  up 
King  Street.  When  his  health  was  drunk,  he  returned  thanks  iu  two 
or  three  of  those  stately  sentences  of  which  he  hud  a  boundless  com- 
mand. Several  of  those  who  heard  him  laid  up  his  words  in  their 
hearts  ;  for  they  were  the  last  words  that  he  ever  uttered  in  public  : 
"  Let  us  hope  that  England,  having  saved  herself  by  her  energy, 
may  save  Europe  by  her  example." 

This  was  but  a  momentary  rally.  Austerlitz  soon  completed  what 
Ulm  had  begun.  Early  in  December  Pitt  had  retired  to  Bath,  in  the 
hope  that  he  might  there  gather  strength  for  the  approaching  session. 
While  he  was  languishing  (here  on  his  sofa  arrived  the  news  that  a 
decisive  battle  had  beeu  fought  and  lost  iu  Moravia,  that  the  coali- 
tion was  dissolved,  that  the  continent  was  at  the  feet  of  France, 
lie  sank  down  under  the  blow.  Teu  days  later,  he  was  so  emaciated 
that  his  most  intimate  friends  hardly  knew  him.  He  came  up  from 
Bath  by  slow  journeys,  and,  on  the  llth  of  January,  180(5,  reached 
his  villa  at  Putney.  Parliament  was  to  meet  on  the  21st.  On  the 
20th  was  to  be  the  parliamentary  dinner,  at  the  house  of  the  first 
lord  of  the  treasury,  in  Downing  Street  ;  and  the  cards  were 
already  issued.  But  the  days  of  the  great  minister  were  num- 
bered. The  only  chance  for  his  life,  and  that  a  very  slight 
chance,  was,  that  he  should  resign  his  office,  and  pass  some 
months  in  profound  repose.  His  colleagues  paid  him  very  short 
visits,  and  carefully  avoided  political  conversation.  But  his  spirit, 
long  accustomed  to  dominion,  could  not,  even  in  that  extremity,  re- 
linquish hopes  which  everybody  but  himself  perceived  to  be  vain. 
On  the  day  on  which  he  was  carried  into  his  bedroom  at  Putney,  the 
Marquess  Wellesley,  whom  he  had  long  loved,  whom  he  had  sent  to 
govern  India,  and  whose  administration  had  been  eminently  able,  en- 
ergetic, and  successful,  arrived  in  London  after  an  absence  of  eight 
years.  The  friends  saw  each  other  once  more.  There  was  an  affec- 
tionate meeting,  and  a  last  parting.  That  it  was  a  last  parting,  Pitt 


62  WILLIAM    PITT.    . 

did  not  seem  to  be  aware.  He  fancied  himself  to  'be  recovering, 
talked  on  various  subjects  cheerfully,  and  with  an  unclouded  mind, 
and  pronounced  a  warm  and  discerning  eulogium  on  the  Marquess's 
brother  Arthur.  "  1  never,"  he  said,  "  met  with  any  military  man 
with  whom  it  was  so  satisfactory  to  converse. "  The  excitement  and 
exertion  of  this  interview  were  too  much  for  the  sick  man.  He 
fainted  away  ;  and  Lord  Wellesley  left  the  house,  convinced  that 
the  close  was  fast  approaching. 

And  now  members  of  Parliament  were  fast  coming  up  to  London. 
The  chiefs  of  the  opposition  met  for  the  purpose  of  considering  the 
course  to  be  taken  on  the  first  day  of  the  session.     It  was  easy  to 
guess  what  would  be  the  language  of  the  king's  speech,  and  of  the 
address   which  would   be  moved   in   answer  to  that  speech.     An 
amendment  condemning  the  policy  of  the  government  had  been  pre- 
pared, and  was  to  have  been  proposed  in  the  House  of  Commons  by 
Lord  Henry  Petty,  a  young  nobleman  who  had  already  won  for  him- 
self that  place  in  the  esteem  of  his  country  which,  after  the  lapse  of 
more  than  half  a  century,  he  still  retains.     He  was  unwilling,  how- 
ever, to  come  forward  as  the  accuser  of  one  who  was  incapable  of 
defending  himself.     Lord  Grenville,  who  had  been  informed  of  Pitt's 
state  by  Lord  Wellesley,  and  had  been  deeply  affected  by  it,  earnestly 
recommended  forbearance  ;  and  Fox,  with  characteristic  generosity 
and  good  nature,  gave  his  voice  against  attacking  his  now  helpless 
rival.     "  Sunt  lacrymae  rerum,"  he  said,  "  et  mentem  mortalia  lan- 
gunt."     On  the  first  day,  therefore,  there  was  no  debate.     It  was 
rumored  that  evening  that  Pitt  was  better.     But  on  the  following 
morning  his  physicians  pronounced  that  there  were  no  hopes.     The 
commanding  faculties  of  which  he  had  been  too  proud  were  begin- 
ning to  fail.     His  old  tutor  and  friend,  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  in- 
formed him  of  his  danger,  and  gave  such  religious  advice  and  conso- 
laliou  as  a  confused  and  obscured  mind  could  receive.     Stories  were 
told  of  devout  sentiments  fervently  uttered  by  the  dying  man.     But 
these  stories  found  no  credit  with  anybodj'  who  knew  him.     Wil- 
berforce  pronounced  it  impossible  that  they  could  be  true  ;  "  Pitt," 
he  added,  "  was  a  man  who  said  less  than  he  thought  on  such  topics. " 
It  was  asserted  in  many  after-dinner  speeches,  Grub  Street  elegies, 
and  academic  prize  poems  and  prize  declamations,  that  the  great 
minister  died  exclaiming,  "  Oh,  my  country  !"     This  is  a  fable  ;  but 
it  is  true  that  the  last  words  which  he  utleied,  while  he  knew  what 
he  said,  were  broken  exclamations  about  the  alarming  state  of  public 
•affairs.    He  ceased  to  breathe  on  the  morning  of  the  23d  of  January, 
ISDI;,  the  twenty-fifty  anniversary  of  the  day  in  which  he  fiist  took 
his  seat  in  Parliament.     He  was  in  his  forty-seventh  year,  and  had 
been,  during  near  nineteen  years,  first  lord  of  the  treasury,  and  undis- 
puted chief  of  the  administration      Since  parliamentary  government 
was  established  in  England,  no  English  statesman  has  held  supreme 
power  so  long.     "Walpole,  it  is  true,  was  first  lord  of  the  treasury 


WILLIAM   PITT.  63 

during  more  than  twenty  years,  but  it  was  not  till  Walpolc  had  been 
some  time  first  lord  of  the  treasury  that  he  could  be  properly  called 
prime  minister. 

It  was  moved  in  the  House  of  Commons  that  Pitt  should  be  hon- 
ored with  a  public  funeral,  and  a  monument.  The  motion  was  op- 
posed by  Fox  in  a  speech  which  deserves  to  be  studied  as  a  model  of 
good  taste  and  good  feeling.  The  task  was  the  most  invidious  that 
ever  an  orator  undertook  ;  but  it  was  performed  with  a  humanity 
and  delicacy  which  were  warmly  acknowledged  by  the  mourning 
friends  of  him  who  was  gone.  The  motion  was  carried  by  288  votes 
to  89. 

The  22d  of  February  was  fixed  for  the  funeral.  The  corpse  hav- 
ing lain  in  state  during  two  days  in  the  Painted  Chamber,  was  borne 
with  great  pomp  to  the  northern  transept  of  the  Abbey.  A  splendid 
train  of  princes,  nobles,  bishops,  and  privy -councillors  followed.  The 
grave  of  Pitt  had  been  made  near  to  the  spot  where  his  great  father 
lay,  near  also  to  the  spot  where  his  great  rival  was  soon  to  lie.  The 
sadness  of  the  assistants  was  beyond  that  of  ordinary  mourners.  For 
he  whom  they  were  committing  to  the  dust  had  died  of  sorrows  and 
anxieties  of  which  none  of  the  survivors  could  be  altogether  without 
a  share.  Wilberforce,  who  carried  the  banner  before  the  hearse1,,  de-- 
scribed the  awful  ceremony  with  deep  feeling.  As  the  coffin  de- 
scended into  the  earth,  he  said,  the  eagle  face  of  Chatham  from 
above  seemed  to  look  down  with  consternation  into  the  dark  house 
which  was  receiving  all  that  remained  of  so  much  power  and  glory 

All  parties  in  the  House  of  Commons  readily  concurred  in  voting 
forty  thousand  pounds  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  Pitt's  creditors. 
Some  of  his  admirers  seemed  to  consider  the  magnitude  of  his  em- 
barrassments as  a  circumstance  highly  honorable  to  him  ;  but  men 
of  sense  will  probably  be  of  a  different  opinion.  It  is  far  better,  no 
doubt,  that  a  great  minister  should  carry  his  contempt  of  money  to 
excess  than  that  he  should  contaminate  his  hands  with  unlawful 
gain.  But  it  is  neither  right  nor  becoming  in  a  man  to  whom  the 
public  has  given  an  income  more  than  sufficient  for  his  comfort  and 
dignity,  to  bequeath  to  that  public  a  great  debt,  the  effect  of  mere 
negligence  and  profusion.  As  first  lord  of  the  treasury  and  chancel- 
lor of  the  exchequer,  Pitt  never  had  less  than  six  thousand  a  year,  be- 
sides an  excellent  house.  In  1792  he  was  forced  by  his  royal  mas- 
ter's friendly  importunity  to  accept  for  life  the  ottice  of  warden  of 
the  Cinque  Ports,  with  near  four  thousand  a  year  more.  He  had 
neither  wife  nor  child  ;  he  had  no  needy  relations  ;  he  had  no  ex- 
pensive tastes  ;  he  had  no  long  election  bills.  Had  he  given  but  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  a  week  to  the  regulation  of  his  household,  he 
would  have  kept  his  expenditure  within  bounds.  Or,  if  he  couW 
not  spare  even  a  quarter  of  an  hour  a  week  for  that  purpose,  he  had 
numerous  friends,  excellent  men  of  business,  who  would  have  been 
proud  to  act  as  his  stewards.  One  of  those  friends,  the  chief  of  a 


(J4  WILLIAM    PITT. 

greut  commercial  house  in  the  city,  made  an  attempt  to  put  the? 
establishment  in  Downing  Street  to  rights  ;  but  in  vain.  lie  found 
that  the  waste  of  the  servants'-hall  was  almost  fabulous.  The  quan- 
tity of  hul cher's  meat  charged  in  the  bills  was  nine  hundred  weight 
a  week.  The  consumption  of  poultry,  of  fish,  of  tea,  was  in  pro- 
portion. The  character  of  Pitt  Avould  have  stood  higher  if,  wtith  the 
disinterestedness  of  Policies  and  of  DC  Witt,  he  had  united  their  dig- 
nified frugality. 

The  memory  of  Pitt  has  been  assailed,  times  innumerable,  often 
justly,  often  unjuslly  ;  but  it  has  suffered  much  less  from  his  assail 
ants  than  from  his  eulogists.  For,  during  many  years,  his  name 
w-is  the  rallying  cry  of  a  class  of  men  with  whom,  at  one  of  those 
terrible;  conjum.-lures  which  confound  all  ordinary  distinctions,  he 
was  accidentally  and  temporarily  connected,  but  to  whom,  on  almost 
all  great  (|ucstions  of  principle,  he  was  diametrically  opposed.  The 
haters  of  parliamentary  reform  called  themselves  Pittites,  not 
choosing  to  remember  that  Pitt  made  three  motions  for  parlia- 
mentary icform,  and  that,  though  he  thought  that  such  a  re- 
form could  not  safely  be  made  while  the  passions  excited  by  the 
I'Yench  Revolution  were  raging,  he  never  uttered  a  word  indicat- 
ing that  lie  should  not  be  prepared  at  a  moie  convenient  season 
to  bring  Hie  question  forward  a  fourth  time.  The  toast  of  Protestant 
ascendency  Avas  drunk  on  Pitt's  buthday  by  a  set  of  Pittites,  who 
could  not  but  be  aware  that  Pitt  had  resigned  his  office  because  he 
could  not.  carry  Catholic  emancipation.  The  defenders  of  the  Test 
Act,  called  thcmschrs  Pittites,  though  they  could  not  be  ignorant 
that  Pitt  had  laid  before  George  the  Third  unanswerable  reasons  for 
abolishing  the  TeM,  Act.  The  enemies  of  free  trade  called  them- 
selves Pittites,  though  Pitt  was  far  more  deeply  imbued  with  the 
doctrines  of  Adam  Smith  than  cither  Fex  or  (ircy.  The  very 
negro-drivers  invoked  the  name  of  Pitt,  whose  eloquence  was  never 
more  conspicuously  displayed  than  -when  he  spoke  of  the  wrongs  of 
the  negro.  This  mythical  Pitt,  who  resembles  the  genuine  Pitt  as 
lit  Me  as  the  Charlemagne  of  Ariosto  resembles  the  Charlemagne  of 
Eginhard,  has  had  his  day.  History  will  vindicate  the;  ical  man  from 
calumny  disguised  under  the  semblance  of  adulation,  and  will  exhibit 
him  as  what  he  was,  a  minister  of  great  talents,  honest  intentions, 
and  liberal  opinions,  pre-eminently  qualified,  intellectually  and  mor- 
ally, for  the  part  of  a  parliamentary  leader,  and  capable  of  adminis- 
tering with  prudence  and  moderation  the  government  of  a  prosperous 
•BC  tranquil  ceumtry  ;  hut  unequal  lo  surprising  and  terrible  emer- 
gencies, and  liable,  in  such  emergencies,  to  err  grievously,  both  on 
the  siele  of  weakness  and  on  the  side  of  violence. 

THE   EKD. 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


LUTHER'S  life  is  both  the  epos  and  the  tragedy  of  his  age.  Iv  Is  au 
epos  because  its  first  part  presents  a  hero  and  a  prophet  who  con- 
quers apparently  insuperable  difficulties  and  opens  a  new  world  to  the 
human  mind  without  any  power  but  that  of  divine  truth  and  dr.*jp 
conviction,  or  any  authority  but  that  inherent  in  sincerity  and  Un- 
daunted, unselfish  courage.  But  Luther's  life  is  also  a  tragedy  ;  it  is 
the  tragedy  of  Germany  as  well  as  of  the  hero,  her  son,  who  in  vain 
tried  to  rescue  his  country  from  unholy  oppression  and  to  regenerate 
her  from  within  as  a  nation  by  means  of  the  Gospel  ;  and  who  died 
in  unshaken  faith  in  Christ  and  in  his  kingdom,  although  he  lived  to 
see  his  beloved  fatherland  going  to  destruction,  not  through  but  in 
spite  of  the  Reformation. 

Both  parts  of  Luther's  life  are  of  the  highest  interest.  In  the  epic 
part  of  it  we  see  the  most  arduous  work  of  the  time — the  work  for 
two  hundred  years  tried  in  vain  by  councils,  and  by  prophets  and 
martyrs,  with  and  without  emperors,  kings,  and  princes  -undertaken 
by  a  poor  monk  alone,  who  carried  it  out  under  the  ban  both  of  the 
pope  and  the  empire.  In  the  second,  we  see  him  surrounded  by 
friends  and  disciples,  always  the  spiritual  head  of  his  nation,  and  the 
revered  adviser  of  princes  and  preacher  of  the  people  ;  living  in  the 
same  poverty  as  before,  and  leaving  his  descendants  as  unprovided 
for  as  Aristides  left  his  daughter.  So  lived  and  died  the  greatest  hero 
of  Christendom  since  the  apostles  ;  the  restorer  of  that  form  of 
Christianity  which  now  sustains  Europe,. and  (with  all  its  defects) 
regenerating  and  purifying  the  whole  human  race  ;  the  founder  of 
(lie  modern  German  language  and  literature  ;  the  first  speaker  and 
debater  of  his  country  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  first  writer  in 
prose  and  verse  of  his  age. 

And  in  what  state  had  he  found  his  native  country  ?  The  once 
free  and  powerful  aggregate  of  nations,  which  had  overthrown  the 
Western  Empire,  conquered  Gaul,  and  transfused  healthier  blood  into 
the  Romanized  Celtic  population  of  Britain,  had  gradually  been  broken 
up  into  nearly  four  hundred  (with  the  barons  of  the  empire  twelve 
hundred)  sovereignties,  under  a  powerless  imperial  government  rep- 
resented by  emperors  l>eut  upon  the  destruction  of  nationality,  and 


4  MARTIN    LUTHER. 

by  an  oligarchic  diet  with  seven  electoral  princes  at  its  head,  throe 
of  whom,  as  ecclesiastics,  were  creatures  of  the  pope,  while  the  re- 
maining four,  imitating  the  emperor,  were  occupied  rather  with  the 
selfish  interests  of  their  princely  houses  than  with  those  of  their 
country.  When,  in  1486,  Maximilian  was  to  be  elected  king  of  the 
Romans,  and  when  he  became  emperor  (in  1493),  Archbishop  Ber 
thold,  elector  of  Mayence,  a  great  and  patriotic  man,  had  prepared, 
with  some  other  German  princes,  a  plan  for  a  sort  of  national  execu- 
tive, the  members  of  which  were  not  to  be  installed,  as  heretofore, 
by  the  emperor  alone,  but  appointed  by  the  Diet  and  the  electors,  in 
order  to  form  a  federal  senate  to  co-operate  with  the  emperor.  But 
the  Austrian  prince,  son-in-law  of  Charles  of  Burgundy,  and  heir  to 
his  kingly  estates,  was  liberal  in  promises  unfulfilled,  having  lived 
not  only  to  maintain  but  to  strengthen  the  imperial  autocracy.  His 
great  comfort  on  his  death-bed  was  the  reflection  that  his  whole  life 
had  been  devoted  to  the  aggrandizement  of  his  own  House  of  Austria. 
The  smaller  German  lords  and  knights  of  the  empire  made  a  last  at- 
tempt to  maintain  their  independence,  and  to  restore  the  ancient  lib- 
erties of  the  German  nation  ;  but  acting  in  a  lawless  manner  and 
without  any  political  wisdom,  they  were  crushed  by  the  united  power 
of  the  emperor  and  the  electors.  The  more  eminent  and  powerful 
portion  of  the  mass  of  the  nation  was  represented  by  the  wealthy  towns, 
which  had  purchased  from  the  emperors  the  privileges  of  free  imperial 
cities  ;  and  which,  with  the  ITanseatic  towns,  would  have  formed, 
united  with  the  estate  of  the  knights,  the  most  complete  constituent 
parts  of  a  House  of  Commons,  by  the  side  of  the  princes,  dukes,  and 
(•omits  of  the  empire  as  House  of  Peers.  The  formation  of  such  an  ef- 
lVrtiv(!  federal  empire  must  have  been  in  the  mind  of  those  enlightened 
men  who  at  the  election  of  Maximilian  perceived  that  a  constitution 
was  necessary  to  prevent  Germany  from  becoming  a  mere  domain  of 
the  emjwrors.  A  truly  representative  government,  federal  and  unitary, 
monarchical  and  aristocratical,  and  popular,  would  have  followed 
as  a  matter  of  course  from  such  a  beginning  as  that  proposed.  But 
since  the  failure  of  that  plan  nothing  effectual  had  been  accom- 
plished ;  isolation  and  separation  became  more  complete  ;  the  pence 
of  the  land  was  enforced  at  last,  although  imperfectly  ;  and  the  im- 
perial tribunal  established  by  Maximilian  acted  with  insufficient 
authority,  and,  as  was  believed,  not  with  equal  justice.  The  greatest 
iniquity  was  the  condition  of  the  peasantry.  The  freeholders  had  in 
many  parts  of  Germany  j)ccn>  jf  not  absorbed,  at  least  considerably 
diminished  by  the  feudal  system  ;  but  the  great  grievances  were  the 
illegal  abuses  which  had  grown  out  of  that  system  and  the  always 
increasing  exactions  of  the  lords  of  the  manor,  who,  particularly  in 
Southern  Germany,  had  reduced  the  peasants  to  real  serfs— men 
who  had  to  render  unlimited  services  and  scarcely  could  support  life. 
There  had  l>een  insurrections  of  peasants,  particularly  along  tlift 
Upper  Hhiuc,  in  1401,  and  again  in  1503  ;  but  being  without  leaders, 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  5 

they  were  each  time  crushed  after  a  bloody  struggle,  and  the  ultimate 
result  was  a  still  greater  amount  of  hardship.  "  The  chains  of  the 
sufferers  were  riveted.  In  short,  Germany  was  suffering  from  all  the 
same  evils  as  France  and  England,  without  having  gained  that  unity 
and  strength  of  government  which  in  those  countries  had  resulted 
from  similar  struggles.  On  the  other  hand,  however,  the  age  was 
one  of  general  progress.  The  invention  of  printing  had  given  wings 
to  the  human  mind  ;  philology  had  opened  the  sources  of  historical 
knowledge  as  well  as  of  philosophy  and  poetry  ;  astrology  began  to 

five  way  to  astronomy,  and  the  idea  of  the  universe  emerged  out  of 
cwish  and  other  fables.  As  to  Germany  in  particular,  the  cradle  of 
the  art  of  printing,  Augsburg  and  other  great  cities  were,  with  the 
Ilanseatic  towns,  centres  of  European  commerce,  and  partook  of  the 
resources  opened  by  the  discovery  of  America.  The  religious  mind, 
too,  had  been  awakened  since  the  days  of  Wycliffe  and  of  Huss.  Be- 
lieving Christendom,  and,  above  all,  believing  Germany,  had  hoped 
for  a  real  reform  of  the  Church,  the  abuses  of  which  were  doubly 
felt  in  consequence  of  the  shameful  immorality  of  the  popes  and  the 
ever-increasing  exactions  of  the  court  of  Rome.  The  issue  of  im- 
mense efforts  on  the  part  of  emperors,  princes,  and  people,  was,  that 
the  Council  of  Constance  delivered  ITuss  to  the  flames,  and  both  the 
Councils  of  Constance  and  Basle  ended  in  a  more  decided  suprem- 
acy of  the  Roman  pontiffs.  Certainly  the  religious  mind  of  Ger- 
many was  not  a  little  damped  by  these  disappointments  ;  but  the 
thirst  after  a  reform  was  not  quenched  by  the  evident  unwillingness 
of  Rome  to  reform  itself.  The  wise  and  good  men  of  the  time,  how- 
ever, could  not  discover  any  means  to  achieve  what  was  generally 
desired  and  demanded.  The  faith  in  human,  and  gradually  also  in 
divine  justice  upon  earth  had  long  disappeared  in  unfortunate  Italy, 
as  the  writings  of  the  age  prove  ;  but  now  it  threatened  to  vanish 
even  in  the  minds  of  the  Germans,  in  whom  that  faith  may  be  called 
eminently  their  innate  individual  and  national  religion.  The  Bible 
had  been  repeatedly  printed  in  the  vernacular  tongue,  but  it  was, 
and  continued  to  be,  a  book  closed  with  seven  seals.  There  was  a 
general  feeling  that  the  gospel  ought  to  be  made  the  foundation  of 
purified  religion  and  doctrine  ;  but  where  was  the  man  to  resuscitate 
its  letter  and  spirit,  and  to  find  the  way  from  Christ,  to  the  soul 
through  the  darkness  and  the  fictions,  the  usages  and  the  abuses,  of  the 
intervening  centuries  ?  The  voice  of  the  Friends  of  God  with 
Tauler  at  their  head  had  been  choked  in  blood,  like  that  of  the 
Waidenses  ;  and  then,  supposing  such  an  evangelical  basis  to  havo 
been  found,  was  the  existing  state  of  injustice  and  wrong  to  con- 
tinue ?  Were  the  emperors  to  continue  to  sacrifice  the  empire  to 
their  dynastic  interests — the  princes  and  the  nobles  to  their  covetous- 
ness  and  licentiousness  ?  Yes  ;  would  not  the  overthrow  of  the  ec- 
clesiastical power  lead  to  universal  conflagration  and  rebellion  and 
destruction,  and  thus  Christendom  be  thrown  bunk  into  a  worse  bar- 


6  MARTIN   LUTHER. 

liarism  than  that  out  of  which  they  were  anxious  to  emerge  ?  In 
short,  the  work  (so  it  seemed)  could  not  be  undertaken  but  in  despair 
or  in  enthusiastic  faith.  In  the  former  case  it  must  succumb  neces- 
sarily ;  but  even  if  begun  with  the  faith  of  Wycliffe  and  of  IIuss, 
would  not  the  attempt  in  any  case  lead  to  a  long-continued  struggle, 
the  end  of  which  none  of  those  who  began  it  could  live  to  witness  ? 
Who  should  enter  on  so  tremendous  a  course  ? 

Such  was  the  work  to  be  done,  and  such  were  the  general  and  pe- 
culiar difficulties  and  the  state  of  things  in  Germany  when  Luther 
undertook  it.  Luther  devoted  a  life  of  almost  supernatural  energy 
and  suffering  to  secure  its  basis  ;  and  although  at  his  death  he  left  it 
surrounded  by  the  greatest  dangers,  and  one  hundred  years  of  bloody 
struggle  were  succeeded  by  another  hundred  years  of  agony  and  of 
exhaustion,  still  the  Reformation  survived  and  proved  essentially  the 
renovating  element  of  mankind  instead  of  being  (as  its  enemies  proph- 
esied) the  promoter  of  revolution.  It  subsists  to  this  hour  as  the 
only  durable  preserver  of  all  liberties,  religious  or  political ;  and  the 
nations  and  states  which  have  embraced  the  Reformation  are  those 
only  which  have  escaped  the  revolutions  which  for  seventy  years 
have  agitated  those  of  the  lloman  faith. 

The  life  of  him  who  was  the  beginner  of  this  great  and  holy  work, 
and  who  broke  down  the  double  tyranny  of  pope  and  emperor  arrayed 
against  him,  must  therefore  be  considered  from  a  higher  point  of  view 
than  that  of  individual  biography  or  sectarian  panegyric,  or  national 
vanity  and  prejudices.  The  article  upon  Luther  will  have  to  be 
treated  from  the  central  point  of  the  universal  history  of  mankind. 
This  must,  be  also  the  rule  for  fixing  the  epochs  of  Luther's  life.  One 
of  the  reasons  why  this  life  is  not  yet  fully  appreciated  is  Iliat  it  is 
not  sufficiently  understood  ;  and  this  again  arises  in  great  measure 
from  the  want  of  due  observation  of  the  critical  points  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  Reformation  and  of  the  history  of  Europe,  and  of  Ger- 
many in  particular. 

\Ve  shall  divide  llic  following  condensed  but  complete  survey  into 
tliree  periods.  The  first  will  be  the  period  of  preparation,  extending 
t<>  Luther's  first  publication  of  theses  against  the  indulgences.  :'.lst, 
October,  1517  ;  the  second  will  comprise  the  next  eight  years  of 
preaching  the  gospel  and  gospel-doctrine  in  its  three  fundamental 
parts  ;  the  third  is  that  of  political  and  theological  struggles,  from 
1525  to  his  death  in  1546— preparation,  progressive  action^  and  then 
Struggle  within  and  without.  Luther's  grand  character  and  true 
p'n;ty  sliine  in  both  periods  of  his  public  career  ;  but  the  culminating 
point  of  his  active  and  creative  agency  is  in  the  first,  It  is,  accord- 
ing to  our  view,  the  year  1533  which  forms  the  critical  epoch.  Iti 
1624  the  foundation  of  the  practical  realization  of  the  principles  of 
the  Reformation  was  laid  with  triumphant  success.  The  year  15i>5 
"•-an  hopefully ,  but  ended  with  the  preparation  for  a  struggle,  of 
wlneli  Luther  felt  at  once  that  he  never  should  see  the  end.  Before 


MARTIN   LUTHER.  7 

the  close  of  1525,  he  gave  up  the  cause  of  Germany,  not  in  conse. 
quence  of  any  fault  committed  by  himself,  but  because  he  saw  that 
his  party  was  not  prepared  for  the  struggle  with  the  empire,  and  was 
still  less  resigned  to  leave  the  matter  to  "God,  who,  as  Luther  firmly 
believed  to  his  death,  would  never  allow  his  work  to  perish  till  the 
end  of  the  world.  But  was  not  the  end  of  the  world  coming  now  ? 

FIRST  PEKTOD.— 7%<s  Years  of  Preparation  ;  or,  the  Fir  si  Thirty -f out 
Tears  of  Luther' *  Life  (1483—1517). 

Martin  Luther  was  born  at  Eislebcn,  in  the  county  of  Mansfeld,  in 
Tlmringia,  on  the  10th  November,  1483,  on  the  eve  of  St.  Martin's 
day,  in  the  same  year  as  Raphael,  nine  years  after  Michael  Angelo, 
and  ten  after  Copernicus.  His  father  was  a  miner,  descended  from 
a  family  of  poor  but  free  peasants,  and  possessed  forges  in  Mansfeld, 
the  small  profits  of  which  enabled  him  to  send  his  son  to  the  Latin 
school  of  the  place.  There  Martin  distinguished  himself  so  much 
that  his  father  (by  that  time  become  a  member  of  the  municipal 
council)  intended  him  for  the  study  of  the  law.  In  the  mean  timo 
Martin  had  often  to  go  about  as  one  of  the  poor  choristers,  singing 
and  begging  at  the  doors  of  charitable  people  at  Magdeburg  and  at 
Eisenach,  to  the  colleges  of  which  towns  he  was  successively  sent. 
His  remarkable  appearance  and  serious  demeanor,  his  fine  tenor  voice 
and  musical  talent,  procured  him  the  attention  and  afterward  the 
support  and  maternal  care  of  a  pious  matron,  wife  of  Cotta,  burgo- 
master of  Eisenach,  into  whose  house  he  was  taken.  .Already,  in 
his  eighteenth  year,  he  surpassed  all  his  fellow-students  in  knowledge 
of  the  Latin  classics,  and  in  power  of  composition  and  of  eloquence. 
His  mind  took  more  and  more  a  deeply  religious  turn  ;  but  it  was 
not  till  he  had  been  for  two  years  studying  at  Eisenach  that  he  dis- 
covered an  entire  Bible,  having  until  thcn'ouly  known  the  ecclesias- 
tical extracts  from  the  sacred  volume,  and  the  history  of  Hannah  and 
Samuel.  He  now  determined  to  study  Greek  and  Hebrew,  the  two 
original  languages  of  the  Bible.  A  dangerous  illness  brought  him 
within  the  near  prospect  of  death  ;  but  lie  recovered,  and  prosecuted 
his  study  of  philosophy  and  law,  and  tried  hard  to  gain  inward  peace 
by  a  pious  life  and  the  greatest  strictness  in  all  external  observances. 
His  natural  cheerfulness  disappeared  ;  and  after  experiencing  the 
shock  of  the  death  of  one  of  his  friends  by  assassination  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1505,  and  soon  after  that  being  startled  by  a  thunderbolt 
striking  the  earth  by  his  side,  he  determined  to  give  up  the  world  and 
retire  into  the  convent  of  the  Augustinians  at  Erfurt— much  agaiitst 
the  wishes  and  advice  of  his  father,  who,  indeed,  most  strongly  re- 
monstrated. Luther  soon  experienced  the  uselessness  of  monastic 
life  and  discipline,  and  suffered  from  the  coarseness  of  his  brethren, 
who  felt  his  exercises  of  study  and  meditation  to  be  a  reproach  upo» 
their  own  habits  of  gossiping  and  mendicancy.  It  was  at  this  perioA 


8  MABTIN  LUTHER. 

that  he  began  to  study  the  Old  Testament  in  Hebrew,  yet  continuing 
to  fulfil  scrupulously  the  rules  of  his  order.  "  I  tormented  myself 
to  death,"  he  said  at  a  later  period,  "  to  make  my  peace  with  God, 
but  I  was  in  darkness  and  found  it  not."  The  vicar  general  of  the 
order,  Johann  Von  Staupitz,  who  had  passed  through  the  same  dis- 
cipline with  the  same  result,  comforted  him  by  those  remarkable 
words,  which  remained  forever  engraven  in  Luther's  heart :  "  There 
is  no  true  repentance  but  that  which  begins  with  the  love  of  right- 
eousness and  of  God.  Love  him  then  who  has  loved  thee  first !"  In 
the  struggles  which  followed  Luther's  real  beginning  of  a  new  life, 
and  in  the  perplexities  into  which  Augustine's  doctrine  of  election 
threw  him,  the  book  which,  after  the  Bible,  exercised  the  greatest 
and  most  beneficial  influence  upon  his  mind,  was  that  practical  con- 
centration of  the  sermons  and  other  works  of  Tauler — the  enlightened 
Dominican  preacher  and  Christian  philosopher  of  the  middle  of  the 
fourteenth  century — the  Theologia  Oermanica,  written  by  an  anony- 
mous author  toward  the  latter  part  of  that  century,  of  which  we 
shall  have  to  speak  hereafter. 

When  Luther  regained  his  mental  health,  he  took  courage  to  le 
ordained  priest,  in  May,  1507.  Next  year  the  elector  of  Saxony 
nominated  him  professor  of  philosophy  at  the  University  of  Wittem- 
berg  ;  and  in  1509  he  began  to  give,  as  bachelor  in  divinity,  biblical 
lectures.  These  lectures  were  the  awakening  cause  of  new  life  in  the 
university,  and  soon  a  great  number  of  students,  from  all  parts  of 
Germany,  gathered  round  Luther.  Even  professors  came  to  attend 
Ms  lectures  and  hear  his  preaching.  The  year  1511  brought  an  ap- 
parent interruption,  but  in  fact  only  a  new*  development  of  Luther's 
character  and  knowledge  of  the  world.  He  was  sent  by  his  order  to 
Rome  on  account  of  some  discrepancies  of  opinion  as  to  its  govern- 
ment. His  first  impression  of  the  city  was  that  of  profound  admira- 
tion, soon  mixed  with  a  melancholy  recollection  of  Scipio's  Homeric 
exclamation  on  the  mins  of  Carthage.  The  tone  of  flippant  impiety 
at  the  court  and  among  the  higher  clergy  of  Rome  under  Julius  XI. 
shocked  the  devout  German  monk.  He  then  discovered  the  real  state 
of  the  world  in  the  centre  of  the  Western  Church  ;  and  often  in  after 
life  he  used  to  say,  "  I  would  not  take  100,000  florins  not  to  have 
seen  Rome."  Always  anxious  to  learn,  he  took  during  his  stay  lie- 
brew  lessons  from  a  celebrated  rabbi,  Elias  Levita ;  but  the  grand 
effect  upon  him  was,  that  now  for  the  first  time  he  understood  Christ 
euid  St.  Paul.  "  The  just  shall  live  by  faith"— that  mighty  saying 
With  which  he  had  begun  at  Wittcmberg  his  interpretation  of  the 
Bible— now  sounded  on  his  cars  in  the  midst  of  Rome.  He  saw  that 
external  works  are  nothing  ;  that  the  pious  spirit  in  which  any  work  is 
done  or  any  duty  fulfilled— an  humble  handicraft  or  the  preaching  of 
Bermous— is  the  only  thing  of  value  in  the  eye  of  God.  On  his  re- 
turn to  the  university,  the  favor  of  Staupitz  and  the  generosity  of 
the  elector  procured  him  a  present  of  fifty  florins  (ducats)  to  defray 


MARTIN    LUTHER.  9 

the  expenses  of  his  promotion  to  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity  at 
the  end  of  1512.  The  solemn  oath  he  had  to  pronounce  on  that  oc- 
casion (to  most  only  a  formulary  without  deep  meaning)  "  to  devote 
his  whole  life  to  study,  and  faithfully  to  expound  and  defend  the 
Holy  Scripture,"  was  to  him  the  seal  of  his  mission.  He  began  his 
biblical  teaching  by  attacking  scholasticism,  which  at  that  time  was 
called  Aristotelianism.  He  showed  that  the  Bible  was  a  deeper  phi- 
losophy ;  that,  teaching  the  nothingness  and  wickedness  of  man  a» 
long  as  he  is  a  selfish  creature,  it  refutes  and  condemns  all  philo- 
sophical tenets  which  consider  man  separately  from  his  relation  to 
Deity.  All  his  contemporaries  praised  as  unparalleled  the  clearness 
of  his  Christian  doctrine,  the  impressive  eloquence  of  his  preaching, 
•i  id  the  mildness  and  sanctity  of  his  character.  Erasmus  himself  ex- 
claimed, "  There  is  not  an  honest  divine  who  docs  not  side  with 
Luther."  Christ's  self-devoted  life  and  death — Christ  crucified — was 
tJie  centre  of  his  doctrine  ;  God's  eternal  love  to  mankind,  and  the 
Hire  triumph  of  Faith,  were  his  texts.  Already,  in  1516,  philosoph- 
ical tenets  deduced  from  these  spiritual  principles  were  publicly  de- 
fended at  academical  disputations  over  which  h«  presided.  Luther 
1  imself  preached  at  Dresden  and  other  places  the  doctrine  of  justify- 
ing and  vivifying  faith  ;  and  then  accepted,  for  a  short  time,  the  place 
of  vicar-general  of  his  order  in  that  year.  Even  in  the  convents, 
spiritual,  moral  Christianity  made  its  way  in  spite  of  forms  and  ob- 
servances. When  the  plague  came  to  Wittemberg,  he  remained 
when  all  others  Hod  :  "  It  is  my  post,  and  1  have  to  finish  my  com- 
mentary upon  the  Epistle.to  the  Galatiaus.  Should  brother  Martin 
fail,  yet  the  world  will  not  fail." 

Thus  came  the  year  of  the  lie  formation,  1517.  With  more  bold- 
ness than  ever,  the  new  pope  Leo  had  sent,  in  15l(!,  agents  through 
the  world  to  sell  indulgences,  and  the  man  chosen  for  Saxony,  Tetzel 
the  Dominican,  and  his  band,  were  among  the  most  zealous  preach- 
ers of  this  iniquity.  "  I  would  not  exchange,"  said  he  in  one  of  his 
harangues,  "  my  privilege  (as  vender  of  the  papal  letters  of  absolu- 
tion) against  those  which  St.  Peter  has  in  heaven  ;  for  I  have  saved 
more  souls  by  my  indulgences  than  the  apostle  by  his  sermons. 
Whatever  crime  one  may  have  committed  " — naming  an  outrage  upon 
the  person  of  the  Virgin  Maty — "let  him  pay  well  and  he  will  re- 
ceive pardon.  Likewise  the  sins  which  you  may  be  disposed  t<?  com  • 
mit  in  future,  may  be  atoned  for  beforehand. "  But  he  soon  found 
that  a  spirit  had  been  awakened  among  the  serious  minds  of  Germany 
to  which  such  blasphemies  were  revolting.  Luther-  preached  and 
spoke  out  against  this  horrible  abuse,  which  he  said  he  could  not 
believe  to  be  sanctioned  by  the  pope.  As  a  great  exhibition  of  relics, 
together  with  indulgences,  was  to  take  place  on  the  day  of  All  Saints 
in  the  church  of  Wittemberg,  Luther  appeared  on  the  eve,  31st  Oc- 
tober, in  the  midst  of  the  pilgrims  who  had  flocked  to  the  festival, 
and  pasted  up  at  the  church  door  the  ninety -five  theses  against  ia- 


10  MARTIN   LUTHER, 

diligences  and  the  superstitious  connected  with  them,  in  firm  although 
guarded  language.  The  Reformation  began,  like  that  of  St.  John 
the  Baptist,  by  the  preaching  of  inward  penitence,  in  opposition  to 
penance  and  to  absolution  purchaseable  by  gold  ;  but  Luther's  preach- 
ing had  the  advantage  that  it  was  based  upon  man's  redemption 
by  Christ.  Penitence  was  preached,  as  originating  in  the  conscious 
ness  of  man's  unworthiness,  God's  mercy,  and  the  redemption 
through  Christ  as  placed  before  us  in  the  gospel.  The  entire  doctrine 
of  these  immortal  theses  is  summed  up  in  the  two  last  (94,  95)  which 
run  thus  :  "  The  Christians  are  to  be  exhorted  to  make  every  effort 
to  follow  Christ  their  head  through  the  cross,  through  death  and  hell ; 
for  it  is  much  better  tbey  should  through  much  tribulation  enter 
into  the  kingdom  of  heaven  than  acquire  a  carnal  security  by  the 
consolations  of  a  false  peace."  A  great  deed  had  been  done  thst 
evening  ;  a  door  had  been  opened  for  mankind  into  a  course  whose 
end  is  even  now  far  from  being  reached.  Those  words — not  the  re- 
sult of  design  and  premeditation,  but  of  the  irresistible  impulse  of  ait 
honest  mind  brought  face  to  face  with  the  horrible  reality  of  blas- 
phemy— soon  echoed  through  the  whole  world.  Luther's  publit 
life  had  opened  ;  the  Reformation  had  begun. 

SECOND  PERIOD. — The  First  Part  of  tlie  Public  Life  of  LutJter  ;  or, 
tfte  Time  of  Progressive  Action. 

The  pilgrims  had  come  to  Wiltemberg  to  buy  indulgences,  and  re- 
turned with  the  theses  of  Luther  in  their 'hands,  and  the  impression 
of  liis  powerful  evangelical  teaching  in  their  hearts.  Luther  was 
urged  on  in  his  great  work,  not  by  his  friends,  who  were  timid  and 
terrified,  but  by  the  violence  and  frenzy  of  Tet/el  and  his  adherents, 
and  soon  afterward  by  the  despotic  acts  of  the  pope  Leo  X.,  who 
having  at  first  despised  the  affair  as  a  monk's  quarrel,  thought  he 
could  crush  it  by  arbitrary  acts.  The  national  mind  in  Germany  had 
taken  up  the  matter  with  a  moral  earnestness  which  made  an  impres- 
sion not  only  upon  the  princes,  but  even  upon  bishops  and  monks. 
Compelled  to  examine  the  ancient  history  of  the  Church,  Luther 
soon  discovered  the  whole  tissue  of  fraud  and  imposture  by  which 
the  canou  law  of  the  popes— the  decretals— had  been,  from  the  ninth 
century  downward,  foisted,  advisedly  and  purposely,  upon  the 
Christian  world.  There  is  not  one  essential  point  in  the  ancient  ec- 
clesiastical history  bearing  upon  the  question  of  the  invocation  of 
saints,  of  clerical  priesthood,  and  of  episcopal  and  metropolitan  pre- 
tensions, which  his  genius  did  not  discern  in  its  proper  light.  It  is 
a  remarkable  fact,  and  must  needs  be  considered  by  the  philosopher 
of  history  as  a  proof  of  the  Spirit  of  God  having  guided  Luther,  that 
what  he  saw  and  said,  at  the  earliest  stage  of  historical  criticism,  re- 
specting ecclesiastical  forgeries  and  impostures,  lias  all  proved, true. 
Soon  after  Luther,  the  Ceuturiatores  Magdeburgici,  the  fathers  of 


MAIITIST    LUTIIER.  11 

criticism  as  to  ecclesiastical  history,  took  the  matter  up.  Of  course1 
the  Romanists  denied  their  assertions  for  two  hundred  years,  arid 
wherever  they  dare,  they  sljll  come  back  to  the  old  fables  aud  false- 
noods.  But  the  learned  discussion  has  been  given  up,  step  by  step, 
reluctantly,  and  with  a  very  bad  grace.  Whatever  Luther  denounced 
as  fraud  or  abuse  from  its  contradiction  to  the  canonical  worship, 
may  bo  said  to  have  been  since  openly  or  tacitly  admitted  to  be  such. 
But  what  produced  the  greatest  elfect  at  the  time  were  his  short  pop 
ular  treatises,  exegetical  and  practical.  Among  these  are  particularly 
remarkable  his  Interpretation  of  t/w  Magnificat,  or  the  (Jauticle  of  the 
Virgin,  M<iri/,  his  deep  and  earnest  Exposition  of  tJie  Ten  Commcind- 
nuints,  and  his  Exposition  of  the  Lord's  Pi'ayer,  which  latter  soon 
found  its  way  into  Italy,  although  without  Luther's  name,  and  which 
has  never  yet  been  surpassed,  either  in  genuine  Christian  thought  or 
in  style.  Having  resolved  to  preach  in  person  throughout  Germany, 
Luther  appeared  in  the  spring  of  151b  in  Heidelberg,  where  a  general 
meeting  of  his  order  was  held.  The  count  palatine,  to  whom  Luther 
had  been  introduced  by  the. elector  of  Saxony,  received  him  very 
courteously.  In  order  to  rouse  the  spirit  of  the  professors,  he  held  a 
public  disputation  on  certain  theses,  called  by  him  paradoxes,  by 
which  he  intended  to  make  apparent  the  contrast  of  the  external  view 
of  religion  taught  by  the  schoolmen,  and  the  spiritual  and  energetic 
view  of  gospel  truth  based  upon  justifying  faith.  It  was  here  that 
Bucer,  then  a  Dominican  monk,  but  soon  a  zealous  Reformer  and 
controversialist,  and  the  man  who,  after  Calvin,  had  among  foreigners 
the  greatest  influence  upon  the  English  Reformation,  heard  the  voice 
of  the  gospel  in  his  own  heart,  and  resolved  to  confess  and  preach  it 
at  the  university. 

"  It  is  not  the  pope  (said  Luther  in  one  of  his  disputations)  who 
governs  the  church  militant  of  Christ,  but  Christ  himself ;  for  it  is 
written  that  '  Christ  must  reign  till  he  has  put  all  his  enemies  under 
his  feet.'  He  evidently  has  not  done  so  yet.  Christ's  reign,  in  this 
our  world,  is  the  reign  of  faith  ;  we  do  not  see  our  Head,  but  we  huvc 
Him." 

On  his  return  to  Wittemberg,  in  May,  1518,  Luther  wrote  and  pub- 
lished an  able  and  moderate  exposition  of  the  theses,  and  sent  it  to 
some  German  bishops.  He  then  proclaimed  the  absolute  necessity  of 
a  thorough  reformation  of  the  Church,  which  could  only  be  effected, 
with  the  aid  of  God,  by  an  earnest  co-operation  of  the  whole  of  Chris- 
tendom. But  already  Rome  meditated  his  excommunication,  uttering 
threats  which  he  discussed  with  great  courage  and  equanimity,  say- 
ing, "  God  alone  can  reconcile  with  himself  the  fallen  soul ;  he  alone 
can  dissolve  the  union  of  the  soul  with  himself  :  blessed  the  man 
who  dies  under  an  unjust  excommunication."  In  requesting  his 
superior  to  send  his  very  humble  letter  to  Pope  Leo,  in  which  he  de- 
clared his  readiness  to  clef  end  his  cause,  Luther  added,  "  Mark,  I  do 
not  wish  to  entangle  you  in  my  own  perilous  affair,  the  couBoqueuce« 


12  MARTIN    LUTHER. 

of  which  I  am  reuily  to  bear  uloue.  My  cause  is  Christ's  and  God's. " 
In  the  menu  time  Luther  was  cited  repeatedly  to  appear  before  the 
pope's  tribunal  at  Koine.  Leo,  indeed,  graciously  promised  to  pay 
the  expenses  of  his  journey,  which  certainly  would  have  been  no  large 
outlay,  as  none  would  have  been  required  for  his  return.  But  Luther 
constantly  declined  summonses  and  invitations,  and  proposed  instead 
one  or  other  of  the  German  universities  as  judge.  This  proposal  was, 
ef  course,  not  acceptable  to  Rome,  and  therefore  he  was  summoned 
before  the  pope's  legate  in  Germany. 

The  pope's  legate  was  Cardinal  Cajetanus.  Luther  was  summoned 
to  appear  before  him  at  Augsburg,  and  all  princes  and  cities  were 
threatened  with  the  interdict  if  they  did  not  deliver  Luther  into  the 
hands  of  the  pope's  tribunal.  It  was  in  these  critical  circumstances 
that  Luther  formed  his  acquaintance  with  Melauchthou,  who  soon  be- 
came his  most  faithful  friend,  and  remained  his  zealous  adherent  for 
life.  When  Melanchthou  and  all  his  other  friends  advised  Luther  not 
to  go  to  Augsburg  to  be  given  up  to  the  machinations  of  the  legate, 
he  replied,  "  They  have  already  torn  my  honor  and  my  reputation  ; 
let  them  have  my  body,  if  it  is  the  will  of  God  ;  but  my  soul  they  shall 
not  take."  lie  undertook  the  journey,  as  a  good  monk,  on  foot  ; 
only  provided  with  letters  of  recommendation  from  the  elector,  and 
accompanied  by  two  friends,  but  without  a  safe-conduct.  He  arrived 
at  Augsburg  on  the  evening  of  the  7th  October,  1518,  almost  exhausted 
by  the  hardships  of  the  journey.  The  cardinal  and  his  assistants 
employed  in  vain  alternately  threats  and  blandishments  ;  scholastic 
arguments  fell  powerless,  as  he  answered  them  by  the  Bible,  and 
demanded  to  be  refuted  by  the  word  of  God,  to  which  he  showed  the 
decretals  to  be  opposed,  and  therefore,  according  even  to  the  declara- 
tion of  the  canonists,  of  no  value.  For  these  reasons  he  constantly 
refused  to  retract,  as  he  was  required  to  do,  his  two  propositions- 
tile  one  that  the  treasure  of  indulgences  is  not  composed  of  the  merits 
of  Christ ;  the  other,  that  he  who  receives  the  sacrament  must  have 
faith  iu  the  grace  offered  to  him.  Luther  left  Augsburg  after  having 
addressed  a  firm  but  respectful  letter  to  the  legate  ;  and  his  friends, 
who  were  sure  that  his  life  was  not  safe  a  moment  longer,  escorted 
him  before  daybreak  out  of  the  town  on  horseback.  On  his  return  to 
Wittemberg  he  found  the  elector  in  great  anxiety  of  mind,  in  con- 
sequence of  an  imperious  missive  of  the  cardinal  legate.  Luther 
wrote  to  the  prince  a  dignified  letter,  saying,  "  I  would,  in  your 
place,  answer  the  cardinal  as  he  deserves  for  insulting  an  honest  man 
without  proving  him  to  be  wrong  ;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  be  an  in 
cumbrance  to  your  Highness  ;  I  am  ready  to  leave  your  states,  but  I 
wjll  not  go  to  Rome."  The  elector  refused  to  deliver  him  up  to  the 
legate  or  to  send  him  out  of  the  states.  Luther  would  have  gone  to 
I  rauce  if  deprived  of  his  asylum  in  Saxony.  The  elector,  however, 
having  desired  him  to  leave  Wiltemberg,  and  Luther  being  on  the 
point  of  obeying  his  orders,  the  prince,  touched  by  his  humility  and 


MAKTlJSr   LUTHER.  13 

firmness,  allowed  him  to  remain  and  to  prepare  himself  for  a  new  con- 
ference. At  the  end  of  1518  the  papal  bull  concerning  indulgences 
appeared,  confirming  the  old  doctrine,  without  any  reference  to  the 
late  dispute.  Luther  had  already  appealed  from  the  pope  to  a  general 
council. 

The  years  1519,  1520, 1521  were  the  time  of  a  fierce  but  triumphant 
struggle  with  the  hitherto  irresistible  power  of  Rome,  soon  openly 
supported  by  the  empire.  The  two  first  of  these  years  passed  in  pub- 
lic conferences  and  disputations  at  Leipzig  and  elsewhere,  with  Eck 
and  other  Romanist  doctors,  in  which  Luther  was  seconded  by  the 
eloquence  of  the  ardent  and  acute  Carlstadt,  as  well  as  by  the  learning 
and  argumentative  powers  of  Melanchthon.  People  and  princes  took 
more  and  more  part  in  the  dispute,  and  the  controversy  widened  from 
day  to  day.  Luther  openly  declared  that  Huss  was  right  on  a  great 
many  points,  and  had  been  unjustly  condemned.  Wittemberg  be- 
came crowded  with  students  and  inquirers,  who  flocked  there  from 
all  sides.  Luther  not  only  continued  his  lectures,  but  wrote  during  this 
period  his  most  important  expositions  and  commentaries  on  the  New 
Testament — beginning  with  the  Epistle  to  the  Galatians  (September, 
151(J),  which  he  used  to  call  his  own  epistle.  During  the  second  year 
(1520)  the  first  great  political  crisis  occurred,  on  occasion  of  the  death 
of  Maximilian,  and  ended  fatally,  in  consequence  of  the  total  want 
of  patriotic  and  political  wisdom  among  the  German  princes.  The 
elector  of  Saxony  was  offered,  by  one  of  the  most  eminent  and  in- 
fluential of  his  colleagues,  the  Archbishop  of  Troves,  to  be  chosen 
emperor  ;  but  had  not  the  courage  to  accept  a  dignity  which  he  sup- 
posed to  require  for  its  support  a  more  powerful  house  than  his  own. 
Of  all  the  political  acts  which  may  be  designated,  with  Dante,  wjnui 
vilrifiato,  this  was  the  greatest  and  most  to  be  regretted,  supposing 
the  elector  to  have  been  wise  and  courageous  enough  to  give  the 
knights  and  cities  their  proper  share  in  the  government,  and  patriotic 
enough  to  make  the  common  good  his  own. 

The  German  writers  have  called  the  elector  Frederic  "  the  Wise," 
particularly  also  with  regard  to  this  question.  But  long  before  liankc 
pointed  out  the  political  elements  then  existing  for  an  effective  im- 
provement of  the  miserable  German  constitution,  Justus  Moser  of 
Osnabruck  had  prophetically  uttered  the  real  truth — "  if  the  emperor 
at  that  time  had  destroyed  the  feudal  system,  this  deed  would  have 
been,  according  to  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  done,  the  grandest  or 
the  blackest  in  the  history  of  the  world."  Moscr  means  that  if  the 
emperor  had  embraced  the  Reformed  faith,  and  placed  himself  at  tin: 
head  of  the  lower  nobility  and  the  cities,  united  in  one  body  as  the 
lower  house  of  a  German  parliament,  this  act  would  have  saved  Ger- 
many. But  we  ought  to  go  further,  and  say,  to  expect  such  a  revo- 
lution from  a  Spanish  king  was  simply  absurd.  Frederic  alone  could, 
and  probably  would,  have  been. led  into  that  course,  just  because  he 
kad  nothing  to  rely  upon  except  the  German  nation,  then  more 


14  MAKTIN   LUTHER. 

numerous  and  powerful  than  it  ever  has  been  since.  The  so-called 
capitulations  of  the  empire,  which  were  accepted  by  Charles,  con- 
tained not  the  slightest  guarantee  against  religious  encroachments  on 
the  side  of  Rome. 

Persecutions  aimed  at  the  life  of  Luther  began  very  early.  Being 
one  day  accosted  by  a  stranger,  who  concealed  a  pistol  in  his  sleeve, 
and  asked  him,  "  Why  do  you  walk  thus  alone?"  the  intrepid  hem 
unswcred,  "  Because  I  am  on  the  side  of  God,  who  is  my  strength 
and  my  shield."  The  unknown  person  turned  pale  and  slunk  away. 
The  pope's  emissaries  in  Germany  openly  demanded  the  death  of 
Luther.  Flattery  and  threats  were  used  alternately  to  that  end. 
Luther  said,  "  I  do  not  wish  for  a  cardinal's  hat ;  let  them  allow  the 
way  of  salvation  to  be  open  to  Christians,  and  I  shall  be  satisfied. 
All  their  threats  do  not  frighten  me,  and  all  their  promises  do  not 
seduce  me."  When  Francis  of  Sickingen,  the  most  powerful  ami 
spirited  of  the  knights  of  the  empire,  and  the  brave  and  enlightened 
Ulrich  Von  Hiitten  and  others,  offered  aid,  and  said,  "  force  of  arms 
was  required  to  drive  out  the  devil,"  Luther  answered  in  those  im- 
mortal words  :  "  By  the  Word  the  world  has  been  conquered  ;  by 
the  Word  the  Church  has  been  saved  ;  by  the  Word,  too,  she  will  be 
restored  :  I  do  not  despise  your  offers,  but  I  will  not  lean  upon  any 
one  but  Christ." 

Luther's  writings  of  this  period  are  the  finest  productions  of  his 
pen.  His  book  On  Good  Works  is  the  best  exposition  of  the  doctrine 
of  justification  by  faith.  Melanchthon  says,  in  reference  to  this  treatise, 
"No  writer  ever  came  nearer  St.  Paul  than  Luther  has  done." 
In  the  same  year  (1520)  he  published  that  grand  address  to  the  nobles 
of  the  German  nation,  On  t/ie  Reformation  of  Christendom,  which 
may  be  considered  as  the  finest  specimen  of  the  political  and  patriotic 
wisdom  of  a  Christian.  There  he  shows  the  reality  and  supreme 
dignity  of  the  universal  priesthood  of  Christians,  and  at  the  same 
time  demands  a  thorough  reform  of  the  social  system  of  Germany 
and  Italy,  beginning  with  the  abrogation  of  the  usurped  power  of  the 
pope,  while  he  calls  for  a  national  system  of  education  as  the  foun- 
dation of  a  better  order  of  things.  This  address,  published  on  the 
2Gth  June,  1520,  electrified  the  nation.  It  was  this  appeal  which  first 
moved  the  patriotic  and  sainted  spirit  of  Ulrich  Zwinglc,  the  Swiss 
lleformcr,  who  tried  in  vain  to  dissuade  Rome  from  endeavoring  to 
crush  Luther  by  a  bull  of  excommunication.  It  was  too  late.  The 
great  step  had  been  decided  upon. 

Luther  meanwhile  continued  his  course  of  preaching  and  lecturing 
at  Wittcmbcrg,  where  nearly  two  thousand  students  were  assembled. 
1  le  published  at  this  time  his  Treatise  on  the  Mass,  in  which  he  ap- 
plied to  the  sacraments  the  pervading  doctrine  of  faith,  proving  from 
Scripture  that  every  sacrament  is  dead  without  faith  in  God's  word 
and  promises.  But  his  most  striking  work  of  this  period  is  that  on 
the  Uafylonian  Captivity  of  (he  Church  (October,  1520),  in  which  h« 


MAIITIK   LUTHER.  15 

boldly  took  the  offensive  against  Rome,  attacking  the  papacy  in  its 
principles.  It  is  remarkable  that  in  this  treatise  he  speaks  of  the 
baptism  of  infants,  who  necessarily  are  incapable  of  faith,  as  of  an 
apparent  contradiction,  which,  however,  might  be  defended.  Man  i^ 
to  have  faith  in  the  baptismal  vow  (to  be  ratified  later,  after  the 
necessary  instruction),  and  therefore  he  must  not  allow  himself  to  be 
bound  by  any  other  vow,  and  must  consider  the  work  of  his  vocation, 
whatever  it  be,  as  equally  sacred  with  that  of  priest  or  monk.  Till 
the  Christian  Church  is  organized  upon  that  principle,  the  Christian 
people  live  in  Babylonian  captivity.  In  order  to  please  some  of  his 
friends,  and  show  to  the  world  that  he  was  not  intractable,  he  ad- 
dressed a  letter  to  Leo  X.,  and  inclosed  a  treatise,  On  tJie  Liberty  of 
tJie  Christian.  He  pities  the  pope  for  having  been  thrown  like  Daniel 
into  the  midst  of  wolves,  and  predicts  that  the  Roman  court  (Curia 
llamann)  will  fall  because  she  hates  reform,  and  that  the  world  will 
be  obliged,  sooner  or  later,  to  apply  to  her  the  words  of  the  prophet  : 
"  We  would  have  healed  Babylon,  but  she  is  not  healed  :  forsake 
her,  anil  let  us  go  every  one  unto  his  own  country."  (Jcrcm.  51  :  9.) 
"  O  most  holy  father  (he  adds),  do  not  listen  to  those  flattering  sirens 
around  you  !"  The  treatise  itself  is  a  sublime  and  succinct  exposi- 
tion of  the  two  truths,  that  by  faith  the  soul  acquires  all  that  Christ 
has,  and  becomes  free  through  Him  ;  but  then  it  begins  to  serve  His 
brethren  voluntarily  from  thankfulness  to  God.  The  pope's  bull  ar- 
rived in  due  time,  but  found  the  German  nation  deaf  to  its  curses 
and  armed  against  its  arguments.  It  was  called  Dr.  Eck's  bull  ;  and 
Luther  raised,  on  the  4th  November,  his  voice  of  thunder  against  it 
in  a  short  treatise,  Against  the  Bull  of  Antichrist ;  and  on  the  17th  of 
the  same  month  he  drew  up,  before  a  notary  and  five  witnesses,  a 
solemn  protest,  in  which  he  appealed  to  a  general  council.  After 
this  manifesto  he  invited  the  university,  on  the  10th  December, 
1530,  to  see  the  anti-Christian  bull  burned  before  the  church  door,  and 
said  :  "  Now  the  serious  work  begins  ;  I  have  begun  it  in  the  name 
of  God— it  will  be  brought  to  an  end  by  his  might."  But  where  was 
the  power  to  resist  the  pope,  if  the  emperor  supported  the  pope's 
cause?  And,  indeed,  he  had  promised  this  support  to  the  pontifical 
minister  soon  after  his  coronation  at  Aix-la-Chapelle  on  the  '32d 
October.  He  declared,  however,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  must  act 
with  every  possible  regard  toward  the  elector  ;  and  this  prince  had 
courage  enough  to  propose,  as  the  only  just  measure,  to  grant,  to 
Luther  a  safe  conduct,  and  place  him  before  learned,  pious,  and  im- 
partial judges.  Erasmus,  whom  he  invited,  in  order  to  learn  h'w 
opinion,  said,  "  There  was  no  doubt  that  the  more  virtuous  and  at- 
tached to  the  Gospel  any  man  was,  the  more  he  was  found  to  incline 
toward  Luther,  who  had  been  condemned  only  by  two  universities, 
and  by  them  had  not  been  confuted." 

The  emperor  agreed  at  last  to  the  proposal  of  the  elector  Frederic, 
and  convened  a  diet  at  Worms  for  Gth  January,  1521,  where  the  two 


1C  MAKTItf 

questions  of  religion  and  of  a  reform  in  the  constitution  of  the  empire 
were  to  be  treated.  Luther,  though  in  a  Buffering  state  of  health, 
resolved  immediately  to  appear  when  summoned.  "  If  the  emperor 
calls,  it  is  God's  call — I  must  go  :  if  I  am  too  weak  to  go  in  good 
health,  I  shall  have  myself  carried  thither  sick.  They  will  not  have 
my  Mood,  after  which  they  thirst,  unless  it  is  God's  will.  Two 
things  I  cannot  do — shrink  from  the  call  nor  retract  my  opinions." 
The  nuncio  and  his  party,  on  their  side,  moved  heaven  and  earth  to 
procure  Luther's  condemnation,  and  threatened  the  Germans  with 
extermination,  saying,  "  We  shall  excite  the  one  to  fight  against  the 
other,  that  all  may  perish  in  their  own  blood" — a  threat  which  the 
papists  have  carried  out  to  the  best  of  their  power  during  two  hun- 
dred years.  The  emperor  permitted  the  nuncio  to  appear  officially 
in  the  diet,  and  to  try  to  convince  the  princes  of  the  empire  there  as- 
sembled. Alexander  tried  in  vain  to  communicate  to  the  assembly 
his  theological  hatred,  or  to  obtain  that  Luther  should  be  condemned 
as  one  judged  by  the  pope,  his  books  burned  and  his  adherents  perse- 
cuted. The  impression  produced  by  his  powerful  harangue  was  only 
transitory  ;  even  princes  who  hated  Luther  personally  would  not 
allow  his  person  and  writings  and  the  general  cause  of  reform  to  be 
confounded,  and  all  crushed  together.  The  abuses  and  exactions  of 
Home  were  too  crying.  A  committee,  appointed  by  the  diet,  pic 
sented  a  list  of  one  hundred  and  one  grievances  of  the  German  nation 
against  Rome.  This  startled  the  emperor,  who,  instead  of  ordering 
Luther's  books  to  be  burned,  issued  only  a  provisional  order  that  they 
should  be  delivered  to  the  magistrates.  When  Luther  heard  of  the 
measures  preparing  against  him  he  composed  one  of  his  most  admir- 
able treatises,  The  Exposition  of  t/ie  Magnificat,  or  (lie  Canticle  of  the, 
Vir/jin  Mary.  He  soon  learned  what  he  was  expected  to  retract.  "  If 
that  is  meant,  I  remain  where  I  am  ;  if  the  emperor  will  call  me  to 
have  me  put  to  death,  I  shall  go."  The  emperor  summoned  him, 
indeed,  on  the  6th  March,  1521,  to  appear  before  him,  and  granted 
him  at  last  a  safe-conduct,  on  which  all  his  friends  insisted.  Luther. 
in  spite  of  all  warnings,  set  out  with  the  imperial  herald  on  the  2d 
April.  Everywhere  on  the  road  he  saw  the  imperial  edict  against  his 
book  posted  up,  but  witnessed  also  the  hearty  sympathies  of  the 
nation.  At  Erfurt  the  herald  gave  way  to  the  universal  request,  and, 
against  his  instructions,  consented  to  Luther's  preaching  a  sermon— 
none  the  less  remarkable  for  not  containing  a  single  word  about 
himself.  On  the  Kith  Luther  entered  the  imperial  city  amid  an  im- 
mense concourse  of  people.  On  his  approach  to  Worms  the  elertor's 
chancellor  entreated  him,  in  the  name  of  his  master,  not  to  enter  a 
town  where  his  death  was  decided.  The  answer  which  Luther  re- 
turned was  simply  this  :  "  Tell  your  master  that  if  there  were  us 
many  devils  at  Worms  as  tiles  on  its  roofs,  I  would  enter."  When 
surrounded  by  his  friends  on  the  morning  of  the  17lh,  on  which  d:iy 
he  WHS  to  appear  before  the  august  assembly,  he  said  :  "  Christ  is  to 


MAKTIN    LUTHER.  17 

me  what  the  head  of  the  gorgon  was  to  Perseus  :  I  must  hold  it  up 
against  the  devil's  attack."  When  the  hour  approached,  he  fell  upon 
his  knees  and  uttered  in  great  agony  a  prayer  such  as  can  only  be 
pronounced  by  a  man  filled  with  the  spirit  of  Him  who  prayed  at 
Gethsemane.  Friends  took  down  his  words  ;  and  the  authentic  doc- 
ument has  been  published  by  the  great  historian  of  the  Reformation. 
He  rose  from  prayer  and  followed  the  herald.  Before  the  throne  he 
was  asked  two  questions,  Whether  he  acknowledged  the  works  be- 
fore him  to  have  been  written  by  himself  ?  and  whether  he  would 
retract  what  he  had  said  in  them  ?  Luther  requested  to  be  told 
the  titles  of  the  books,  and  then,  addressing  the  emperor,  acknowl- 
edged them  as  his  ;  as  to  the  second,  he  asked  for  time  to  reflect,  as 
he  might  otherwise  confound  his  own  opinions  with  the  declarations 
of  the  Word  of  God,  and  either  say  too  much  or  deny  Christ  and  say 
too  little,  incurring  thus  the  penalty  which  Christ  had  denounced — 
''  Whosoever  shall  deny  me  before  men,  him  will  T  also  deny  before 
my  Father  which  is  in  heaven."  The  emperor,  struck  by  this  very 
measured  answer,  which  some  mistook  for  hesitation,  after  a  short 
consultation  granted  a  day's  delay  for  the  answer,  which  was  to  be 
by  word  of  mouth.  Luther's  resolution  was  taken  :  he  only  desired 
to  convince  his  friends,  as  well  as  his  enemies,  that  he  did  not  act 
with  precipitation  at  so  decisive  a  moment.  The  next  day  he  em- 
ployed in  prayer  and  meditation,  making  a  solemn  vow  upon  the 
volume  of  Scripture  to  remain  faithful  to  the  gospel,  should  he  have 
to  seal  his  confession  with  his  blood.  Luther's  address  to  the 
emperor  has  been  preserved,  and  is  a  masterpiece  of  eloquence  as 
well  as  of  courage.  Confining  his  answer  to  the  first  point,  he  said 
that  "  nobody  could  expect  him  to  retract  indiscriminately  all  he  had 
written  in  those  books,  since  eveu  his  enemies  admitted  that  they 
contained  much  that  was  good  and  conformable  to  Scripture.  But  I 
have  besides,"  he  continued,  "  laid -open  the  almost  incredible  corrup- 
tions of  popery  and  given  utterance  to  complaints  almost  universal. 
By  retracting  what  I  have  said  on  this  score,  should  I  not  fortify  rank 
tyranny  and  open  a  still  wider  door  to  enormous  impieties  ?  Nor  can 
I  recall  what,  in  my  controversial  writings,  I  have  expressed  with  too 
great  harshness  against  the  supporters  of  popery,  my  opponents,  lest  I 
should  give  them  encouragement  to  oppress  Christian  people  still 
more.  I  can  only  say  with  Christ,  '  If  I  have  spoken  evil,  bear 
Witness  of  the  evil'  (John  18  :  23).  I  thank  God  I  see  how  that  the 
gospel  is  in  our  days,  as  it  was  before,  the  occasion  of  doubt  and  dis- 
cord. This  is  the  doctrine  of  the  word  of  God — '  I  am  not  come  to 
send  peace  but  a  sword'  (Matt.  10  :  34).  May  this  new  reign  not 
begin,  and  still  less  continue,  under  pernicious  auspices.  The  Pha- 
raohs of  Egypt,  the  kings  of  Babylon  and  of  Israel,  never  worked 
more  effectually  for  their  own  ruin  than  when  they  thought  to 
strengthen  their  power.  I  speak  thus  boldly,  not  because  I  think  that 
such  great  priuc©»  want  my  advice,  but  because  I  will  fulfil  my  duty 


IS  MARTIN   LUTHER. 

toward  Germany,  as  she  has  a  right  to  expect  from  her  children.'1 
The  emperor,  probably  in  order  to  confound  the  poor  monk,  who. 
having  been  kept  standing  so  long  in  the  midst  of  such  an  assembly, 
and  in  a  suffocating  heat,  was  almost  exhausted  in  body,  ordered  him 
to  repent  the  discourse  in  Latin.  His  friends  told  him  he  might  ex- 
cuse himself,  but  he  rallied  boldly,  and  pronounced  his  speech  in  Latin 
with  the  same  composure  and  energy  as  at  first  ;  and  to  the  reiterated 
question,  whether  he  would  retract?  Luther  replied,  "  I  cannot  sub- 
mit my  faith  either  to  the  pope  or  to  councils,  for  it  is  clear  that  they 
have  often  erred  and  contradicted  themselves.  I  will  retract  noth- 
ing, unless  convicted  by  the  very  passages  of  the  word  of  God  which 
I  have  quoted. "  And  then,  looking  up  to  the  august  assembly  before 
him,  he  concluded,  saying,  "  Here  I  take  my  stand  ;  I  cannot  do 
otherwise  :  so  help  me  God.  Amen  !"  The  courage  of  Luther  made 
a  deep  impression  even  upon  the  emperor,  who  exclaimed,  "For- 
sooth, the  monk  speaks  with  intrepidity,  and  with  a  confident  spirit. " 
The  chancellor  of  the  empire  said,  "  The  emperor  and  the  state  will 
see  what  steps  to  take  against  an  obstinate  heretic. "  All  his  friends 
trembled  at  this  undisguised  declaration.  Luther  repeated,  "  So  help 
me  God  !  I  can  retract  nothing."  Upon  this  he  was  dismissed,  then 
recalled,  and  again  asked  whether  he  would  retract  a  part  of  what  be 
bad  written.  "  I  have  no  other  answer  to  make,"  was  bis  reply. 
The  Italians  and  Spaniards  were  amazed.  Luther  was  told  the  diet 
would  come  to  a  decision  the  next  day.  When  returning  to  his  inn 
he  quieted  the  anxious  multitude  with  a  few  words,  who,  seeing  the 
Spaniards  and  Italians  of  the  emperor's  household  follow  him  with 
imprecations  and  threats,  exclaimed  loudly,  in  the  apprehension  that 
lie  was  about  to  be  conducted  to  prison. 

The  elector  and  other  princes  now  saw  it  was  their  duty  to  protect 
such  a  man,  and  sent  their  ministers  to  assure  him  of  their  support. 
The  next  day  the  emperor  declared,  "  He  could  not  allow  that  a 
single  monk  should  disturb  the  peace  of  the  Church,  and  he  was  re- 
solved to  let  him  depart,  under  condition  of  creating  no  trouble  ;  but 
(o  proceed  against  his  adherents  a.s  against  heretics  who  are  under  ex- 
communication, and  interdict  them  by  all  means  in  his  power  ;  and  he 
demanded  of  the  estates  of  the  empire  to  conduct  themselves  as  faith- 
ful Christians."  This  address,  the  suggestion  of  the  Italian  and  Span- 
ish party,  created  great  commotion.  The  most  violent  members  of 
that  party  demanded  of  the  emperor  that  Luther  should  be  burned 
and  bis  ashes  thrown  into  the  Rhine,  and  it  is  now  proved  that,  tow- 
ard the  end  of  his  life,  Charles  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  not 
having  thus  sacrificed  his  word  for  the  good  of  the  Church.  But  the 
great  majority  of  the  German  party,  even  Luther's  personal  enemies, 
rejected  such  a  proposition  with  horror,  as  unworthy  of  the  good 
faith  of  Germans.  Some  said  openly,  they  had  a  child,  misled  by 
Foreigners,  for  an  emperor.  The  emperor  decided  at  last  that  three 
•  t.iys  should  be  given  to  Luther  to  reconsider  what  he  had  said.  The 


MARTIN    LUTHER.  19 

theologians  began  to  try  their  skill  upon  him.  "  Give  up  the  Bible 
as  the  last  appeal  ;  you  allow  all  heresies  have  come  fro'm  the  Bible." 
Luther  reproached  them  for  their  unbelief,  and  added,  "  The  pope 
is  not  judge  in  the  things  that  belong  to  the  "Word  of  God  ;  every 
Christian  man  must  see  and  understand  himself  how  he  is  to  live  and 
to  die."  Two  more  days  were  granted,  without  producing  any  other 
result  than  Luther's  declaration,  "lam  ready  to  renounce  the  safe- 
conduct,  to  deliver  my  life  and  body  into  the  hands  of  the  emperor, 
but  the  Word  of  God,  never  !  I  am  also  ready  to  accept  a  council, 
but  one  which  shall  judge  only  after  the  Scripture. "  "  What  remedy 
can  you  then  name?"  asked  the  venerable  Archbishop  of  Trevcs. 
"  Only  that  indicated  by  Gamaliel,"  replied  Luther  ;  "  if  this  council 
or  this  work  be  of  men,  it  will  come  to  naught  ;  but  if  it  bo  of  God, 
ye  cannot  overthrow  it,  lest  haply  ye  be  fouud  even  to  tight  against 
God."  (Acts  5  :  38,  iJ'J.) 

Frederic  the  Wise  knew  well  that  Luther's  life  was  no  longer  safe; 
anywhere  at  this  moment.  Charles  pronounced  an  edict  of  condem- 
nation, couched  in  the  severest  terms.  Luther  was  placed  under  the 
ban  of  the  empire.  After  twenty-one  days  his  safe-conduct  would 
expire,  and  all  persons  be  forbidden  to  feed  or  to  give  him  shelter, 
and  enjoined  to  deliver  him  to  the  emperor  or  to  place  him  in  safe 
keeping  till  the  imperial  orders  should  arrive  ;  all  his  adherents  were 
to  be  seized,  and  thejr  goods  confiscated  ;  his  books  burned  ;  and  the 
authors  of  all  other  books  and  prints  obnoxious  to  the  pope  and  the 
Church  were  to  be  taken  and  punished.  Whoever  should  violate  this 
edict  should  incur  the  ban  of  the  empire. 

This  Draconian  edict  had  been  passed  by  the  majority  ;  the  friends 
of  Luther,  foreseeing  the  issue,  had  left  Worms  previously.  Such 
was  the  condign  punishment  that  befell  the  Germans  for  having 
chosen  as  their  emperor  the  most  powerful  foreign  prince  of  Europe, 
brought  up  among  the  most  bigoted  of  nations.  Under  these  circum- 
stances Frederic  did  what  he  could.  In  the  forest  of  Thuringia,  not 
far  from  Eisenach,  Luther  (who  was  not  in  the  secret)  was  stopped 
by  armed  knights,  set  upon  a  horse,  and  conducted  to  the  fortilied 
castle  above  Eisenach— the  Wartburg.  Here  the  dress  of  a  knight 
was  ready  for  him.  He  was  desired  to  consider  himself  as  a  prisoner., 
and  to  let  his  beard  grow.  None  of  his  friends,  even  at  Wittcmberg, 
knew  what  had  become  of  him.  lie  had  disappeared  ;  the  majority 
believed  he  had  been  kidnapped  by  his  powerful  enemies.  Such  was 
the  indignation  of  the  people  at  this  supposed  treachery  that  the 
princes  opposed  to  the  Reformation,  and  even  the  pope's  agents,  be- 
gan to  be  alarmed,  and  took  pains  to  convince  the  people  that  Luther 
had  not  met  with  ill  usage.  Luther  remained  ten  months  at  the 
Wartburg  ;  and  it  was  here  that  he  began  his  greatest  work,  the  trans- 
lation of  the  Bible  from  the  original  Hebrew  and  Greek  text.  Al- 
though suffering  much  in  health  from  the  confinement,  which  he 
modified  latterly  by  excursions  in  the  woods  around  the  castle,  )«« 


20  MARTIN   LUTHER. 

soon  also  began  to  compose  new  works,  and  obtained  the  necessary 
books  through  Mclanchthon,  to  whom  he  in  time  made  known  that  ho 
was  safe. 

It  is  a  most  astonishing  fact,  highly  characteristic  both  of  Luther 
and  of  the  German  nation,  that  though  for  nearly  four  years  the  true 
doctrine  of  the  gospel  had  been  preached  through  Germany  and  the 
Komish  rites  and  ceremonies  exhibited  as  abuses,  yet  not  one  single 
word  or  portion  of  these  ceremonies  had  been  changed.  Luther  con- 
scientiously believed,  what  may  be  called  the  latent  conviction  of  his 
countrymen,  that  inward  truth  will  necessarily  correct  outward  errors, 
and  mould  for  itself  fitting  forms  of  expression.  "  The  Spirit  of 
God,"  he  often  said,  "must  first  have  regenerated  minds,  imbued 
with  true  gospel  doctrine  ;  then  the  new  forms  will  result  naturally 
from  that  Spirit."  But  it  was  clearly  an  unnatural  and  highly  dan- 
gerous state  of  things,  that  the  outward  acts  of  worship  should  be 
utterly  at  variance  with  the  belief  of  the  worshippers  ;  and  Luther 
saw  that  if  he  would  not  take  the  matter  in  hand  others  were  certain 
to  do  so  ;  the  people  themselves  might  proceed  to  precipitate  acts. 
Luther  felt  this,  and  so  strongly  that  he  broke  silence  ;  and  in  Sep- 
tember published  a  declaration  against  monkish  vows,  in  the  form  of 
theses,  addressed  to  the  bishops  and  deacons  of  Wittemberg.  The 
audacious  attempt  of  the  Cardinal-Archbishop  of  Mayence,  Albert  of 
Brandenburg,  to  renew  at  Halle  the  sale  of  indulgences,  called  forth 
Luther's  philippic  (1st  November)  Against  the  New  Idol  of  Halle. 

This  attack  frightened  even  the  court  of  the  elector  of  Saxony,  who 
was  at  that  time  rather  of  opinion  that  Luther  could  do  nothing 
better  than  to  cause  himself  to  be  forgotten.  "I  cannot  allow  him 
to  attack  my  brother  elector  and  to  disturb  the  public  peace." 
Luther's  greatness  of  soul  had  elevated  the  minds  of  the  princes  for 
the  moment ;  they  had  saved  his  life,  but  they  wished  now  to  live  in 
peace,  such  as  they  had  before.  Luther  was  indignant.  "Do  they 
think  I  suffered  a  defeat  at  Worms?  It  was  a  brilliant  victory  :  so 
many  against  me,  and  not  one  to  gainsay  the  truth."  To  Spalatin, 
the  chaplain  and  adviser  of  the  elector,  he  thus  writes  :  "  How,  the 
elector  will  not  allow  me  to  write  !  and  I,  for  my  part,  will  not  allow 
him  to  disallow  my  writing.  I  will  rather  destroy  you  and  the  prince 
and  every  creature  !  Having  resisted  the  pope,  should  I  not  resist  his 
agents  ?'  At  the  request  of  Melanchthon,  he  laid  aside  the  treatise  he 
had  prepared,  but  wrote  to  the  Cardinal-Archbishop  :  "  The  God  who 
raised  such  a  fire  put  of  the  spark  kindled  by  the  words  of  a  poor 
mendicant  monk  lives  still  ;  doubt  it  not.  He  will  resist  a  cardinal 
of  Mayence,  even  though  supported  by  four  emperors  ;  for  above  all 
he  lives  to  lay  low  the  high  cedar  and  humble  the  proud  Pharaolis. 
Put  down  the  idol  within  a  fortnight  or  I  shall  attack  you  publicly.' 
Ihc  cardinal  was  frightened  by  the  sternness  of  the  man  of  God, 
Hiid  had  the  meanness  to  play  the  hypocrite.  He  thanked  Luther  br 
letter  for  his  "  Christian  and  brotherly  reproof,"  promising,  "  with 


MAKTIN   LDTHEIt.  21 

the  help  of  God,  to  live  henceforth  as  a  pioue  bishop  and  Christian 
prince."  Luther,  however,  could  not  credit  the  sincerity  of  this  dec- 
lination :  "This  man,  scarcely  capable  to  rule  over  a  small  parish, 
will  stand  in  the  way  of  salvation  as  long  as  he  does  not  throw  oil  the 
musk  of  a  cardinal  and  the  pomp  of  a  bishop." 

The  fact  was  the  cardinal  elector  wanted  money.  lie  had  had  to 
pay  26,000  ducats  to  Rome  for  his  pallium,  and  half  of  that  sum  he 
had  charged  upon  the  venders  of  indulgences  in  his  ecclesiastical  prov- 
ince ;  he  himself  having  to  spend  all  his  princely  income  on  his  court. 

During  these  nearly  ten  months  of  seclusion  Luther's  health 
suffered  greatly,  and  subjected  him  to  visions  and  hallucinations,  in 
which  he  believed  he  saw  the  devil  in  form.  His  absence  from  his 
congregation,  his  students,  and  his  friends  and  books  at  Wittemberg, 
weighed  heaviiy  upon  him.  Still  he  held  out  patiently  till  events  oc- 
curred which  called  upon  the  Reformer  no  longer  to  absent  himself. 
He  reappeared,  without  previous  notice,  among  his  friends  at  Wit- 
temberg, whom  he  found  in  great  commotion.  Thirteen  monks  of 
Luther's  own  convent  had  left  it  on  the  ground  of  religious  convic- 
tion, with  the  approbation  of  Melauchthon,  who  also  countenanced 
the  general  demand  for  the  abrogation  of  the  mass.  "  What  we  are 
to  celebrate,"  said  he,  "in  the  communion,  is  a  sign  of  the  grace 
given  us  through  Christ,  but  differing  from  symbols  invented  by  man 
by  its  inward  power  of  rendering  the  heart  certain  of  the  will  of 
God."  This  is  the  simplest  and  truest  form  of  Luther's  own  view 
of  the  Lord's  Supper,  when  he  looked  on  it  not  scholastically.  There 
is  a  reality  in  Christ's  sacrifice  for  us  ;  indeed,  it  is  the  reality  of  our 
destiny  that  we  remember  it,  as  he  has  bidden  his  disciples  to  do  :  it 
has  therefore  naturally  an  inward  force,  not  an  imaginary  effect,  like 
looking  on  a  cross  and  similar  outward  forms.  What  calamities 
would  the  world  have  been  spared  if  this  view,  in  its  profound  sim- 
plicity and  depth,  had  not  been  dressed  up  in  formularies  partaking 
of  that  very  scholasticism  which  the  Reformation  was  to  abolish  ! 
The  prior  of  the  convent  discontinued  from  that  time  low  masses. 
It  was  high  time,  indeed,  that  this  central  point  of  Christian  worship 
should  be  taken  in  hand  by  the  Reformers  ;  for  at  Zwickau,  in  Kax- 
ouy,  an  enthusiast  named  Stork  arose,  who  pretended  to  have  a 
commission  from  the  archangel  Gabriel  to  reform  and  govern  the 
Church  and  the  world,  and  who  was  supported  in  this  by  a  fanatic 
named  Thomas  Munzer.  When  they  appeared  at  Wittemberg  an- 
nouncing their  visions,  even  Melanchthon  was  startled,  and  especially 
hesitated  as  to  the  question  of  paedo-baptism.  Carlstadt,  Luther's 
disciple  and  friend,  advocated  the  most  revolutionary  changes.  He 
broke  down  the  images,  preached  against  learning  and  study,  and 
exhorted  his  hearers  to  go  home  and  gain  their  bread  by  digging  tho 
ground.  Luther  did  not  hesitate  a  moment  to  condemn  the  whole 
movement  as  a  delusion  for  men  who  gloried  in  their  own  wisdom, 
which  could  only  cause  a  triumph  to  the  enemies  of  reform.  At  aii 


22  MAKTIN   LUTHER. 

interview  which  he  had  with  Munzer  and  Horst,  they  said  they  could 
prove  to  him  that  they  had  the  Spirit  ;  for  they  would  tell  him  what 
now  passed  in  his  mind.  Luther  challenged  them  to  the  proof. 
"  You  think  in  your  own  heart  that  we  are  right."  Luther  ex- 
claimed, "Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan,"  and  dismissed  them. 
"They  are  quite  right,"  he  said  to  his  friends  afterward;  "that 
thought  crossed  my  mind  as  to  some  of  their  assertions.  A  spirit 
evidently  was  in  them,  but  what  could  it  be  but  the  evil  one  ?"  Here 
we  see  the  difference  between  Luther  and  Melauchlhon.  Luther  was 
not  startled  from  his  solid  judgment  as  Melauchthou  had  been  by  this 
movement ;  and  JVlelaucthou  in  after  years  was  a  more  violent  an- 
tagonist of  anabaptism  than  Luther. 

It  was  on  the  3d  March,  1522,. that  Luther  left  forever  his  asylum 
and  plunged  into  the  midst  of  struggles  very  different  in  their  char- 
acter from  those  which  he  had  hitherto  so  victoriously  overcome. 
Before  arriving  at  Wittembcrg  he  wrote  a  remarkable  letter  to  the 
elector  :  "  You  wish  to  know  what  to  do  in  the  present  troublesome 
circumstances.  Do  nothing.  As  for  myself,  let  the  command  of  the 
emperor  be  executed  in  town  and  country.  Do  not  resist  if  they 
come  to  seize  and  kill  me  ;  only  let  the  doors  remain  open  for  the 
preaching  of  the  word  of  God."  One  of  the  editors  of  Luther's 
works  observes  on  the  margin,  "  This  is  a  marvellous  writing  of  the 
third  and  last  Elijah."  The  elector  was  touched  by  Luther's  mag- 
nanimity. "  1  will  take  up  his  defence  at  the  diet ;  only  let  him  ex- 
plain his  reasons  for  having  returned  to  Wittemberg  and  say  he  did 
so  without  my  orders."  Luther  complied,  adding,  "  I  can  bear  your 
Highness*  disfavor.  I  have  done  my  duty  toward  those  whom  Goil 
lias  intrusted  to  me."  And  indeed  he  made  it  his  first  duly  to  preach 
almost  daily  the  gospel  of  peace  to  his  Hock.  "No  violence,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  against  the  superstitious  or  unbelieving.  Let  him  who 
believes  draw  near,  and  let  him  who  does  not  believe  stand  aloof. 
Nobody  is  to  be  constrained  ;  liberty  is  essential  to  faith  and  all  that 
belongs  to  it.  .  .  .  You  have  acted  in  faith,"  he  said,  'but  do 
not  forget  charity,  and  the  Avisdom  which  mothers  show  in  the  care 
of  their  children.  Let  the  reform  of  the  mass  be  undertaken  with 
earnest  prayer.  The  power  of  the  word  is  irresistible  :  the  idols  of 
Athens  fell  not  by  force,  but  before  the  mighty  words  of  the  apostle." 
This  evangelical  meekness  of  the  man  who  had  braved  pope  and 
emperor,  and  knew  not  fear,  acted  with  divine  power  upon  all  minds. 
The  agitation  and  sedition  disappeared.  The  pretended  prophets 
viisi>ersed,  or  were  silenced  in  public  debate. 

On  the  21st  September,  1522,  the  translation  of  the  New  Testament 
Appeared  in  two  volumes  folio,  which  sold  at  about  a  ducat  and  a  half. 
The  translation  of  the  Old  Testament  was  commenced  in  the  same 
year.  Thousands  of  copies  were  read  with  indescribable  delight  by 
the  people,  who  had  now  access  to  the  words  of  Him  whom  Luther 
had  preached  to  them  as  the  author  of  our  salvation  in  their  inotln  r 


MA11TIK   LUTHEE.  23 

tongue,  in  a  purity  and  clearness  unknown  before,  and  never  Bur- 
passed  since.  By  choosing  the  Franconian  dialect,  in  use  in  the  im- 
perial chancery,  Luther  made  himself  intelligible  both  to  thoae  whose 
vernacular  dialect  was  High  German  or  Low  German.  Luther  trans- 
lated faithfully  but  vernacularly,  with  a  native  grace  which  up  to 
this  day  makes  his  Bible  the  standard  of  the  German  language.  It  is 
Luther's  genius  applied  to  the  Bible  which  has  preserved  the  only 
unity,  which  is,  in  our  clays,  remaining  to  the  German  nation — that 
of  language,  literature,  and  thought.  There  is  no  similar  instance 
in  the  known  history  of  the  world  of  a  single  man  achieving  such  a 
work.  His  prophetic  mind  foresaw  that  the  Scripture  would  per- 
vade the  living  languages  and  tongues  all  over  the  earth — a  process 
going  on  still  with  more  activity  than  ever. 

Meanwhile  the  vanity  and  presumption  of  Henry  VIII.  induced 
him  to  publish  a  book  against  Luther,  in  which  he  heaped  upon 
Luther  every  opprobrious  epithet  ;  even  called  in  question  his  honesty 
and  sincerity,  and  declared  him  worthy  to  be  burned.  His  Defence 
of  the  Seven  /Sticramctits  merely  recapitulates  the  old  scholastic  tradition 
without  the  slightest  understanding  of  the  Bible  or  of  the  evangelical 
doctrine.  Henry's  ambassador  declared  to  the  pope,  in  presenting 
the  book,  that  the  king  was  now  ready  to  use  the  sword  against 
Luther's  adherents,  after  having  refuted  the  errors  of  Luther  himself. 
Luther,  after  having  read  the  book,  declared,  contrary  to  the  desire 
of  the  elector  and  of  his  other  friends,  that  he  must  answer  it. 
"  Look,"  he  writes,  "  what  weapons  are  used  against  me  :  lire  and 
the  fury  of  those  stupid  Thomists.  Let  them  burn  me  :  alive  I  shall 
be  the  enemy  of  popery  ;  burned  I  shall  be  its  ruin.  Everywhere  they 
will  liud  me  in  their  way,  like  a  bear  or  a  lion. "  In  the  answer  itself 
n<i  pay8  th°  king  in  his  own  coin.  After  having  taken  the  crown 
from  his  head  and  beaten  him  like  any  other  controversial  writer,  he 
exclaims,  "  I  cry  Gospel !  Gospel  !  Christ  !  Christ !  and  they  cease 
not  to  answer,  Usages,  usages !  ordinances,  ordinances  !  fathers, 
fathers  !  The  apostle  St.  Paul  annihilates  with  a  thunder-storm  from 
heaven  all  these  fooleries  of  Henry."  The  king  wrote  to  the  elector 
and  the  dukes  of  Saxony,  exhorting  them  to  extirpate  this  heresy, 
as  being  the  revival  of  that  of  Wycliite.  Their  answer  referred  Henry 
to  the  future  council.  The  cause  of  the  Reformation  suffered  nothing 
from  Henry's  attacks  and  the  invectives  of  his  courtiers.  The  move- 
ment against  the  sacerdotal  and  monkish  vows  extended  through  the 
whole  of  Germany,  affecting  equally  priests  and  laymen.  Zealous 
preachers  of  the  gospel  rose  from  all  ranks.  Noble  and  pious  women 
came  forward  to  declare  their  faith.  Luther's  activity  was  unparal- 
leled. In  1522  he  published  one  hundred  and  thirty  treatises,  and 
eighty-three  in  the  following  year. 

The  whole  national  literature  of  Germany  became  Protestant  ;  and 
it  is  certainly  a  remarkable  fact  that,  in  spite  of  the  Reformation 
having  since  lost  almost  one  half  of  Germany,  its  literature,  as  well 


24  MAKTlH    LUTHER. 

as  its  historical  learning  and  philology,  still  remains  Protestant.  All 
tin;  free  cities,  which  were  the  cradle  of  the  flue  arts  as  well  as  of  the 
wealth  of  the  country,  declared  in  favor  of  the  Reformation.  In 
Saxony  there  was,  as  Luther  had  proposed  and  demanded,  perfect 
liberty  of  conscience  ;  the  Romish  bishops  had  their  preachers  a 
well  as  the  Reformers. 

Luther's  heart  expanded  in  the  consciousness  of  the  Reformers 
success  such  as  he  had  never  hoped  to  see.  But  he  shrunk  from  tin 
idea  that  this  work  should  be  regarded  as  his,  and  that  he  should 
have  the  honor  of  it.  "  My  true  disciples,"  he  said,  "  do  not  believe 
in  Luther,  but  in  Jesus  Christ ;  I  myself  care  nothing  about  Luther. 
What  is  it  to  me  whether  he  be  a  saint  or  a  miscreant  ?  It  is  not 
him  I  preach,  but  Christ.  If  the  devil  can,  let  him  huve  Christ ;  but 
if  Christ  remains  ours,  we  also  shall  subsist." 

When  Leo  X.  died,  in  this  year  (1522),  Adrian,  the  Flemish  tutor  of 
Charles  V.,  his  successor,  a  single-minded  professor,  could  not  (as 
Jarus  tells  us)  at  first  conceive  how  people  could  find  a  difficulty  in 
the  matter  of  indulgences,  which  he  had  explained  so  well  in  his  lec- 
tures, till  a  cardinal  remarked  to  him  that  the  unbelieving  people 
had  no  faith  in  indulgences  whatsoever,  and  that  some  of  those  who 
believed  in  Christ  thought  that  exactly  for  that  reason  they  did  not 
want  them.  "The  Church  must  reform,"  said  he,  "but  step  by 
step. "  "  Yes, "  said  Luther,  "  putting  some  centuries  between  every 
step."  Nobody  wanted  his  reforms  less  than  the  Romans  ;  and 
Adrian  exclaimed  at  last,  "  How  unfortunate  is  the  position  of  the 
popes,  who  arc  not  even  free  to  do  good  !" 

In  November,  1522,  the  diet  assembled  at  Nuremberg  on  account  of 
an  impending  war  with  the  Turks.  While  the  nuncio  and  the  bishops 
demanded  Luther's  death,  the  churches  of  the  imperial  free  city  re- 
sounded with  the  doctrine  of  the  gospel ;  monks  being  among  fche 
most  zealous  preachers.  What  a  change  from  the  state  of  things  at 
Worms  in  April,  1521  !  The  municipal  council  of  the  free  city  de- 
clared that  if  those  preachers  were  to  be  seized  by  force,  they  would 
instantly  set  them  free  by  force.  The  legate  was  obliged  to  abandon 
his  plan  of  arresting  them  in  the  pope's  name,  as  the  diet  declared  it- 
self incompetent  to  do  so.  Adrian's  sincere  avowal  of  the  horrible 
abuses  of  Rome  confirmed  the  people  in  the  belief  that  Luther  and 
the  gospel  were  right,  and  made  his  threatening  brief,  addressed  to 
the  elector,  whom  he  declared  worthy  of  death  and  eternal  damna- 
tion, appear  as  ridiculous  as  it  was  arrogant.  Luther  and  all  his 
friends,  whose  advice  the  elector  asked  at  this  critical  moment,  de- 
clared that  he  ought  not  to  fight  for  the  gospel,  seeing  that  the  people, 
without  whose  consent  he  could  not  declare  war,  would  not  in  the 
spirit  of  faith  declare  for  such  a  measure.  But  other  princes  were 
frightened,  because  they  had  no  faith  whatever,  except  in  superior 


strength  and  power  of  pope  and  emperor.     "Let  them  take  care," 
KUK!  Luther,  "  if  they  persecute  the  gospel,  th 


there  will  be  a  rebellion 


MARTIN"   LUTHER.  25 

and  civil  war,  and  the  princes  will  be  in  danger  of  losing  their  do- 
minions. They  wish  to  destroy  me,  but  I  wish  to  save  them.  Christ 
lives  and  reigns  ;  and  I  shall  live  and  reign  with  him."  Indeed,  a 
bloody  persecution  began  in  many  parts  of  Germany  and  in  the 
Netherlands.  Four  Augustinian  monks  of  Antwerp  were  the  first 
martyrs  ;  they  were  burned  on  the  1st  July,  1523.  Their  blood  called 
forth  a  rich  harvest  of  new  witnesses  in  Brussels  and  elsewhere. 

When  the  successor 'of  Adrian  VI.,  Clement  VII.  (Julius  de  Me- 
dici), sent  in  1524  the  celebrated  legate  Campeggi  to  Nuremberg,  he 
intended,  according  to  usage,  on  passing  through  Augsburg,  to  give 
the  people  the  papal  benediction  ;  but  finding  that  the  ceremony 
called  forth  public  derision,  the  legate  entered  Nuremberg  as  much 
incognito  as  Luther  had  entered  Worms  two  years  before.  The  Ger- 
man princes  asked  what  had  become  of  the  one  hundred  and  one 
grievances  of  the  German  nation,  to  which  Rome  never  had  deigned 
to  return  an  answer.  Campeggi  declared  the  document  to  have  been 
considered  at  Rome  merely  as  a  private  pamphlet ;  on  which  the 
diet,  in  great  indignation,  insisted  upon  the  necessity  of  a  universal 
council,  and  proceeded  to  annul  the  edict  of  Worms  ;  declaring,  how- 
ever, in  their  communication  to  the  pope,  that  "  it  should  be  con- 
formed to  an  much  as  possible  ;"  which,  with  respect  to  many  princes 
and  cities,  meant  not  at  all.  Finally  it  was  resolved  that  a  diet,  to 
he  held  at  Spires  in  November,  was  to  decide  on  religious  differences. 
Many  states  which  had  hitherto  kept  aloof — the  landgrave  of  Bran- 
denburg (not  the  elector,  a  strong  papist)  at  the  head — declared  im- 
mediately for  the  reform,  and  against  the  seven  sacraments,  the  abuses 
of  the  mass,  the  worship  of  saints,  and  supremacy  of  the  pope.  "  That 
is  a  good  move, ' '  said  Luther.  ' '  Frederic  must  lose  his  electoral  hat, " 
cried  the  Roman  agent,  "  and  France  and  England  must  interfere." 
A  Catholic  league  was  formed,  by  Bavarian  and  other  bishops,  at 
Ratisbon,  under  Campeggi 's  direction  and  presidency.  But  the 
princes  were  still  afraid  of  the  universally  spreading  national  move- 
ment. Charles  threw  his  power  into  the  balance  and  declared  that 
not  the  German  nation  but  the  emperor  alone  had  a  right  to  de- 
mand a  council,  and  the  pope  alone  had  the  right  to  grant  it.  Hi* 
designated  successor,  his  brother  Ferdinand,  began  the  bloody  work 
of  persecution  in  the  hereditary  states  of  Austria  immediately  after 
the  congress  of  the  league  at  Ratisbon.  At  Passau  in  Bavaria,  and 
at  Bucla  in  Hungary,  the  fagots  were  lighted.  The  dukes  of  Bavaria 
followed  the  same  impulse. 

Meanwhile  began  at  Wittemberg  the  unhappy  dispute  about  the 
mode  in  which  the  consecration  affected  the  elements  in  the  celebra- 
tion of  the  communion  enjoined  by  Christ.  Luther  as  yet  had  not 
taken  up  that  doctrinal  scholastic  opinion  which  afterward  pro- 
duced the  fatal  schism.  In  opposing  Carlstadt's  view,  he  combated 
not  so  much  the  later  Swiss  exposition  as  Carlstadt's  false  interpreta- 
tion of  the  words,  "  This  is  my  body,"  which  was,  that  Christ,  iu 


$6  MARTIN    LUTHEtt. 

pronouncing  them,  had  pointed  to  his  own  body,  which  soon  would 
die.  lie  admitted  soon  afterward,  in  reference  to  that  exppsitio  n 
in  1520,  that  lie  was  very  near  thinking  the  Swiss  interpretation  the 
reasonable  view  of  the  case,  but  that  he  had  rejected  the  notion  as  a 
"  temptation,"  the  words  of  the  text  seeming  to  him  not  to  allow  of 
that  interpretation. 

Hut  in  the  same  manner  as  this  dispute  was  a  prelude  to  the  fatal 
sacramental  disputes  with  Zwingle  and  Calvin,  Luther's  defeat  in  die 
attempt  to  detach  the  congregation  of  a  small  town  (Orlamunde,  near 
Jena)  from  Carlstadt,  who  introduced  iconoclastic  and  violent  pro 
ccedings,  proved  an  index  of  the  critical  state  of  public  feeling. 
Lather  felt  the  urgent  necessity  of  applying  the  principles  of  the 
gospel  to  Christian  worship  and  to  the  constitutions  of  the  Church. 
But  on  the  first  point  he  wished  changes  to  be  introduced  gradually, 
and  rather  as  a  purification  of  the  existing  forms  than  by  an  abroga- 
tion. While  as  to  the  second,  he  felt  that  it  was  not  his  immediate 
vocation,  and  lie  thought  he  must  leave  the  work  to  the  princes,  and 
content  himself  with  preaching  to  them  the  leading  evangelical  prin- 
ciples. This,  of  course,  was  not  the  view  of  the  real  friends  of  the 
Reformation,  nor  was  it  consistent  with  Luther's  usual  profound 
sagacity,  but  must  be  regarded  as  a  remnant  of  the  effect  produced 
by  his  monkish  scholastic  education  brought  into  accordance  with 
Christianity.  His  more  practical  and  perhaps  impatient  friends 
wanted  to  see  the  pagan  condition  of  the  world,  with  its  social  rela- 
tions, changed  into  a  Christian  state  of  things,  as  an  earnest  and 
pledge  of  the  reality  of  the  gospel  preaching.  Still,  for  some  time 
longer  Luther  and  the  popular  feeling  marched  peaceably  together, 
and  he  remained  the  national  as  well  as  the  theological  leader.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  he  directed  a  powerful  address  to  the  immcipal 
councils  of  the  German  towns,  in  order  to  exhort  them  to  establish 
everywhere  Christian  schools,  as  well  elementary  as  learned.  "Oh, 
my  dear  Germans,"  he  exclaims,  "  the  Divine  Word  is  now  in  abun- 
dance offered  to  you.  God  knocks  at  your  door  ;  open  it  to  him  ! 
Forget  not  the  poor  youth.  Look  how  the  ancient  Jewish,  (-creek, 
and  I  toman  world  lost  the  Word  of  God,  and  perished.  The  strength 
of  a  town  does  not  consist  in  its  towers  and  buildings,  but  in  count- 
ing a  great  number  of  learned,  serious,  honest,  well-educated  citizens. 
Di>  not  fancy  Hebrew  and  Greek  to  be  unnecessary.  These  lan- 
guages are  the  sheath  which  covers  the  sword  of  the  Spirit.  The  igno- 
ranee  of  the  original  Scriptures  was  an  impediment  to  the  progress  of 
the  \VaMeii.ses,  whose  doctrine  is  perfectly  pure.  How  could  I  have 
combated  and  overthrown  pope  and  sophists,  even  having  the  true 
fnith,  if  I  had  not  possessed  the  languages?  You  must  found  libra- 
ries for  learned  books— not  only  the  fathers,  but  also  the  pagan 
writers,  the  fine  arts,  law,  history,  medicine,  must  be  represented  in 
fluch  collections. "  These  expressions  prove  that  from  the  very  be- 
ginning and  in  the  very  person  of  Luther,  the  Reformation  was  coa- 


MAKTIN   LUTHER.  it 

nected  with  scholarship — with  philology  in  its  most  extended  sense, 
and  equally  with  the  highest  aspirations  of  the  fine  arts. 

Here  we  must  conclude  this  first  glorious  period  of  Luther 'g  life, 
which,  taken  altogether,  has  no  parallel  since  the  days  of  the  apostle 
Paul.  But  the  problem  to  be  solved  was  not  to  be  solved  by  Luther 
and  by  Germany  ;  the  progressive,  vital  element  of  reformation  pu-^ci  I 
from  Germany  to  Switzerland,  and  through  Switzerland  to  France, 
Holland,  England  and  Scotland.  Before  he  descended  into  the  grave 
and  Germany  into  thraldom,  Luther  saved  (as  much  as  was  in  him)  hi* 
country  and  the  world,  by  maintaining  the  fundamental  principles  of 
the  Reformation  against  Melanchthon's  pusillanimity  ;  but  tkree  Prot 
estant  princes  and  the  free  cities  were  the  leaders  ;  the  confession  vvus 
the  work  of  Melanchthon,  but  the  deed  of  the  laity  of  the  nation.  The 
German  Reformation  was  made  by  a  scholastically  trained  monk, 
seconded  by  professors  ;  the  Swiss  Reformation  was  the  work  of  a 
free  citizen,  an  honest  Christian,  trained  by  the  classics  of  antiquity 
and  nursed  in  true  hard-won  civil  liberty.  That  was  the  providen- 
tial saving  of  the  world.  Luther's  work  was  continued,  preserved, 
advanced  by  the  work  of  the  Swiss  and  French  Reformers.  The 
monk  and  the  Semitic  element  began  ;  the  citizens  and  the  Japhetic*, 
element  finished.  If  the  one  destroyed  Judaism,  the  other  converted 
paganism,  then  most  powerful,  both  as  idolatry  and  as  irreligious 
learning.  But  as  long  as  Luther  lived  he  did  not  lose  his  supremacy, 
and  he  deserved  to  keep  it.  *His  mind  was  universal,  and  therefore 
catholic  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word. 

THIRD  PERIOD. — Lutlier's  Life  from  1525  to  1546  ;  or,  the  Period 
of  Stagnation. 

The  first  year  after  Luther's  return  to  Wittemberg  was  a  glorious 
period  :  the  true  halcyon  days  of  the  Reform  and  ftf  Luther's  per- 
sonal history.  In  the  second  period  of  his  life  the  epic  was  changed 
into  tragedy  ;  for  the  Anabaptist  tumult  arose,  and  the  war  of  the 
peasants  broke  out  in  the  Black  Forest,  in  July,  1524. 

The  Anabaptist  movement  of  Thomas  Munzcr  was  the  movement  of 
Carlstadt  mixed  up  with  wild  enthusiasm,  ignorance,  rebellion,  and  im- 
posture. Lutlier's  doctrinal  opposition  to  it  was  constant  and  con- 
sistent ;  but  it  would  have  been  more  effectual  if  Luther  had  not 
involved  himself  as  a  schoolman  in  an  indissoluble  difficulty.  He- 
was  safe  in  defending  p;edo-baptism  ;  but  that  could  be  done  with 
out  ascribing  to  it  the  power  of  individual  regeneration  ;  an  opinion 
from  which  the  greatest  part  of  Christendom  has  most  decisively 
declared  its  dissent  all  over  the  globe.  He  was  equally  justified  in 
maintaining  the  word  of  the  gospel  :  "  Whoever  believes  and  is  bap- 
tized shall  be  saved  ;"  but  he  ought  not  to  have  forgotten  that  this  is 
a  juxtaposition  of  two  things  of  which  the  one  can  only  be  of  value 
as  a  consequence  of  the  first.  This  brings  the  question  back  to  a  «4- 

A.B-JO 


28  HARTIK   LUTHER. 

eran  profession  and  vow  before  the  Christian  congregation  of  h..rr» 
who  having  been  instructed  in  Christ's  saving  faith  finds  himself 
ready  and  compelled  to  make  that  solemn  promise,  which  St.  Peter 
calls  (1  Peter  3:  21)  "the  promise  (or  vow)  of  a  good  con- 
science." Munzer  and  all  the  other  so-called  apostles  of  the  Spirit 
:i Marked  Luther  as  a  mere  worldly  man  who  had  sold  himself  to  the 
princes.  They  abolished  chanting  and  all  ceremonies,  and  com- 
mit led  acts  of  violence  against  churches  and  convents.  Luther  said 
to  Munzer,  "  The  spirit  who  moves  thee  must  be  an  evil  one,  for  it 
brings  forth  nothing  but  pillage  of  convents  and  churches  ;  the 
greatest  robbers  on  the  earth  could  do  no  more."  While  combating 
them  by  preaching  and  writing,  he  advised,  however,  the  elector  to 
let  them  preach  freely.  "  The  Word  of  God  itself  must  come  for- 
ward and  contend  with  them.  If  their  spirit  is  the  true  one,  Mun/.cr 
will  fear  our  constraint ;  if  ours  is  the  true  one,  he  will  not  fear  their 
violence.  Let  the  spirits  meet  with  all  might,  and  fight  each  other. 
Perhaps  some  will  be  seduced  ;  well,  there  is  no  battle  without 
wounds;  but  he  that  fights  faithfully  will  be  crowned.  But  if  they 
have  recourse  to  the  sword,  then  defend  your  own  subjects,  and  or- 
der the  Anabaptists  to  leave  the  country. ' ' 

It  was  indeed  a  wonderful  faith  that  produced  such  toleration  in 
these  times,  and  it  had  a  wonderful  result — the  elector's  stales  re- 
mained undisturbed.  Munzer  fled  into  Switzerland. 

It  was  otherwise  with  the  war  of  the  .peasants.  We  have  already 
observed  that  the  Reformation  did  not  originate  the  rebellion  of  the 
peasants,  but  found  it  prepared.'  The  first  coalitions  of  the  peasants 
against  the  intolerable  rapacity  and  cruelty  of  the  feudal  aristocracy 
had  l>egun  before  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century  ;  then  they  broke 
out  along  the  upper  Rhine,  in  Alsace,  and  the  palatinate,  in  lOo:., 
consequently  eighteen  years  before  the  beginning  of  Luther's  Refor- 
mation. No  doubt  Luther's  preaching,  in  the  spirit  of  the  gospel, 
against  all  the  revolting  injustice  and  oppression  of  the  conscience 
•  it  Christian  men  had  kept  back  that  movement  for  a  time  ;  but 
Murr/.cr  carried  the  spirit  of  rebellion  and  fanaticism  among  the  peas- 
ants and  part  of  the  citizens  of  the  countries  of  the  Upper  Rhine. 
The  fact  was,  that  all  the  oppressed  inclined  toward  Luther,  and  the 
oppressors,  most  of  whom  were  the  sovereigns,  bishops,  and  abbots, 
toward  the  pope.  The  struggle  which  now  began  was  therefore 
between  the  reforming  and  the  papist  party,  and  it  was  easily  to  be 
foreseen  that  Luther  would  soon  be  dragged  into  it.  Indeed,  the 
revolutionary  movement  was  already,  in  Januuy,  1525,  extending 
from  the  Black  Forest  to  Thuringia  and  Saxony,  the  very  heart  of 
Luther's  sphere  of  action.  The  peasants  had  proclaimed  twelve  arti- 
cles, of  half  biblical  half  political  character.  In  the  introduction  to 
these  articles  they  protest  against  the  imputation  of  wanting  any- 
thing but  the  gospel  applied  to  the  social  body.  They  declare  their 
desire  to  uphold  its  injunctions — peace,  patience,  and  union.  There 


MARTIN    LUTHER.  29 

is  nu  doubt  that  many  of  them  were  sincere  in  their  professions.  At 
all  events,  neither  the  gospel  nor  its  true  preachers  and  followers 
were  the  revolutionists,  but  the  wild,  selfish,  passionate  enthusiasts 
among  them  and  their  leaders.  Like  the  Puritans  in  the  following 
century,  the  peasants  say  they  raise  their  voice  to  God  who  saved  the 
people  of  Israel  ;  and  they  believe  that  God  can  save  them  as  well 
from  their  powerful  oppressors  as  he  did  the  Israelites  from  the  hand 
of  Pharaoh. 

As  to  what  they  demanded  in  their  twelve  articles,  all  impartial 
historians  declare  that,  on  the  whole,  their  demands  were  just  ;  and  all 
of  them  are  now  the  law  of  Germany.  As  to  the  influence  of  the  Ref- 
ormation, the  very  words  of  Scripture,  brought  forward  this  time  by 
the  peasants,  prove  dourly  that  Luther's  preaching  of  the  gospel  and 
of  truth  had  nut  acted  upon  the  movement  as  an  incentive  but  as  a 
corrective.  It  was  Luther  himself  who  now,  in  the  critical  moment, 
brought  the  Word  of  God  to  speak  out  against  the  insurrection,  as 
being  in  itself  an  act  of  unchristian  self-defence,  although  he  ac- 
knowledged their  case  to  be  very  hard,  and  their  cause,  on  the  whole, 
a  just  one.  Luther's  position  was  grand  ;  he  spoke  as  the  arbiter  be- 
tween lord  and  peasant  ;  in  the  name  of  Christ  exhorting  both  parties 
to  peace,  and  as  a  good  citizen  and  patriot  giving  them  advice  equal- 
ly practical  and  Christian,  lie  first  speaks  thus  in  substance  to  the 
lords  :  "I  might  now  make  common  cause  with  the  peasants 
against  you,  who  impute  this  insurrection  to  the  gospel  and  to  my 
teaching  ;  whereas  I  have  never  ceased  to  enjoin  obedience  to  au- 
thority, even  to  one  so  tyrannical  and  intolerable  as  yours.  But  I 
will  not  envenom  the  wound  ;  therefore,  my  lords,  whether  friendly 
or  hostile  to  me,  do  not  despise  either  the  advice  of  a  poor  man,  or 
(his  sedition  ;  not  that  3^011  ought  to  fear  the  insurgents,  but  fear  God 
the  Lord,  who  is  incensed  against  you.  He  may  punish  you  and 
turn  every  stone  into  a  peasant,  and  then  neither  your  cuirasses  nor 
your  strength  would  save  you.  Put  then  bounds  to  your  exactions — • 
pause  in  your  hard  tyranny,  consider  them  as  intoxicated,  and  treat 
them  with  kindness,  that  God  may  not  kindle  a  fire  throughout  tier-- 
many which  none  will  be  able  to  extinguish.  What  you  may  per- 
haps lose  will  be  made  good  to  you  a  hundredfold  by  peace.  Somo 
of  the  twelve  articles  of  the  peasants  are  so  equitable  that  they  dis- 
honor you  before  God  and  the  world  ;  they  cover  the  princes  with 
shame,  as  the  lODth  Psalm  says.  I  should  have  yet  graver  things  to 
tell  you  respecting  the  government  of  Germany,  and  1  have  ad- 
dressed you  in  this  cause  in  my  book  to  the  German  nobility.  But 
you  have  considered  my  words  as  wind,  and  therefore  all  these  de- 
mands come  now  upon  you.  You  must  not-  refuse  their  demand  as 
to  choosing  paste. 's  who  preach  to- them  the  gospel  ;  the  government 
has  only  to  see  thav  insurrection  and  rebellion  be  not  preached  ;  but 
there  must  be  perfec*.  liberty  to  preach  the  true  gospel  as  well  as  tlio 
false.  The  remaining  articles,  which  regard  the  social  state  of  th« 


30  MARTIN    LUTIIER. 

peasant,  are  equally  just.  Government  is  not  established  for  its  ow» 
interest,  nor  to  make  the  people  subservient  to  caprice  and  evil  pas- 
sions, but  for  the  interest  of  the  people.  Your  exactions  air  intoler- 
able ;  you  lake  away  from  the  peasant  the  fruit  of  hie  labor,  in  order 
ID  spend  his  money  upon  your  finery  and  luxury.  So  much  for 
you. 

"  Now,  as  regards  you,  my  dear  friends,  the  peasants.  You  want 
the  free  preaching  of  the  gospel  to  be  secured  to  you.  God  will  as- 
sist your  just  cause  if  yon  follow  up  your  work  with  conscience  and 
justice.  In  that  case  you  are  sure  to  triumph  in  the  end.  Those  of 
you  who  may  fall  in  the  struggle  will  be  saved.  But  if  you  act 
otherwise  you  are  lost,  soul  and  body,  even  if  you  have  success,  and 
defeat  the  princes  and  lords.  Do  not  believe  the  false  prophets  who 
IIHVC  come  among  you,  even  if  they  invoke  the  holy  name  of  the  gos- 
pel. They  will  call  me  a  hypocrite,  but  I  do  not  mind  that.  1  wish 
1o  suve  the  pious  and  honest  men  among  you.  I  fear  God  and  none 
else.  Do  you  fear  him  also,  and  use  not  his  name  in  vain,  that  he 
may  not  punish  you.  Does  not  the  Word  of  God  siiy,  '  lie  who 
takes  up  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword  ; '  and  '  Let  every  soul  be 
subject  to  the  higher  powers '  ?  .  You  must  not  take  justice  into 
your  own  hands  ;  that  is  also  the  prescription  of  the  natural  law. 
Do  you  not  see  that  you  put  yourself  in  the  wrong  by  rebellion  ?  The 
government  takes  away  part  of  what  is  yours,  but  you  take  away  all 
in  destroying  principle.  Fix  your  eye  on  Christ  at  Gethsemane  re- 
buking St.  Peter  for  using  the  sword,  although  in  defence  of  his  Mas- 
ter, and  on  Christ  on  the  cross  praying  for  his  persecutors.  And  h:u 
not  his  kingdom  triumphed  ?  Why  have  pope  and  emperor  not  been 
able  to  put  me  down  ?  Why  has  the  gospel  spread  the  more  the 
greater  the  effort  they  made  to  hinder  and  destroy  it  ?  Because  I 
have  never  had  recourse  to  force,  but  preached  obedience  ev\m  tow- 
ard those  who  persecuted  me,  depending  exclusively  on  God.  But 
whatever  you  do,  do  not  try  to  cover  your  enterprise  by  the  cloak  of 
the  gospel  and  the  name  of  Christ.  If  war  there  must  be,  it  will  be 
a  war  of  pagans,  for  Christians  use  other  weapons  ;  their  general 
raftered  the  cross,  and  their  triumph  is  humility  :  that  is  their  chiv- 
alry. Pray,  my  dear  friends,  stop  and  consider  before  you  proceed 
farther.  Your  quotations  from  the  Bible  do  not  prove  your  case." 

After  having  thus  spoken  out  boldly  and  fearlessly  to  each  party,  Lu- 
1  her  concludes  with  a  touching  expostulation  to  both.  The  substance 
of  liis  address  is  in  these  words  :  "  You  see  you  are  both  in  the  wrong, 
and  are  drawing  the  divine  punishments  upon  you  and  upon  your 
common  country,  Germany.  My  advice  would  be  that  arbitrators 
should  be  chosen,  some  from  the  nobility  and  some  from  the  towns. 
You  both  have  to  give  xip  something  ;  let  the  matter  be  settled  equi- 
tably by  human  law." 

This  certainly  was  the  voice  of  the  true  prophet  of  the  age,  if  ever 
there  was  any.  It  was  not  heard.  The  lords  showed  little  dispo- 


MARTIN   LUTI1EE.  51 

sition  toward  concessions,  and  what  they  did  offer  came  too  late, 
when  the  bloody  struggle  had  already  begun.  The  peasants,  excited 
by  Muii/er,  exceeded,  on  their  side,  all  bounds,  and  Luther  felt  him- 
self obliged,  when  the  stream  of  rebellion  and  destruction  rolled  oil 
to  Tluiriugia  and  Saxony,  to  speak  out  most  strongly  against  them. 
The  princes  leagued  together  (for  the  empire,  of  course,  did  nothing, 
Charles  having  full  employment  in  Spain),  and  the  peasants  were 
routed  everywhere.  Fifty  thousand  of  their  party  were  slain  or 
butchered  by  wholesale  executions.  Among  this  number  there  were 
many  of  the  quietest  and  most  moderate  people  made  victims  in  the 
general  slaughter,  because  they  were  known  or  suspected  to  be  friends 
of  the  Reformation  and  of  Luther,  which  indeed  all  the  citizens  and 
peasants  of  Germany  were  at  that  time. 

None  felt  more  deeply  this  misery  and  what  it  involved  in  its 
effects  on  the  cause  of  the  gospel  in  Germany  ;  and  he  never  recov- 
ered the  shock.  He  thus  unburdens  his  soul  at  the  close  of  this  fatal 
year,  which  crushed  for  centuries  the  rights  and  hopes  of  the  peas- 
ants and  laborers,  and  weakened  the  towns  and  cities,  the  seats  of  all 
that  was  best  in  the  national  life  :  "  The  spirit  of  these  tyrants  is  pow- 
erless, cowardly,  estranged  from  every  honest  thought.  They  de- 
serve to  be  the  slaves  of  the  people.  But  by  the  grace  of  Christ  1  am 
sufficiently  revenged  by  the  contempt  I  have  for  them,  and  for  Satan 
their  god."  And  in  the  next  year  he  said,  "  I  fear  Germany  is 
lost  ;  it  cannot  be  otherwise,  for  they  will  employ  nothing  but  the 
sword." 

In  all  this  Luther  stands  higher  than  ever,  but  as  a  sufferer.  He 
.sees  the  work  in  Germany  is  lost  for  this  time.  He  submits,  and  is 
supported  by  his  faith.  So  he  is  consoled  when  he  sees  how  Ferdi- 
nand of  Austria  and  the  Duke  of  Bavaria  imprison  and  slaughter 
Christians  on  account  of  the  gospel,  and  Unit  not  only  the  pope  and 
the  emperor  are  leagued  together  against  tlie  Reformation,  but  also 
the  king  of  France,  besides  the  king  of  England.  All  the  powers  of 
the  world  are  against  him  ;  Germany  is  doomed  to  perish,  but  the 
word  and  the  work  of  God  cannot  perish.  Even  the  sad  results  of  a 
general  visitation  of  the  churches  which  he  undertook  throughout 
the  states  of  the  elector  did  not  shake  his  faith.  He  sees  how  igno- 
rant and  savage  all  these  wars  and  revolts  have  rendered  even  the 
Protestant  congregations  ;  but  he  says  the  Spirit  of  God  will  not 
forsake  them.  The  elector  Frederic,  Luther's  timid  but  honest  sup- 
porter, had  descended  into  the  lomb  on  the  5th  May,  152.1,  confess- 
ing on  his  death-bed  his  firm  belief  in  Christ  as  his  only  Saviour. 
His  successor,  John,  known  by  the  well-deserved  name,  John  the 
Constant,,  followed  in  his  footsteps,  and  was  a  firm  friend  to  Luther. 

But  the  Romish  league  also  gained  friends  in  the  north  of  Ger- 
many. Duke  George  of  Saxony  had,  in  July  of  this  year,  concluded 
at  Dessau  an  alliance  against  the  Reformation  with  Albert  of  Bran- 
denburg, Archbishop  of  Mainz  and  Magdeburg,  and  with  the  dukes 


82  MARTIN   LUTHER. 

of  Brunswick,  and  proved  himself  in  earnest  by  causing  two  citizens 
of  Leipzig  to  be  beheaded  for  having  the  writings  of  Luther  in  their 
houses.  At  the  same  time  Charles  declared  from  Spain  his  inten- 
tion to  hold  a  diet  at  Augsburg,  evidently  in  order  to  crush  the  Ref- 
ormation by  means  of  the  Catholic  league  acting  in  the  name  of  the 
empire.  His  victory  at  Pavia  made  him  more  than  ever  the  master 
of  Germany.  Finally,  the  remains  of  the  party  of  Munzcr  declared 
they  would  take  the  life  of  Luther  as  a  traitor. 

It  was  under  such  auspices  that  Luther  decided  at  last  to  take  a 
wife,  as  he  had  long  advised  his  friends  among  the  priests  and  monks 
to  do.  They  had  often  reminded  him  of  his  profession,  and  of  (he 
duty  of  himself  setting  an  example  to  prove  his  sincerity.  His 
father  himself  urged  him  continually  to  marry.  All  around  him 
was  now  in  a  stationary  if  not  a  retrograde  state.  The  University  of 
Wittemberg  had  suffered  much  during  the  late  troubles,  and  it  was 
generally  believed  that  the  new  elector  did  not  mean  to  support  it. 
Luther's  warm  and  loving  heart  opened  the  more  readily  to  the  con- 
templation of  matrimonial  union  with  Catheriua  von  Bora,  a  lady 
twenty-four  years  of  age,  of  a  noble  Saxon  family,  in  1523,  who  had 
left  her  convent,  together  with  eight  other  sisters,  in  order  to  worship 
Christ  without  the  oppression  of  endless  ceremonies,  which  gave 
neither  light  to  the  mind  nor  peace  to  the  soul.  Since  that  time  they 
had  lived  together  in  utter  retirement,  forming  a  free  Christian  com- 
munity. Pious  citizens  at  Torgau  were  their  protectors,  and  by  them 
they  were  presented  to  Luther  in  the  convent  of  the  Augustinians. 
Soon  followed,  as  we  have  seen,  the.great  regenerative  movement  of 
the  Christian  worship  ;  and  Luther  appeared,  on  the  9th  October, 
1524,  before  the  congregation  in  the  simple  habit  of  a  secular  priest. 
Luther  soon  remained  alone  in  the  convent ;  all  the  monks  had  left 
it.  At  the  end  of  the  year  he  sent  the  key  to  the  elector,  who,  how- 
ever, desired  him  to  continue  to  inhabit  it.  In  the  mean  time,  Luther 
had  observed  and  witnessed  the  Christian  faith  and  life  of  Catheriua 
von  Bora,  and  on  the  llth  June  he  married  her,  in  the  presence  of 
Lucas  Cranaeh,  the  celebrated  painter,  and  of  another  friend,  as  wit- 
ni'SM;s.  Catherina  von  Bora  had  no  dowry,  and  Luther  lived  on  his 
appointment  as  professor  ;  he  would  never  take  money  for  any  of  his 
books,  but  only  some  copies  for  presents.  His  marriage  was  a  happy 
one,  and  was  blessed  •  with  six  children.  Luther  was  a  tender  hus- 
band and  the  most  loving  of  fathers. 

The  princes  who  were  friendly  to  the  Reformation  gradually 
gained  more  courage  ;  the  elector  John  of  Saxony  established  a  prin- 
ciple in  his  states  that  all  rites  should  be  abrogated  whick  were  con- 
trary to  the  Scriptures,  and  that  the  masses  for  the  dead  be  abolished 
at  once.  The  young  landgrave,  Philippe  of  Hesse,  gained  over  the 
son  of  the  furious  Duke  George  to  the  cause  of  the  Reformation. 
Albert,  Duke  of  Prussia,  had  established  it  at  Konigsberg,  as  hered 
lUry  4uke,  abolishing  the  vows  of  the  Order,  whose  master  he  had 


MARTIN   LUTHER.  33 

been,  saying,  "  There  is  only  one  Order,  and  that  is  Christendom." 
At  the  request  of  the  pope,  Charles  placed  Albert  under  interdict 
as  an  apostate  monk.  The  evangelical  princes  found  in  all  these  cir- 
cumstances a  still  stronger  motive  to  act  at  Augsburg  as  allies  in  the 
cause  of  the  evangelical  party  ;  and  when  the  diet  opened  in  Decem- 
ber, 1525,  they  spoke  out  boldly  :  "  It  is  violence  which  brought  on 
the  war  of  thf  peasants.  If  you  will  by  violence  tear  the  truth  of  God 
out  of  the  hearts  of  those  who  believe,  you  will  draw  greater  dangers 
and  evils  upon  you."  The  Romanist  party  was  startled.  "The 
cause  of  the  holy  faith"  was  adjourned  to  the  next  diet  at  Spires. 
The  landgrave  and  the  elector  made  a  formal  alliance  in  February, 
1526,  at  Torgau. 

Luther,  being  consulted  as  to  his  opinion,  felt  helpless.  "  You  have 
no  faith  ;  you  put  not  your  trust  in  God  ;  leave  all  to  him."  The 
landgrave,  the  real  head  of  the  evangelical  alliance,  perceived  that 
Luther's  advice  was  not  practical — that  Luther  forsook  the  duty  of 
self-defence  and  the  obligation  to  do  one's  duty  according  to  the  dic- 
tates of  reason,  in  religious  matters  as  well  as  in  other  political  ques- 
tions. But  the  alliance  found  no  new  friends.  Germany  showed 
all  her  misery  by  the  meanness  of  her  princes  and  the  absence  of  any 
great  national  body  to  oppose  the  league  formed  by  the  pope,  the  cm- 
peror,  and  the  Romanists,  throughout  Europe.  The  Archbishop  of 
Treves  preferred  a  pension  from  Charles  to  the  defence  of  the 
national  cause.  The  evangelically-disposed  palatine  desired  to  avoid 
getting  into  trouble  on  that  account.  The  imperial  city  of  Frank' 
fort,  thus  surrounded  by  open  enemies  and  timid  friends,"  dec-lined  tn 
accede  to  the  alliance.  There  was  more  national  feeling  and  couratru 
in  the  Anglo-Saxon  north  of  Germany.  The  princes  of  Brunswick, 
Luxemburg,  Mecklenburg,  Anhalt,  and  Mansfeld,  assembled  af 
Magdeburg,  and  made  a  solemn  and  heroic  declaration  of  their  reso, 
lution  to  pledge  their  "  estates,  lives,  states  and  subjects,  for  the 
maintenance  of  the  Holy  Word  of  God,  relying  on  Almighty  God,  aa 
whose  instrument  they  would  act."  The  town  of  Magdeburg  (which 
then  had  about  three  times  as  many  inhabitants  as  now)  and  Duke 
Albert  of  Prussia  adhered  to  the  alliance.  The  league  doubled  ita 
efforts.  Charles,  strong  and  rendered  safe  by  1  he  peace  of  Madrid  con- 
cluded with  Francis,  sent  word  from  Seville,  in  March,  152(i,  through 
the  Romish  Duke  Henry  of  Brunswick,  that  he  would  soon  come 
himself  to  crush  the  heresy.  Luther  saw  th9  dangers  crowding 
around  him  ;  his  advice  was,  "  We  are  threatened  with  war  ;  let 
us  force  our  enemies  to  keep  the  peace,  conquered  by  the  Spirit  of 
God,  before  whose  throne  we  must  now  combat  with  the  arms  of 
prayer  ;  that  is  the  first  work  to  be  done." 

Toward  the  end  of  1525  Luther  had  resolved  to  answer  a  book 
which  had  been  written  against  him  in  the  previous  autumn  by 
Erasmus,  under  the  catching  title,  On  Fire  \\'ill.  Erasmus  waa 
;u  his  heart  rather  a  skeptic  :  he  would  in  his  earlier  days  have  pro. 


34  MARTIN   LUTHER. 

fessed  openly  the  cause  of  the  gospel,  and  defended  it  with  his  supe- 
rior erudition  and  knowledge,  had  he  believed  in  its  success  ;  but 
neither  the  Swiss  nor  the  German  Reformation  gave  him  that  cer 
t.iiniv,  and  thus,  at  last,  he  gave  way  to  King  Henry  and  others, 
who  urged  him  to  attack  Luther.  No  controversy  has  been  less 
generally  understood  than  this  ;  but  it  may  also  be  sai&hat  it  might 
have  been  carried  on  not  only  with  less  malice  by  Erasmus,  but  also 
•with  more  speculative  skill  by  Luther.  The  antagonism  is  essen- 
tially the  same  as  that  of  Augustine  and  Pelagius,  or  that  between  the 
•lansenists  and  Jesuits  ;  a  better  speculative  method  and  a  deeper 
philosophy  of  the  mind  have  since  shown  how  the  scholastic  method 
never  could  solve  that  most  important  as  well  as  most  difficult  prob- 
lem. We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  the  result  of  dialectic 
metaphysics  is  no  other  than  that  Luther  was  perfectly  right  and 
Erasmus  totally  wrong  in  this  dispute  ;  but  it  was  hopeless  from  the 
beginning.  Erasmus  defined  free-will  as  the  faculty  of  man  to  de- 
cide for  himself,  be  it  for  good  or  evil.  Consequently  to  deny  his 
thesis  in  this  sense  would  have  been  to  deny  the  moral  responsibility 
of  man.  -But  Luther's  ideas  respecting  moral  free-will  were  as  dis- 
sonant from  this  terminology  as  St.  Paul's  reasoning  on  faith  from 
the  use  of  that  word  in  the  sense  in  which  St.  James  employs  or 
rather  attacks  it.  In  regard  to  Luther's  terms  and  fundamental 
ideas,  we  have  touched  upon  them  in  speaking  of  the  influence  of 
Tauler  and  of  the  Tlu-vluyid  Gcnnanica  upon  his  mind,  when  he  was 
disturbed  by  what  appeared  to  him  the  dreadful  consequences  of  the 
doctrine  of  grace  and  eh  cliuii.  The  theology  of  the  German  school 
of  the  fourteenth  century  rested  upon  a  simpler  because  a  deeper 
basis  than  that  of  Augustine,  and,  moie  lately,  of  Calvin  and  Pascal. 
There  is  in  man,  as  a  creature,  the  power  of  self-will  ;'  this  is  not 
only  evil  as  such,  but  the  root  of  all  evil,  and  sin.  The  power  of 
deciding  whether  or  not  to  commit  an  action  is  therefore  nothing  but 
the  power  of  measuring  and  contrasting  selfish  principles,  neither  of 
which  being  good  can  produce  good  actions.  There  is  no  power 
against  tins  sellishiu-ss  of  the  creature  but  the  divine  principle.  This, 
the  old  German  school  maintained,  is  equally  an  inherent  element  in 
man — not  as  a  creature,  but  as  God's  image— and  the  instrument  of 
the.  infinite,  divine  Spirit,  which  is  essentially  goodness  and  love  of 
what  is  good  and  trflc  as  such,  apart  from  any  reference  to  ourselves. 
To  follow  up  this  view  successfully  it  is  evidently  necessary  not  to 
establish  an  absolute  separation  between  the  divine  principle  in  itself 
(in  God,  the  infinite) and  in  man  ;  and  this  was  not  clearly  understood 
by  A.UtfUhlme  (whose  influence  upon  Luther  was  paramount,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  earliest  impressions)  and  still  less  skilfully  used  by 
Lather.  The.  absuidith  s  lo  which,  as  each  of  the  combatants  proved 
of  his  opponent,  the  consistent  following  up  of  an  antagonistic  prin- 
ciple conducts,  are  shown  by  Kant  to  be  the  necessary  organic  conse- 
quence of  our.  reasoning  with  finite  notions  upon  the  infinite  ;  his 


MARTIN   LUTHER.  85 

antinomies  of  free-will  and  necessity  are  those  of  Erasmus  and  Luther, 
divested  of  theological  and  dogmatic  terms.  But  the  same  philoso- 
phy (and  Kant  himself  in  his  Moral  Philosophy  and  his  Philosophy  of 
lldiyioii)  shows  that  Christianity  and  the  analysis  of  conscience  and 
moral  consciousness  of  ourselves  teach  equally  what  Luther  main- 
tained against  Erasmus.  The  i  ationalism  of  Erasmus  and  the  Jesuits 
is  condemned  by  this  philosophy  ;  and  whatever  may  be  thought  of 
the  philosophical  demonstration  (which  we  think  c  pable  of  great  sim- 
plification), St.  John  and  St.  Paul  are  certainly  irreconcilable  with  it. 
"Erasmus  ignores  God,"  said  Luther,  "and  that  word  is  more 
powerful  than  any  scholastic  argument."  Erasmus  felt  himself 
crushed  by  Luther's  strong  hits,  against  which  his  eloquence  availed 
him  nothing.  "The  victory  must  remain,"  Luther  said,  "with 
stammering  truth,  not  with  lying  eloquence  ;"  and  he  concluded 
thus  :  "  Who  ever  possessed  so  much  science  and  eloquence,  and 
such  art  in  speaking  and  in  writing  ?  I  have  nothing  of  all  this  ; 
but  I  glory  in  one  thing — I  am  a  Christian.  May  God  raise  you  in 
the  knowledge  of  the  gospel  infinitely  above  me,  so  that  you  may 
surpass  me  as  much  in  this  respect  as  you  do  already  in  all  others." 
Erasmus  henceforth  lost  all  measure  and  philosophical  equanimity, 
never  having  sought  truth  for  its  own  sake. 

The  diet  of  Spires,  which  was  to  put  an  end  to  Luther's  Reforma- 
tion, opened  on  June  25th,  152G.  Ferdinand  indeed  republished,  on 
the  3d  August,  the  decree  of  Seville,  enjoining  strict  execution  of 
the  edict  of  Worms;  but  in  the  mean  time  Clement  VII.  having 
quarreled  witli  Charles,  and  Ferdinand  being  called  to  Hungary  in 
order  to  maintain  against  Soliman  and  other  competitors  the  crowns 
of  Hungary  and  Bohemia,  left  to  him  by  King  Louis  after  the  battle 
of  Mohacz,  Charles  commissioned  the  famous  Captain  Frundsberg 
(the  same  who  had  good-naturedly  accosted  Luther  at  Worms,  and 
who  was  devoted  to  the  evangelical  cause)  to  enlist  an  army  in  Ger 
many  against  the  pope,  and  thousands  hastened  to  join  his  ranks  iu 
consequence.  And  thus  the  Reformation  was  saved  this  time,  and  a 
proposition  presented  by  the  cities  was  accepted,  "  that  until  a  coun- 
cil met,  every  governor  should,  within  his  own  states,  act  according 
to  his  conscience."  .Within  a  year,  if  not  a  universal,  at  least  a 
national  council  was  to  meet.  In  consequence,  the  Reformation  had 
Mine  to  consolidate  itself  from  1526  to  1529.  The  man  of  Germany 
rtt  that  time  among  the  princes  was  the  landgrave,  Philip  of  Hesse, 
and  he  was  enlightened  by  a  citizen.  James  Sturm,  the  deputy  of 
Strasburg  at  the  diet  of  Spires,  had  convinced  him  that  the  basis  of 
the  true  evangelical  church  was  the  acknowledgment  of  the  self- 
government  of  the  church  by  synods  c&mposed  of  representatives  of 
the  whole  Christian  people.  Thus  the  first  Protestant  constitution— 
that  agreed  upon  in  Hesse — was  essentially  that  which  has  proved 
since  to  be  the  most  universal  and  the  most  powerful.  For  that  con- 
stitution is  neither  Lutheran  nor  Anglican,  but  synodal  Christianity, 


36  MARTIK   LUTHER. 

which  lias  converted  ami  is  now  converting  and  conquering  the 
world.  The  constitution  acknowledged  the  episcopal  element,  but 
not  episcopal  rule — sovereignty  being  invested  in  the  people  of  (Jod. 
"We  admit  (say  the  articles)  no  word  but  that  of  our  sovereign  pastor. 
Bishops  and  deacons  are  to  be  elected  by  the  Christian  people  ; 
bishops  are  to  be  consecrated  by  the  imposition  of  hands  of  three 
bishops  ;  and  deacons  may  be  instituted  by  imposition  of  the  hands 
of  the  elders.  The  general  synod  is  to  be  held  annually,  consisting 
of  the  pastor  of  each  parish  and  of  pious  men  elected  from  the  midst, 
of  each  church,  or  rather  congregation,  or  from  single  churches. 
Three  men  are  to  be  elected  yearly  to  exercise  the  right  of  visitation. 
This  was  soon  found  to  be  an  inconvenient  form  ;  six  superintend- 
ents (episcopi)  for  life  wene  substituted.  This  board  of  superintend- 
ents became  afterward  an  oligarchy,  and  at  last  a  mere  instrument 
of  the  state — the  consequence  of  the  disruption  of  Germany  and  the 
paralysis  of  till  national  institutions.  Luther  had  professed  already, 
in  1523  and  in  1524,  principles  entirely  identical  with  those  estab- 
lished in  1526  in  Hesse.  But  there  his  action  ceased  ;  he  left  to  the 
princes  what  they  had  no  mind  to  carry  out ;  and  what  could  a  pro- 
pie  do  cut  up  into  four  hundred  sovereignties?  Never,  however,  did 
Luther  acknowledge  Cesaropapism  or  Erastianism  as  a  principle 
and  as  a  right.  He  considered  the  rights  of  the  Christian  people;  as 
a  sacred  trust,  provisionally  deposited  in  the  hands  of  their  represent- 
atives. "  Where  (he  asked)  are  the  people  to  form  the  synods  '!  1 
cannot  find  them."  This  was  a  political  calamity  or  mistake,  but  it 
was  not  a  treason  to  the  lights  of  the  Christian  people.  Still  more 
did  Luther  abhor  the  rapacity  of  the  nobility  and  of  the  courtiers  to 
possess  themselves  of  the  spoils  of  the  Church.  It  was  Melanchthon's 
influence  which  facilitated  the  despotic  system  and  hampered  th« 
thorough  reform  of  the  forms  of  worship.  Luther  withdrew  from  a 
sphere  which  was  not  his.  He  composed,  in  1529,  the  small  and 
great  Catechisms,  of  which  the  former  has  maintained  its  place  as  a 
guide  of  popular  doctrine  up  to  this  day  ;  but  when  measures  of  per- 
secution were  proposed,  he  raised  his  voice  against  them,  lie  wrote, 
in  1528,  Falxe  Teacherx  are  not  to  be  put  to  Death  ;  it  suffice*  1"  Ifcinovc 
tJiem.  While  Luther  preached  this  doctrine,  the  most  bloody  perse- 
cution went  on  in  the  estates  of  the  elector  of  Brandenburg  (where 
t lie  eleetress  professed  courageously  the  principles  of  the  gospel),  in 
Bavaria.^aud,  above  all,  in  the  hereditary  states  of  Austria.  In  Feb- 
ruary, 1528,  the  impetuous  landgrave  was  on  the  point  of  commit- 
ting a  rash  act,  in  consequence  of  a  forged  document  which  had  been 
shown  to  him,  purporting  to4)e  a  secret  convention  to  assassinate 
Luther  and  Melanehthon  and  crush  the  evangelical  princes.  Philip 
infected  the  elector  with  his  apprehensions,  and  violent  measures  of 
jK-rsecution  were  to  be  resorted  to,  when  Luther  and  Melanehthon 
both  gave,  as  their  solemn  advice,  this  verdict:  "The  attack  must 
not  come  from  our  side,  and  the  guilt  of  blood-shedding  must  not 


MAETIN   LUTHER.  31? 

come  upoti  Us.  Let  the  emperor  know  of  this  odious  conspiracy." 
The  elector,  however,  assembled  his  troops  ;  but  the  forgery  was 
soon  discovered  when  the  document  was  communicated  to  the 
Romanist  princes.  The  attitude  taken  by  the  Protestant  prince* 
had,  however,  the  effect  of  making  the  Archbishop  of  Mainz  re- 
nounce, in  1528,  the  spiritual  jurisdiction  lie  had  hitherto  exercised 
over  Saxony  and  Hesse.  But  among  the  public  at  large  all  believed 
in  the  existence  of  a  secret  plot  against  the  evangelical  party. 

Under  these  auspices  was  opened  the  celebrated  diet  of  Spires  in 
1529.  The  emperor,  who  in  the  mean  time  had  taken  Rome  and 
annihilated  the  ambitious  plans  of  Clement  VII.,  now  took  again  to 
his  natural  part.  German  credulity  and  good-nature  had  served  his 
turn.  Now  that  he  felt  himself  master  of  the  field,  he  spoke  as  a 
Spanish  despot ;  the  elector  and  landgrave  were  forbidden  to  cele- 
brate divine  worship  in  their  hotels,  as  they  had  done  in  1527,  after 
the  use  of  a  church  had  been  denied  them.  The  imperial  commis- 
sioners desired  to  return  to  the  edict  of  Worms  of  1521.  The  solemn 
act  of  toleration  voted  by  the  diet  of  1527  was  abrogated  by  an  arbi- 
trary act  of  the  emperor  alone,  contrary  to  the  constitution  of  the 
empire.  Luther,  the  proscribed,  was  not  present  ;  but  Melauchtlion, 
who  had  accompanied  the  princes,  reported  to  him  what  passed. 
The  majority  of  the  diet  passed  at  last,  on  7th  April,  a  resolution, 
that  where  the  edict  of  Worms  could  not  be  executed  without  fear  of 
revolution,  no  further  reform  would  be  allowed.  This  evidently  was 
nothing  but  the  intended  forerunner  of  the  restoration  of  Popery. 

It  was  against  this  iniquitous  decree  that  the  elector,  the  laud- 
grave,  the  Margrave  of  Brandenburg,  the  Prince  of  Anhalt,  and  tli« 
Chancellor  of  Luneburg,  together  with  the  dignitaries  of  the  (owns, 
laid  down  that  solemn  protestation  from  which  originates  the  name 
of  "  Protestants. "  "  The  diet  has  overstepped  its  aulhontj',"  they 
said  ;  "  our  acquired  right  is,  that  the  decree  of  152(»,  unanimously 
adopted,  do  remain  in  force  until  a  council  can  be  convened.  Up  lo 
this  time  the  decree  has  maintained  the  peace  since,  and  \VL'  protest 
against  abrogation."  Of  thirty-five  free  cities,  fourteen  siood  out 
firmly,  when  Ferdinand  threatened  them  with  the  loss  of  their  priv- 
ileges. Strasburg,  which  was  at  the  head  of  the  protesting  cities,  wax 
placed* by  this  most  arbitrary  act  under  the  interdict.  To  the  princes 
Ferdinand  declared  there  remained  nothing  for  them  but  to  submit  ; 
and  he  closed  the  diet  without  awaiting  the  resolutions  of  the  evan- 
gelical princes,  who  had  passed,  as  was  the  constitutional  custom, 
into  an  adjoining  apartment  in  order  to  deliberate.  The  prince* 
then  drew  up  their  declaration,  and  caused  it  to  be  read  to  the  diet, 
which  had  remained  sitting  when  Ferdinand  rose  with  the  imperial 
commissioners. 

The  celebrated  Protest  of  the  15th  April,  1529,  is  one  of  the  finest 
and  noblest  documents  of  Christian  history,  displaying  an  apostolic 
faitb.  iu  Clirist  and  Scripture,  and  a  dignified  adherence  to  uati;>n;iJ 


88  ilARTlN   LUTHER. 

law  as  far  as  constitutional  liberties  are  concerned.  The  protesting 
princes  and  cities  claim  as  their  right,  as  Germans,  what  they  con- 
sider a  sacred  duty  as  Christians — freely  to  preach  the  word  of  God 
and  the  message  of  salvation,  that  all  who  will  hear  it  may  join  the 
rommunity  of  the  believers.  This  great  act  was,  besides,  an  earnest 
of  true  evangelical  union  ;  for  it  was  well  known  that  most  of  the 
r-itics  inclined  more  toward  Zwingle's  than  toward  Luther's  view  of 
Hie  sacrament.  And  this  union  was  not  a  negative  but  a  positive 
one  ;  it  was  founded  on  the  faith,  energetically  and  sincerely  professed 
by  (Ecolampadius,  as  the  organ  of  the  Swiss  Reformed  churches, 
that,  "  with  the  visible  symbols  invisible  grace  is  given  and  re- 
ceived." 

If  one  considers  this  great  act  impartially,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
see  that  neither  Luther  nor  Melanchthon  were  the  real  leaders  of  the 
time.  Already,  in  1526,  Luther  had  so  little  real  comprehension  of 
what  ought  to  be  done,  or  was  now  doing  in  Germany,  to  preserve 
tlie  gospel  from  destruction,  that  he  wrote  to  a  friend  on  the  very 
same  day  that  the  decree  of  that  first  diet  at  Spires  was  published  : 
"  The  diet  is  going  on  in  the  German  way — they  drink  and  they 
gamble  ;  for  the  rest,  nothing  is  done  ihere."  He  shows  no  sympa- 
thy for  the  first  attempt  made  in  Hesse  at  self-government  of  the 
Church  ;  still  less  did  he  see  the  importance  of  the  great  act  now 
achieved  at  Spires  by  the  combined  courage  and  Christian  common- 
sensc  of  some  few  princes,  and  all  cities  which  could  act  freely.  It 
was  evident  that  Charles  was  now,  after  the  peace  of  Cambray,  per- 
fect master  of  Germany  ;  so  far,  at  least,  as  to  make  it  impossible 
that  Germany  should  become  a  Protestant  nation,  and  that  the  pro- 
testing princes  and  cities  had  seen  the  necessity  of  strengthening  that 
alliance  of  which  they  had  just  laid  the  foundation.  Luther  dissuad- 
ed Hie  elector  from  sending  deputies  to  the  meeting  agreed  upon  to 
be  held  at  Schmalkaldcn.  "  In  silence  and  rest  will  be  your 
strength,"  was  his  vote.  The  elector  sent  deputies  in  order  to  hinder 
thai,  anything  should,  be  decided.  Lnther  was  proud  of  this  success. 
"  Christ  the  Lord  will  deliver  us  without  the  landgrave,  and  even 
against  the  landgrave,"  was  his  saying.  This  apparent  blindness 
and  perversion  of  mind  in  Luther  at  this  time  admits  of  twofold  ex- 
planation. The  first  is  Luther's  loyal  and  sound  policy.  lie  ab- 
horred rebellion,  and  shuddered  from' a  civil  war,  even  if  it  should  be 
unavoidable  as  self-defence.  He  besides  saw  clearly  that  the  princes, 
divided  among  themselves  as  they  were,  could  do  nothing  against  the 
emperor  without  the  best  part  of  the  nation,  represented  by  the 
cities  ;  and  that  here,  too,  there  was  want  of  mutual  trust  and  good- 
u  ill,  and  above  all  of  unity.  But  this  key  opens  only  the  outer  door  to 
Luther's  mind.  To  understand  him,  when  he  seems  proof  against 
reason,  and  reasoning  even  his  own,  it  is  necessary  to  consider  his 
unshaken  faith,  nud  that  he  partook  of  the  quietism  of  his  German 
master,  Tuuler,  and  the  Thedogin  Germanica.  "Suffer  God  to  de 


MARTIN   LUTHER.  39 

his  work  in  you  and  about  you,"  was  the  motto  of  that  school.  But 
the  scholastic  training  also  had  its  influence  as  to  his  view  of  the 
Zwinglian  Reformation,  and  it  centred  in  Luther's  sacramentalism. 
This  point  requires  a  more  ample  consideration. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  there  was  a  theological  scruple  at  the  bot- 
tom of  Luther's  opposition  to  a  vigorous  Protestant  alliance  and 
national  attitude,  which  was  sure  not  to  bring  on  war,  but  to  prevent 
it  by  making  the  execution  of  the  aggressive  plans  of  the  pope  and 
emperors  impossible.  This  betrays  itself,  first,  in  an  uneasiness  about 
Zwingle's  rising  influence  in  Germany  ;  and,  second,  as  a  doctrinal 
idiosyncrasy  respecting  the  sacrament  of  the  communion.  Philip  of 
Hesse  instantly  saw  through  this,  and  said,  "I  see  they  are  against 
the  alliance  on  account  of  the  Zwinglians  ;  well,  let  us  see  whether 
we  cannot  make  these  theological  differences  disappear."  It  is  \vell 
known  that  all  the  efforts  made  to  effect  a  union  between  the  Z\vin- 
glian  and  Lutheran  parties,  from  the  conference  at  Marburg  in  1-Vj.li 
to  the  end  of  Luther's  life,  were  fruitless  ;  and  it  is  impossible,  not  to 
admit  that  the  fault  was  Luther's,  and  that  he  became  aware  of  that 
only  on  his  death  bed.  As  we  are  thus  arrived  at  the  deepest  tragnly 
of  Luther's  life  and  of  the  history  of  Protestantism,  and  as  \ve  must, 
endeavor,  within  the  narrow  limits  of  an  article,  to  establish  historical 
truth  on  these  important  points,  as  far  as  it  is  indispensable  for  a  true 
and  philosophical  vhSw  of  Luther's  life,  we  think  it  unnecessary  to 
prove  that  there  were  no  mean  passions  at  work  in  Luther's  mind  ; 
but  we  will  say  shortly  that  it  was  the  great  tragedy  of  the  Christian 
mind  during  more  than  one  thousand  years  to  which  Luther  paid  now 
his  tribute. 

When  Luther  was  raised  above  himself  by  the  great  problem  before 
him,  in  that  glorious  period  of  action,  from  1518  to  1524,  he  consid-. 
ered  the  sacraments  altogether  as  a  part  of  the  services  of  the  Church, 
and  a  secondary  point,  in  comparison  with  the  right  view  of  faith,  or 
the  inward  Christianity  which  implies  necessarily  an  unselfish,  be- 
lieving, and  thankful  mind.  Having  come  to  the  conviction  that 
there  was  no  inherent  virtue  in  the  elements  abstractedly  from  the 
communion,  it  was  indifferent  to  him  how  the  spirituality  of  the 
action  and  the  real  presence,  even  the  transubstantiation,  might  be 
reconciled  with  that  faith.  But  when  he  felt  himself  called  upon  at 
a  later  period  to  form  a  theory  respecting  the  doctrine  of  the  sacra- 
ment, he  could  never  get  free  from  the  action  of  those  two  theological 
schools,  the  mystical  German  and  the  Latin  scholastic,  in  the  point 
where  they  combined.  Thus  to  his  end  Luther  firmly  believed  that 
the  act  of  the  priest  pronouncing  the  words,  "  This  is  my  body,"  pro- 
duced a  change  in  the  elements,  making  them  the  body  and  blood  of 
Christ, which  he  interpreted,  however.as  meaning  the  whole  creature  of 
Christ.  Now  nothing  was  ever  more  historically  erroneous.  It  has  been 
shown  elsewhere  by  the' writer  of  this  article,  through  an  uninterrupted 
chain  of  documentary  evidence  of  the  very  liturgies,  frcmi  the  BecotuJ 


40  MARTIN   LUTHER. 

to  the  sixth  century,  that  the  recital  of  the  words  of  the  institution 
•was  nothing  but  the  historical  introduction  to  a  prayer  of  blessing  for 
the  communicants.  This  prayer  invoked  the  Spirit,  of  God  to  descend 
upon  the  assembled  worshipping  congregation.  The  first  step  which 
unconsciously  led  to  misunderstandings  was  that  the  blessing  of  God 
was  also  called  down  upon  the  elements  in  order  to  make  the  food 
prepared  for  the  faithful  the  body  and  blood  of  Christ.  The  conse- 
cration, in  other  words,  was  not  the  recital  of  the  words  of  institu- 
tion, but  a  prayer,  down  to  the  time  of  Basilius,  extemporized,  or  at 
least  freely  spoken,  and  always  ending  with  the  Lord's  Prayer.  It  is 
a  tragical  complication  that  the  question  as  to  what  the  elements 
became — a  question  unknown  and  even  unintelligible  during  tlie  first 
five  centuries — should  have  entangled  the  mighty  evangelical  mind  of 
tbe  Reformer,  whose  appointed  work  was  the  destruction  of  the 
Romish  system  of  delusion,  founded  upon  a  total  perversion  of  the 
fundamental  Cliristian  notions  respecting  sacrifice,  priest,  and  atone- 
ment. It  was  this  fatal  ignorance  of  the  oblation  of  the  sound  and 
organic  as  well  as  the  morbid  Cliristian  worship  development  which 
blinded  Luther  to  such  a  degree  as  not  only  to  put  a  simply  absurd 
interpretation  upon  the  words  of  the  institution,  but  to  base  the 
question  of  Christian  communion  between  evangelical  Christians 
upon  the  same,  instead  of  allowing  it  to  be  freely  discussed  as  a  scho- 
lastic question.  When  staking  all  upon  what  he  called  a  literal  in- 
terpretation of  the  words,  "  This  is  my  body,"  he  ought  to  have  ac- 
knowledged at  least  that  others  might  as  well  take  objection,  if  not 
to  the  absurdity  of  such  a  meaning,  at  least  to  the  liberty  which  Luther 
claimed  for  himself  at  the  same  time,  of  making  the  body  stand  for 
the  whole  life  contained  in  it,  not  to  speak  of  the  objection  founded 
upon  the  words  of  institution  as  we  find  them  in  Luke  and  St.  Paul. 

After  these  general  observations,  our  historical  relation  of  what 
remains  to  be  told  of  Luther's  life  may  be  very  short. 

The  first  event  was  the  conference  of  Marburg.  The  undaunted 
spirit  of  the  landgrave,  and  the  heroic,  self-devoted  spirit  of  Zwmgle, 
who  accepted  the  invitation  at  the  evident  risk  of  his  life,  brought 
about  that  celebrated  meeting  on  the  first  five  days  of  October,  1-V27. 
The  frank  and  liberal  declarations  and  concessions  of  the  Swiss  Re- 
formers soon  cleared  away  all  shadows  of  difference  and  dissent,  ex- 
cept that  about  the-  sacrament.  In  the  half-public  disputation  of  the 
2d  October,  Zwingle  embarrassed  Luther  by  observing  that  if 
the  body  of  Christ  was  in  the  bread  and  wine,  in  any  other  than  a 
spiritual  sense,  he  must  be  present  in  a  given 'place,  by  the  very 
nature  of  matter,  and  not  above  matter,  in  heaven.  Luther  parried 
that  stroke  by  saying,  "  I  do  not  mind  its  contradicting  nature, 
provided  it  do  not  contradict  the  faith."  Still  less  could  he  disen- 
tangle himself  from  the  words  of  Christ  in  the  sixth  chapter  of  St. 
John,  which  Zwingle  declared  he  could  not  discard,  as  it,  was  a  text. 
and  a  clear  «p«e.  Not  more  satisfactory  was  Luther's  appeal  to  the 


MARTIN    LI'THEK.  41 

fathcis.  The  discussions  of  the  four  following  days,  however,  re- 
sulted in  recognizing  the  point  of  difference,  but  reducing  its  ex- 
pression to  the  mildest  form,  and  placing  it  in  the  background,  UH 
compared  with  the  full  statement  of  the  points  on  which  both  parties 
were  united.  Tears  of  joy  filled  all  eyes  ;  and  Zwingle,  with  (Eco- 
Jampadius  and  Bucer,  returned  satisfied,  although  the  promised  alli- 
ance between  Germany  and  Switzerland  was  not  concluded,  owing 
to  Luther's  reluctance.  Zwingle  had  triumphed  ;  his  views  became 
naturalized  in  Germany,  where  hitherto  they  were  little  known,  and 
the  dreadful  words  of  Luther,  "  Submit  yourselves  ;  believe  as  we 
do,  or  you  cannot  be  acknowledged  as  Christians,"  were  forgotten. 
r»ut  no  sooner  had  Luther  returned  to  Wittemberg  than  he  modified 
the  articles  in  an  exclusive  sense,  which  necessarily  shocked  and 
alienated  the  Reformed  party. 

The  issue  of  the  conference  at  Marburg  was  a  sad  prelude  to  the 
great  and  decisive  diet  to  be  held  at  Augsburg  in  1530— the  diet  im- 
mortalized by  the  first  confession  of  evangelical  Christendom.  All 
the  appearances  were  changed  ;  the  elector,  who  as  well  as  the  land- 
grave went  there  in  great  pomp,  was  received  by  the  emperor  in  the 
most  flattering  manner.  All  was  to  be  peace  and  concord  in  Ger- 
many. Behind  the  scenes  we  see  the  emperor  quieting  his  brother 
Ferdinand,  the  head  of  the  Romish  and  fanatical  party,  who  pro- 
tested against  such  encouragement  to  heresy.  He  writes  to  him  : 
"  I  shall  go  on  negotiating  without  concluding  anything ;  fear 
nothing  if  I  even  should  conclude  ;  there  will  never  be  pretexts  want- 
ing to  you  to  chastise  the  rebels,  and  you  will  find  people  enough  too 
happy  l.o  offer  you  their  power  as  a  means  of  vengeance." 

Charles  was  an  Austrian  tyrant  and  a  Spanish  bigot,  and  a  great 
politician  of  the  Italian  school,  which  has  procured  him,  even  from 
historians  of  our  time,  the  name  of  a  great  man.  The  only  reason 
why  he  did  not  now  follow  the  advice  of  the  cardinal-legate  and  the 
Spaniards,  and  of  his  own  brother  Ferdinand,  was  simply  that  he 
thought  the  good  Germans  would  do  the  work  of  destruction  them- 
selves, and  that  in  the  mean  time  he  would  have  in  them  a  check  upon 
the  pope.  But  in  his  own  mind  he  was  ready  to  sacrifice  to  the  big- 
oted party  all  the  constitutional  rights  of  the  diet,  as  lie  had  sacrificed 
(hat  wonderful  republic  of  Florence  to  the  Medici  family  at  the 
request  of  the  holy  father,  who  (said  Charles)  could  not  demand  any- 
thing wrong  ;  of  course,  least  of  all  in  a  case  which  regarded  his  own 
house  ! 

The  diet  of  Augsburg  is  the  bright  point  in  the  life  of  the  elector 
John  the  Constant,  as  the  conference  of  Marburg  is  in  that  of  the 
landgrave.  When  the  emperor's  ministers,  who  preceded  him  at 
Augsburg,  announced  to  the  elector  the  emperor's  intentions,  in 
order  to  intimidate  him,  he  said,  "  If  the  emperor  intends  to  stop 
the  preaching  of  the  gospel,  I  shall  immediately  betake  myself  to 
my  home."  Luther  had  been  left  at  Coburg,  the  nearest  safe  place 


42  MAKTIN   LUTHER. 

for  the  proscribed,  and  was  consulted  daily.  He  told  the  elector  he 
hud  no  right  to  say  so  ;  "  the  emperor  was  his  master,  and  Augsburg 
\\  is  an  imperial  town."  Grand  and  heroic,  although  erroneous,  ad- 
vice of  the  man  whose  life  must  have  been  the  first  sacrifice  of  a 
policy  which  the  elector  meant  to  resist  !  The  lawyers,  however, 
were  here  also  in  fault ;  their  Byzantine  notions  of  imperial  rights 
made  them  timid  in  the  application  of  the  principles  of  the  Gorman 
constitution.  The  Protestant  princes  had  a  clear  constitutional  right 
to  resist  the  emperor,  standing  upon  the  resolutions  and  the  edict  of 
Worms  and  the  solemn  declaration  of  Spires.  Melanchthon  himself 
thought  they  might  maintain  the  right  of  preaching  the  gospel,  only 
abstaining  from  any  controversial  point.  But  undoubtedly  those 
were  right  who  advised  the  elector  to  remain.  As  to  the  chief  prac- 
tical point,  Chancellor  Bruck  confirmed  the  elector  in  his  resolution 
not  to  allow  the  preaching  of  the  gospel  to  be  interdicted  to  him  and 
his  friends.  As  to  alliances  and  leagues  the  elector  said,  "  I  have 
formed  no  secret  alliances  ;  but  I  will  show  those  I  have  entered  into 
if  the  others  w  ill  show  theirs."  In  the  moan  time  Melanchthon  had  by 
the  middle  of  April  prepared  the  articles  of  the  confession  with  t lieu- 
defence,  the  so-called  apology.  Luther  sat  all  the  time  in  his  solitary 
castle.  "  It  is  my  Sinai,"  he  said,  "  where  I  lift  up  my  hands  to  pray 
as  Moses  did  during  the  battle."  He  worked  at  the  psalms  and  the 
prophets  (he  translated  here  Jeremiah  and  Ezekiel)  and  dedicated  his 
hours  of  recreation  to  a  popular  edition  of  what  was  called  ^Esop's 
Fables,  as  Socrates  did  in  his  prison.  "  I  am  making  a  Ziou  out  of 
this  Sinai,  and  build  there  three  tents,  viz.,  one  for  the  psalms,  one  for 
the  prophets,  one  for  JSsop  ;"  a  truly  German  saying,  which  the  his- 
torian of  the  Reformation  ought  not  to  have  censured.  How  could 
Luther  endure  his  solitude  in  that  tremendous  crisis  which,  as  far  as 
the  affairs  of  Germany  were  concerned,  he  saw  in  darker  colors  than 
anybody,  unless  he  had  some  lecreation  of  this  kind?  But  besides 
his  object  was  to  place  his  ^Esbp  (which  contains  many  compositions 
of  his  own)  in  the  hands  of  the  people  instead  of  a  common  popular 
book  of  the  time  of  the  same  title,  of  the  lowest  and  most  immoral  de- 
scription. It  was  also  in  this  solitude  that  he  wrote  that  admirable 
letter  to  his  son  Hans,  with  the  description  of  the  garden  of  wonders. 
While  here  he  received  the  news  of  his  father's  death,  which  affected 
iiin  deeply,  so  that  his  health  began  to  give  way,  and  his  hallucina- 
tions or  waking  dreams  recommenced.  The  news  of  the  league  be- 
i\v(;cn  Charles  V.,  Francis  I., the  Pope,  and  Venice  roused  at  times  the 
political  spirit  which  was  in  him.  "  I  do  not  believe  a  word,"  he  said, 
"  as  to  the  reality  of  such  a  league.  Monsieur  par  ma  foi!  (Francis) 
cannot  forget  the  battle  of  Pavia  ;  Monsieur  innmnim  domini  (Clem- 
ent V  III.)  is,  first,  a  Welsh  (Italian),  which  is  bad  enough  ;  secondly,  a 
loreutine,  which  is  worse  ;  thirdly,  a  bastard,  a  child  of  the  devil  ; 
and,  fourthly,  he  will  never  forget  the  indignity  of  the  plundering  of 
Home.  The  Venetians,  finally,  are  Venetians,  and  they  have  reasons 


MARTIN   LUTHER.  43 

enough  to  hate  the  posterity  of  Maximilian.  Poor  Charles,  he  is  like 
a  sheep  among  wolves  ;  God  will  save  him!"  There  is  the  sound 
politician  and  the  loyal  German,  hoping  against  hope,  and  trusting 
his  prince's  promises  as  long  as  he  breathes  ! 

He  wrote  letters  full  of  comfort  to  the  elector,  and  at  the  same  time 
addressed  one  of  his  most  powerful  writings  to  the  clergy  assembled 
in  the  diet  at  Augsburg,  in  which  he  sLows  them  the  absurdity  of 
their  system  and  the  unchristian  spirit  of  their  claims.  The  address 
concludes  with  the  prophetic  verse  : 

"  Pestis  eram  vivus  ;  moriens  ero  mors  tua  Papa  1" 

["  O  Pope,  tliy  pla^uu  I  was  in  life  ;  in  duutli  I  shall  be  thy  destruction  !"] 

On  the  4th  June  Gattinara,  the  chancellor  of  Charles,  died — an 
Italian,  who  most  earnestly  wished  a  real  reform  of  the  Church  ;  and 
the  advocates  of  persecution  got  the  upper  hand.  On  the  side  of  the 
Protestants,  the  Swiss  party  began  to  suspect  Melanchthon,  and  com- 
plained of  the  use  of  Latin  chants  and  surplices  in  Saxony  ;  while,  on 
las  side,  Melanchthon  detested  what  he  called  the  seditious  principles 
and  worldly  reasoning  of  the  Swiss.  Soon  afterward  we  see  him 
ready  to  give  up  some  of  the  essential  points  to  the  emperor,  who,  on 
his  approach  to  Augsburg,  said,  "What  do  the  electors  want?  I 
shall  do  what  I  like."  Well  had  he  learned  in  Spain  the  lessons  of 
tyranny  which  Cardinal  Ximencs  knew  so  well  to  apply  under  Philip 
II.  But  he  prayed  four  hours  every  day,  so  that  the  people  said  (as 
lie  scarcely  ever  spoke),  "  He  talks  more  with  God  than  with  men." 
When  in  the  conference  with  the  Protestant  princes  lie  demandi-l 
of  them  to  cease  from  (heir  present  mode  of  worship,  they  declared 
that  their  conscience  did  not  allow  them  to  do  so,  and  the  Margrave 
of  Brandenburg,  bowing  down  toward  Charles,  and  putting  his  hands 
upon  his  neck,  cried  out,  "  Kather  than  allow  myself  to  be  deprived 
of  the  word  of  the  Lord,  and  rather  than  deny  my  God,  I  will  have 
my  head  cut  off  at  your  Majesty's  feet. "  This  startled  the  Spaniard. 
"  Dear  prince,"  he  exclaimed,  "  not  the  head,  not  the  head  !"  Im- 
prisonment will  do,  he  thought  all  the  while,  and  those  incautious 
words  betray  that  thought.  This  was  all  his  Sacred  Caesarean  .Majesty 
deigned  to  utter  during  the  diet.  Great  was  his  wrath  when  the 
princes  declared  indignantly  that  they  would  not  consent  to  follow  the 
procession  of  the  host  at  the  festivals  of  Corpus  Domini.  Why  not 
worship  a  wafer  which  the  priest  has  made  God  ?  And  why  not  show 
this  respect  to  the  emperor  and  cardinal  ?  asked  Ferdinand.  "  We  can 
and  we  will  worship  none  but  God,"  they  unanimously  declared. 
Their  worship  went  on,  and  the  vast  church  of  the  Franciscans  was 
always  crowded  ;  an  eloquent  Zwinglian  preached  powerful  sermons 
from  the  book  of  Joshua  about  the  people  of  Israel  in  the  face  of 
Canaan.  Charles  was  furious,  an  insidious  compromise  was  proposed  ; 
the  emperor  would  name  preachers  who  should  simply  read  tho 
epistles  and  gospel  of  the  day  and  the  ordinary  prayer  of  confessiou 


44  MARTIN   LUTHER. 

before  the  mass.  The  pusillanimity  of  Melanchthou,  and  the  legal 
opinions  of  some  of  the  lawyers  of  the  Protestant  princes  as  to  the 
emperor's  power  in  an  imperial  town,  overcame  the  repugnance  of 
the  elector.  All  the  Protestant  preachers  left  the  place  in  di.smay. 
Tlie  whole  town  was  in  consternation.  "  Our  Lord  God,"  exclaimed 
the  elector,  "  has  received  order  to  hold  his  tongue  at  the  diet  !" 
Luther  all  the  while  had  been  quiet,  waiting  in  patience.  But  thii. 
was  too  much  for  him.  "This  is  the  first  step,"  said  he,  "to  the 
demand  that  we  give  up  our  faith.  We  have  to  fight  against  the  gates  of 
hell."  "  Keep  up  your  courage,"  he  wrote  to  Melanchthou,  "  for  you 
are  the  ambassador  of  a  great  King.  '*  The  elector  and  his  theologians 
thought  it  justifiable  that,  in  virtue  of  his  oflice  as  grand  marshal  of 
the  empire,  he  should  bear  before  the  emperor  the  sword  of  state, 
when  the  latter  attended  the  mass  of  the  Holy  Ghost  at  the  opening 
of  the  diet,  on  which  occasion  an  Italian  archbishop  preached  a  mot- 1 
fanatical  and  insulting  sermon  against  the  Germans,  as  being  worse 
enemies  of  God  than  the  Turks.  In  the  imperial  opening  sprrrh 
Charles  spoke  of  the  lamentable  dissensions  which  encroached  upon 
the  imperial  majesty  and  must  produce  sedition  and  murder.  The 
Protestants  were  required  to  present  their  confession.  The  elector 
signed  it  first ;  four  other  princes  and  two  cities  after  him,  without 
any  observation  ;  the  Landgrave  of  Hesse,  however,  did  not  sign  it 
without  saying  he  did  not  agree  as  to  the  doctrine  of  the  communion. 
The  article  says,  "  That  the  body  and  blood  of  Christ  are  v<  rily 
present,  and  are  administered  in  the  Lord's  Supper  to  those  \\lio 
partake  of  it  [and  we  disapprove  those  who  teach  otherwise.]"  The 
words  in  brackets  were  left  out  in  later  editions  made  during  Luther's 
lifetime.  On  this  occasion  the  princes  took  really  the  lead,  and  the 
whole  was  done  as  a  great  national,  not  as  a  sacerdotal  work,  in  spile 
of  poor  Melauchthon's  scruples.  This  good  man  was  indeed  entirely  out 
of  his  sphere,  and  lost  his  time  and  committed  the  cause  of  Protes- 
tantism by  trying  to  bring  about  a  compromise  where  there  was  no 
possibility  of  an  honest  understanding.  In  the  mean  time  Luther  was 
left  in  complete  and  cruel  ignorance  of  all  that  was  going  on  ;  and 
when  at  last  the  letters  of  Melanchthou  arrived  they  were  full  of  fears 
and  sad  misgivings.  During  all  this  anxious  time  Luther  sought  and 
found  his  comfort  in  constant  prayer  and  occupation  with  the  Word 
of  God.  "  Where  is  Christ's  Church,  if  it  is  not  with  us?  Faith, 
alone  is  required.  I  v/ill  rather  fall  with  Christ  than  stand  with. 
<';i-ar."  Luther  reprimanded  Melauchthoii  sharply  for  his  pusillan- 
imity, and  some  of  his  letters  to  him  are  addressed,  "  To  Master 
Philip  Klcinmuth"  (pusillanimous). 

After  many  tergiversations  the  Protestants  obtained  their  just  de- 
mand ;  the  confession,  drawn  up  by  Melanchthon  and  approved  by 
Luther,  was  read  in  public  sitting  on  the  25th  June,  1530.  A  great 
day,  worthy  of  the  most  glorious  days  of  the  apostolic  times.  Luther 
was  not  present.  He  was  dead  as  a  public  man.  But  he  lived  in  God, 


MARTIN-   LUTHER.  4 

and  for  his  faith  and  country.  Nothing  could  damp  his  spirits. 
"I  also  have  my  diet,"  he  said;  "and  what  lively  discussions!" 
—referring  playfully  to  the  rooks  which  swarmed  round  his  tower. 

The  emperor  ordered  the  confession  to  be  read  in  Latin.  "  No," 
said  Hie  elector  ;  "  we  are  Germans,  and  on  German  ground.  I  hope, 
therefore,  your  Majesty  will  allow  us  to  speak  German."  The  em- 
peror gave' way,  recollecting  for  the  nonce  he  was  in  Germany,  and 
that  the  Germans  had  a  language  of  their  own  and  the  strange' fancy 
of  using  it  even  in  theological  affairs.  When  the  chancellor  of  the 
elector  had  read  the  first  part  of  that  grand  confession,  which  ex- 
pounds the  principles  of  the  Reformation,  and  in  particular  the 
doctrine  of  justification  by  faith — "  that  faith  which  is  not  the  meve 
knowledge  of  a  historical  fact,  but  that  which  believes  not  only  tho 
history,  but  also  the  effect  of  that  history  upon  the  mind  " — there 
w;is  an  indescribable  effect  visibly  produced  upon  the  assembly.  The 
opponents  felt  that  there  was  a  reality  before  them  which  they  had 
never  imagined  ;  and  others  said  such  a  profession  of  faith  by  such 
princes  was  a  more  effectual  preaching  than  that  which  had  been 
stopped.  "  Christ,"  exclaimed  Jonas  (Melanchthon's  companion), 
"  is  in  the  diet,  and  he  does  not  keep  silence  ;  the  word  of  God  is  in- 
deed not  to  be  bound."  And  forth  these  words  have  gone  through 
a  world  wider  than  that  to  which  the  apostles  preached.  After  a 
pause,  the  second  part,  the  articles  about  the  abuses  of  the  Church 
of  Rome,  was  read  and  heard  with  profound  silence  by  the  mitred 
prelates  of  that  church  who  were  there  assembled.  As  to  the  emperor, 
he  slept  during  the  whole  of  the  reading,  or  seemed  to  sleep,  like  a  I  iger 
ready  to  espy  the  most  convenient  moment  for  leaping  upon  ils  prey. 
In  the  mean  time  he  calculated,  undoubtedly,  what  political  capital 
lie  could  make  of  the  Protestants  against  the  pope. 

Luther  addressed  a  letter  to  tho  cardinal  elector  of  Mainz,  demand- 
ing nothing  but  one  article,  but  insisting  upon  that  unconditionally 
— the  liberty  of  preaching  the  gospel."  "  Neither  emperor,"  he  says, 
"  nor  pope  has  the  right  of  forcing  any  one  to  believe."  Wilh  Me 
lanchtlion  and  the  other  friends  he  insisted  upon  their  leaving  Augs- 
burg immediately.  "  Home— home— home  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Might 
it  please  God  that  I  should  be  immolated  at  this  council,  as  John  I  hiss 
was  at  Constance  !"  All  the  sayings  of  Luther  during  this  crisis  are 
sublime  and  of  a  truly  prophetic  character.  He  foresaw  that  now 
every  effort  would  be  made  at  Augsburg  to  destroy  the  principles  of 
the  Reformation  by  a  treacherous  compromise  and  a  false  peace. 
"  The  diet,"  he  said,  "  is  a  regular  dramatic  piece  :  first  there  is 
the  prologue,  then  the  exposition,  then  the  action — now  comes  the 
catastrophe;  but  I  think  it  will  not  be  a  tragic  but  a  comic,  end." 
A.nd,  indeed,  so  it  turned  out  to  be,  tragical' as  it  was.  The  first, 
triumphant  effect  of  the  confession  soon  passed  away  ;  the  new  con- 
Tents,  particularly  among  the  prelates,  withdrew  ;  the  fanatical  party 
doubled  its  efforts,  and  Charles  gave  way  to  it,  and  aided  ils  ends  by 


if;  MARTIN  LtTTHElt. 

t 

nil  diplomatic  artifices.  Melanchthon  was  caught.  He  entered  into 
conferences  in  the  vain  hope  they  would  lead  to  concord  ;  he  de- 
l-lured himself  ready  to  maintain  and  obey  the  supreme  authority  of 
the  pope,  if  he  would,  by  an  act  of  clemency,  connive  at  if  not  ap- 
prove some  points  which  they  could  not  change.  During  the  treach- 
erous conferences  which  now  began,  the  emperor  tried  to  intimidate 
the  elector  by  threatening  not  to 'grant  him  the  investiture,  which  the 
elector  claimed,  however,  as  his  hereditary  right  as  brother  of  his 
predecessor,  and  to  frighten  all  the  Protestant  princes  and  the  Prot- 
estant imperial  city  of  Augsburg  with  measures  of  violence,  by  call 
ing  in  the  imperial  troops  and  keeping  the  gates  closed.  The  land 
grave  escaped.  This  act  caused  dismay  among  the  ranks  of  the 
Catholics,  for  a  war  could  not  be  risked  at  this  moment.  The  Roman- 
ists  changed  their  tactics  ;  they  conceded,  or  rather  feigned  to  con- 
cede ;  for  meanwhile  the  pope  had  declared  solemnly  that  he  would 
not  give  up  those  very  points.  The  Protestants  acknowledged  the 
jurisdiction  of  the  bishops  and  the  supremacy  of  the  pope.  A  cry 
of  indignation  rose  among  the  princes,  and,  among  all,  among  the 
brave  citizens  of  Augsburg.  "Rather  die  with  Jesus  Christ,"  they 
declared,  "  than  conquer  without  him  the  favor  of  the  whole  world/' 

At  this  critical  moment  Luther's  indignation  rose  to  a  holy  wrath, 
like  that  of  the  prophets  of  old.  "  I  understand,"  said  he  to  Melanch- 
thon,  "that  you  have  begun  a  marvellous  work,  namely,  to  make 
Luther  and  the  pope  agree  together  ;  but  the  pope  will  say  that  he 
will  not,  and  Luther  begs  to  be  excused.  Should  you,  however,  after 
all,  succeed  in  your  affair,  I  will  follow  your  example  and  make  an 
agreement  between  Christ  and  Belial.  Take  care  that  you  give  not 
up  the  justification  by  faith;  that  is  the  heel  of  the  seed  of  the 
woman  to  crush  the  serpent's  head...  Take  care  not  to  acknowledge 
the  jurisdiction  of  the  bishops  ;  they  will  soon  take  all.  In  short,  ail 
your  negotiations  have  no  chance  of  success  unless  the  pope  will  re- 
nounce papacy.  Now,  mind,  if  you  mean  to  shut  up  that  glorious 
eagle,  the  gospel,  in  a  sack,  as  sure  as  Christ  lives  Luther  will  come 
to  deliver  that  eagle  with  might." 

But  Melanchthon  was  changed  ;  Luther's  voice  had  lost  its  power 
over  him.  The  extreme  Protestant  views  maintained  in  a  declaration 
which  Zwingle  had  delivered  to  the  emperor  disposed  him  to  cling 
still  more  to  Rome.  All  seemed  for  the  moment  lost ;  but  Luther's 
fui Hi  had  discerned  the  way  in  which  God  meant  to  save  the  Prot- 
estant cause,  and  had  said,  "  Christ  lives  ;  he  who  has  vanquished 
the  violence  of  our  enemies  can  also  give  us  the  power  of  breaking 
through  their  artifices."  The  Romanists  fortunately  insisted  upon 
four  points— celibacy,  confession,  the  denial  of  the  cup  to  the  laity, 
and  the  retaining  of  private  masses.  This  was  too  much  ;  the  con- 
ference separated.  The  Romanists  now  conceded  the  cup  and  the 
marriage  of  the  priests  ;  but  they  would  not  give  up  the  private  masses 
nor  the  obligation  of  confession  and  penance  for  the  remission  of  sin, 


MARTIN   LUTHER.  4? 

and  required  an  acknowledgment  of  the  meritorious  character  of 
good  works.  Melanchtbon  stood  firm,  on  which  the  emperor  and 
Clement  played  out  their  last  card  ;  an  ecumenical  council  should  be 
convened  ;  but  in  the  mean  time  the  Protestants  should  conform  to 
the  doctrine  and  rites  of  the  Catholic  Church.  Charles  accompanied 
this  communication  with  the  most  insulting  threats  against  the  Prot- 
estant princes,  who  declined  to  negotiate,  and  declared  their  resolu- 
tion to  abide  by  the  status  quo  of  Worms  until  the  council  should 
assemble.  The  emperor  indeed  went  so  far  as  to  forbid  the  princes 
to  quit  Augsburg,  but  the  elector  was  firm  as  a  rock  ;  his  son  left  the 
town  on  the  12th  September.  Melanchthon  had  regained  his  courage 
and  sagacity.  When  Luther  heard  what  was  taking  place  he  raised 
his  voice  from  Coburg  :  "  Depart !  depart  !  even  if  it  must  be  with 
the  curse  of  pope  and  emperor  upon  you.  You  have  confessed  Jesus 
Christ,  you  have  offered  peace,  you  have  obeyed  the  emperor,  you 
have  supported  insults  of  every  kind,  you  have  withstood  blas- 
phemies ;  now  I  will  encourage  you,  as  one  of  the  faithful  members 
of  Jesus  Christ.  He  is  making  ready  our  enemies  as  victims  for  the 
sacrifice  ;  he  will  presently  consume  their  pride  and  deliver  his  people. 
Yes,  he  will  bring  us  safely  out  of  Babylon  and  her  burning  walls." 
When  the  emperor  saw  that  the  electorwas  resolved  on  departing,  he 
communicated  to  the  five  princes  and  the  six  towns  (four  more  having 
joined  since  Nuremberg  and  Reutlingen)  a  proposal  for  a  recess,  or 
definitive  decree  of  the  diet — that  six  months  should  elapse  to  give 
time  for  an  arrangement ;  and  meantime  Protestants  and  Catholics 
should  unite  in  a  common  attack  upon  the  Anabaptists  and  those  who 
denied  the  holy  sacrament,  the  Zwinglians  ;  but  the  Protestants  alike 
withstood  threats  and  flatteries  ;  and  the  elector  took  his  leave,  as 
he  had  announced,  on  the  23d  September. 

The  author  of  this  article  cannot  agree  with  the  saying  of  the  elo- 
quent historian  of  the  Reformation,  that  if  the  glorification  of  man 
was  the  purpose  and  end  of  God's  ways,  and  not  God's  glory  alone, 
one  must  wish  Luther  had  died  at  the  Wartburg.  We  have  seen 
that  it  was  he  who,  in  1524,  pacified  Wittemberg  and  Saxony  by  his 
reappearance,  and  achieved  wonders  as  a  practical  Reformer  ;  and  in 
1525  attempted,  as  pacificator  of  Germany,  what  nobody  but  himself 
<:ould  and  would  have  done.  But  whose  was  the  never-shaken  mind  ? 
Win)  among  the  German  theologians  and  Reformers  was  the  organ 
.if  God  and  of  the  German  nation  during  the  greater  part  of  the  mo 
mentous  diet  of  Augsburg?  Who  else  but  the  man  in  the  solitary 
tower  at  Coburg  ?  Prom  this  time  forth,  however,  he  had  nothing  left, 
to  do  but  to  look  the  tragedy  in  the  face,  as  a  believer  in  God  and  his 
kingdom  on  earth,  praying  and  preaching,  and  finally  to  die  the  deaf  li 
of  a  faithful  and  hopeful  Christian  saint.  All  the  rest  is  patient, 
suffering  martyrdom. 

Some  of  the  most  powerful  Romanist  princes,  the  Archbishop  of 
Mayence  at  their  head,  assured  the  elector  on  his  departure  that  tltry 


48  MARTIN   LUTHER, 

would  never  join  the  emperor  in  adopting  any  violent  measures  against 
him,  although  the  brother  of  the  archbishop  Joachim,  elector  of  Bran- 
denburg, had  presumed  to  promise  in  their  name  that  they  would. 
Even  Ferdinand  said  some  civil  words.     But  why  ?    Simply  because 
(as  ('harles  could  not  refrain  from  saying  in  his  wrath)  the  emperor 
was  more  than  ever  resolved  to  resort  to  arms.     "  Nothing  but  arma- 
ments will  have  any  effect,"  he  said.     Indeed,  he  announced  this  as 
his  resolution  immediately  to  the  pope,  and  "requested  him  to  summon 
all  Christian  princes  to  assist  him.     The  Catholic  league  was  signed 
on  the  13th  October.    The  anti-reformatory  movement  was  begun 
in  the  town  of  Augsburg  itself.     The  answer  to  this  was  the  declara- 
tion of  sixteen  imperial  towns,  instead  of  six,  that  they  would  not 
grant  any  subsidies  against  the  Turks  so  long  as  the  affairs  of  Ger- 
many remained  unsettled.     The  Zwinglian  and  Lutheran  towns  shook 
hands  ;  and  this  was  the  expression  of  the  real  feeling  of  the  whole 
German  nation,  only  priests,  pastors,  and  theologians  excepted.     Tha 
Protestant  dignitaries  declared  that  they  rejected  the  imperial  closing 
declaration,  as  the  emperor  had  no  right  to  command  in  matters  of 
faith.     Luther  was  the  organ  of  the  universal  feeling  of  the  German 
people,  when  he  exclaimed,  "  Our  enemies  do  not  rill  me  with  fear. 
I,  on  the  contrary,  shall  put  them  down  in  the  strength  of  the  Lord. 
My  life  shall  be  their  executioner  ;  my  death  their  hell."     Indeed,  his 
work  was  accomplished  for  all  countries  and  for  all  ages.     The  rest, 
of  his  life  was  one  long  pang,  although  he  did  not  live  to  see  the  most 
dreadful  calamity — the  breaking  out  of  the  civil  war  of  religion  which 
began  immediately  after  his  death.     He  wrote  an  address  to  the  Ger- 
man nation,  warning  them  not  to  yield  to  Rome,  and  not  to  trust 
any  negotiations;    "for,"  said  he,  "they  know  no  argument  but 
force.  Be  not  deceived  by  their  words  about  obedience  to  the  Church. 
The  Church  is  a  poor  erring  sinner  without  Christ ;  not  the  Church 
but  Christ  is  the  faith."     The  cause  of  the  Reformation  made  prog- 
ress ;  the  Protestant  alliance,  begun  by  the  convention  of  Schmal 
kalden,  gained  new  members  ;  Denmark  acceded,  and  Joachim  II. 
became  as  stanch  a  defender  of  the  faith  of  his  mother  as  Joachim 
i.  had  been  its  violent  enemy.     As  Luther  had  prophesied,  the  nego- 
tiations with  the  popish  party  in  1541,  renewed  at  Ratisbon,  led  l<> 
no  result.     The  emperor,  at  the  Diet  of  Spires,  in  1544,  dared  no 
longer  refuse  to  the  Protestants  the  equal  right  which  they  claimed. 
The  Romish  council  opened  at  Trent  in  1544,  and  its  first  proceeding 
was  to  read  the  pope's  anathema  against,  the  Protestants. 

It  was  in  this  latter  period  (from  1589  to  1543)  that  a  secret  letter 
of  advice,  drawn  up  by  Melanchthon,  was  given  by  Luther  and  his 
friends  to  the  landgrave  Philip  in  answer  to  his  pressing  request 
(sanctioned  by  the  landgravine,  who  suffered  from  an  incurable  in- 
ward disorder)  to  deliver  him  from  the  sin  of  fornication,  by  allowing 
him  to  marry  a  lady  of  the  landgravine's  court.  After  the  master!  v 
of  this  subject  by  Archdeacon  Hare,  in  bie  Vindication  oj 


MARTIN    LUTHER.  49 

Lullwr,  republished  (1855)  from  the  notes  to  his  Mission  of  the  Com- 
forter, it  is  not  necessary,  least  of  all  to  English  readers,  to  enter  into 
details  in  order  to  prove  the  report  of  Bossuet  to  he  a  tissue  of  false- 
hoods and  malignity.  We  limit,  therefore,  ourselves  to  stating  the 
decisive  facts.  First.  The  error  committed  in  this  secret  advice  hy 
the  Reformers  was  a  perfectly  sincere  one  ;  it  arose  from  an  indis- 
tinct view  of  the  applicability  of  the  patriarchal  ordinances  and  of 
the  Mosaic  law,  which  admits  a  second  wife  legally,  as  indeed  Moses 
himself  seems  to  have  had  two  wives  at  the  same  time.  Now,  as  the 
Reformers  could  not  show  an  express  abrogation  of  those  ordinances 
and  Of  this  law,  they  were  led  into  this  sad  mistake.  Secondly.  There 
was  in  their  advice  no  worldly  regard  whatever  as  to  any  benefits  and 
advantages  which  might  accrue  to  themselves  or  to  the  cause  of  the 
Reformation.  They  knew  that  the  landgrave  had  his  whole  heart  in 
the  cause  of  the  Reformation,  and  had  often  risked  his  life  and 
states  for  it.  Thirdly.  When  in  1540  Philip  divulged  the  secret, 
contrary  to  his  promise,  they  spoke  out  and  confessed  their  mistake, 
and  Melanchthon  was  brought  by  his  grief  to  the  verge  of  the  grave. 
Fourthly.  When,  in  the  course  of  the  controversy,  Bucer  published, 
in  1541,  his  pamphlet  in  defence  of  polygamy  (under  the  name  of 
Hulderic  Neobulus),  Luther  pronounced  his  judgment  upon  the  book 
and  on  the  subject  in  the  following  solemn  words  :  "  He  who  desires 
my  judgment  upon  this  book,  let  him  hear.  Thus  says  Dr.  Martin 
Luther  on  the  book  of  Neobulus :  He  who  follows  this  rogue  and 
book,  and  thereupon  takes  more  than  one  wife,  and  means  that  this 
should  be  a  matter  of  right,  may  the  devil  bless  his  bath  in  the 
bottom  of  hell.  This,  God  be  praised,  I  well  know  how  to  maintain. 
.  • .  .  Much  less  shall  they  establish  the  law  that  a  man  may  sepa- 
rate himself  from  his  wife  rightfully,  when  she  has  not  already  sepa- 
' rated  herself  by  open  adultery,  which  this  rogue  would  also  like  to 
teach."  We  possess  also  the  sketch  of  his  intended  full  reply  to 
Bucer's  book  ;  and  there  we  find  the  following  sentence  :  "  We  have 
already  shown  in  a  number  of  books  that  the  law  of  Moses  does  not 
concern  us,  and  that  we  are  not  to  look  to  the  examples  in  the  history 
of  the  saints,  much  less  of  the  kings,  to  their  faith,  and  to  God's 
commandments. " 

The  dark  side  of  this  latter  portion  of  Luther's  life  is  his  contro- 
versy with  the  Reformed.  He  seemed  now  and  then  inclined  to  yield 
to  their  entreaties  for  a  union,  as  is  shown  by  his  letter  of  1531  to 
Bucer  of  Strasburg  ;  and  he  declared  his  sincere  wish  for  a  union  to 
the  landgrave  in  1534.  He  does  not  think  the  work  ought  to  be  pre- 
cipitated, but  he  prays  to  live,  to  see  it  take  place.  The  concord  of 
Wittemberg,  begun  by  Bucer  in  1530,  which  left  it  just  possible  to 
the  Reformed  not  to  see  their  view  of  the  sacrament  excluded,  has 
his  cordial  sympathy.  Finally,  on  the  17th  February,  1537,  he  wrih-n 
to  the  Burgomaster  of  Basel,  James  Meyer,  in  terms  which  excited 
among  the  Swiss  the  hope  that  he  would  give  up  his  exclusive  views. 


60  MARTIN    LUTHER. 

But  when  (Eeolampadius  published  the  writings  of  Zwingle,  after 
this  great  and  lioly  man  had  died  a  patriot's  death  in  the  battle  of 
Cappel,  Luther  became  so  incensed  that  he  wrote,  in  1544,  two  years 
before  his  death,  the  most  violent  of  all  his  sacramentary  treatises, 
1  Short  Confession  respecting  llic  Lord's  Supper. 

However,  his  last  word  on  his  death-bed  was  one  of  peace.  He  is 
credibly  reported  to  have  said  to  Melanchthon  in  the  course  of  a  dying 
conversation,  "  Dear  Philip,  I  confess  to  have  gone  too  far  in  the 
affair  of  the  sacrament." 

The  year  1546  began  with  unmistakable  indications  that  Charles 
was  now  ready  to  strike  a  decisive  blow. 

Luther  had  been  suffering  much  during  the  last  few  years,  and  IK; 
felt  his  end  to  be  near  at  hand.  In  the  month  of  January,  1546,  he 
undertook  a  journey  to  Eisleben  in  very  inclement  weather,  in  order 
to  restore  peace  in  the  family  of  the  counts  of  Mausfeld  ;  he  caught 
a  violent  cold  ;  preached  four  times  ;  and  took  all  the  time  an  active 
part  in  the  work  of  conciliation.  On  the  17th  February  he  fc'lt 
that  his  release  was  at  hand  ;  and  at  Eisleben,  where  he  was  born,  he 
died,  in  faith  and  prayer,  on  the  following  day.  Nothing  can  be 
more  edifying  than  the  scene  presented  by  the  last  days  of  Luther,  of 
which  we  have  the  most  authentic  and  detailed  accounts.  When 
dying  he  collected  his  last  strength  and  offered  up  the  following 
prayer  :  "  Heavenly  Father,  eternal,  merciful  God,  thou  hast  re- 
vealed to  me  thy  dear  Son,  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ ;  Him  I  have 
taught,  Him  I  have  confessed,  Him  I  love  as  my  Saviour  and  Re- 
deemer, whom  the  wicked  persecute,  dishonor,  and  reprove.  Take 
my  poor  soul  up  to  thee  !"  Then  two  of  his  friends  put  to  him  the 
solemn  question,  "  Reverend  Father,  do  you  die  in  Christ  and  in  the 
doctrine  you  have  constantly  preached?"  He  answered  by  an  audi- 
ble and  joyful  "  Yes  ;"  and  repeating  the  verse,  "  Father,  into  thy 
hands  I  commend  my  spirit,"  he  expired  peaceably,  without  a 
struggle,  on  the  18th  February,  1546,  at  four  o'clock  iu  tho  after- 
uoou. 


SPIRITUAL  PORTRAIT  OF  LUTHER. 

BY  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


LUTHER'S  birthplace  was  Eisleben  in  Saxony ;  he  came  into  the 
world  there  ou  the  10th  of  November,  1483.  It  was  an  accident  that 
gave  this  honor  to  Eisleben.  His  parents,  poor  mine-laborers  in  a 
village  of  that  region,  named  Mohra,  had  gone  to  the  Eisleben 
Winter-Fair  :  in  the  tumult  of  this  scene  the  Frau  Luther  was  taken 
with  travail,  found  refuge;  in  some  poor  house  there,  and  the  boy  she 
bore  was  named  MAKTIN  LUTHER.  Strange  enough  to  reflect  upon 
it.  This  poor  Frau  Luther,  she  had  gone  with  her  husband  to  make 
her  small  merchandisings  ;  perhaps  to  sell  the  lock  of  yarn  she  had 
been  spinning,  to  buy  the  small  winter-necessaries  for  her  narrow  hut 
or  household  ;  in  the  whole  world,  that  day,  there  was  not  a  more 
entirely  unimportant-looking  pair  of  people  than  this  miner  and  his 
wife.  And  yet  what  were;  ;tll  emperors,  popes,  and  potentates,  in 
comparison?  There  was  born  here,  once  more,  a  mighty  man; 
whose  light  was  to  tfamc  as  the  beacon  over  long  centuries  ami 
epochs  of  the  world;  the  whole,  world  and  its  history  was  waiting 
for  this  man.  It  is  strange,  it  i*great.  It  leads  us  back  to  another 
birth-hour,  in  a  still  meaner  environment,  eighteen  hundred  years 
ago  -of  which  it  is  fit  that  we  say  nothing,  that  we  think  only  in 
silence  :  for  what  words  are  there  !  The  age  of  miracles  past  ? 
The  age  of  miracles  is  forever  here  ! 

I  find  it  altogether  suitable  to  Luther's  function  in  this  earth,  and 
doubtless  wisely  ordered  to  that  end  by  the  Providence  presiding 
over  him  and  us  and  all  things,  that  he  was  born  poor,  and  brought. 
up  poor,  one  of  the  poorest  of  men.  lie  had  to  beg,  as  UK;  school- 
children in  those  times  did  ;  singing  for  alms  and  bread,  from  door 
to  door.  Hardship,  rigorous  necessity  was  the  poor  boy's  com- 
panion ;  no  man  nor  no  thing  would  put  on  a  false  face  to  Hatter 
Martin  Luther.  Among  things,  not  among  the  shows  of  things,  had 
lie  to  grow.  A  boy  of  rude  figure,  yet  with  weak  health,  with  his 
large  greedy  soul,  full  of  all  faculty  and  sensibility,  he  suffered 
greatly.  Hut  it  was  his  task  to  get  acquainted  with  realities,  and 
keep  acquainted  with  them,  at  whatever  cost  ;  his  task  was  to  bring 


52  SPIRITUAL   PORTRAIT  OF  LUTHER, 

the  whole  world  back  to  reality,  for  it  had  dwelt  too  long  with  sem- 
blance !  A  youth  nursed-up  in  wintry  whirlwinds,  in  desolate  dark- 
ness  and  difficulty,  that  he  may  step  forth  at  last  from  his  stormy 
Hcandinavia,  strong  as  a  true  man,  as  a  god:  a  Christian  Odin— a 
right  Thor  once  more,  with  his  thunder-hammer,  to  smile  asunder 
ugly  enough  Jutuns  and  giant-monsters  ! 

Perhaps  the  turning  incident  of  his  life,  we  may  fancy,  was  that 
death  of  his  friend  Alexis,  by  lightning,  at  the  gate  of  Erfurt.  Luther 
had  struggled  up  through  boyhood,  better  and  worse  ;  displaying,  in 
spite  of  all  hindrances,  the  largest  intellect,  eager  to  learn  :  his  father, 
judging  doubtless  that  he  might  promote  himself  in  the  world,  set 
him  upon  the  study  of  law.  This  was  the  path  to  rise  ;  Luther, 
with  little  will  in  it  either  way,  had  consented  ;  he  was  now  nineteen 
years  of  age.  Alexis  and  he  had  been  to  see  the  old  Luther  people 
at  Mansfeld  ;  were  got  back  again  near  Erfurt,  when  a  thunderstorm 
came  on  ;  the  bolt  struck  Alexis,  he  fell  dead  at  Luther's  feet.  What 
is  this  life  of  ours  ? — gone  in  a  moment,  burnt  up  like  a  scroll,  into 
the  blank  eternity  !  What  are  all  earthly  preferments,  chancellor- 
ships,  kingships  ?  They  lie  shrunk  together — there  !  The  earth 
has  opened  on  them  ;  in  a  moment  they  are  not,  and  eternity  is. 
Luther,  struck  to  the  heart,  determined  to  devote  himself  to  (rod,  and 
God's  service  alone.  In  spite  of  all  dissuasions  from  his  father  and 
others,  he  became  a  monk  in  the  Augustine  convent  at  Erfurt. 

This  was  probably  the  first  light-point  in  the  history  of  Luther, 
his  purer 'Will  now  first  decisively  uttering  itself  ;  but,  for  the  pres- 
ent, it,  was  still  as  one  light-point  in  an  element  all  of  darkness,  lie 
says  lie  was  a  pious  monk,  ichbtn  cinfrommer  MoncJi  gewesen ;  faith- 
fully, painfully  struggling  to  work  out  the  truth  of  this  high  act  of 
iiis  ;  but.  it.  was  to  little  purpose.  His  misery  had  not  lessened  ;  had 
rallnT,  as  it  were,  increased  into  infinitude.  The  drudgeries  he  had 
to  do,  as  novice  in  his  convent,  all  ^irts  of  slave-work,  were  not  his 
grievance  :  the  deep  earnest  soul  of  the  man  had  fallen  into  all  man- 
ner of  black  scruples,  dubitations  ;  he  believed  himself  likely  to  die 
soon,  and  far  worse  than  die.  One  hears  with  a  new  interest  for  poor 
Luther  that,  at  this  time,  he  lived  in  terror  of  the  unspeakable 
misery  ;  fancied  that  he  was  doomed  to  eternal  reprobation.  Was  it 
not  the  humble  sincere  nature  of  the  man?  What  was  he,  that  he 
should  be  raised  to  heaven  !  He  that  had  known  only  misery,  and 
mean  slavery  :  the  news  was  too  blessed  to  be  credible.  It  could  not 
1  <  i -oinc  clear  to  him  how,  by  fasts,  vigils,  formalities  and  mass-work, 
a  man's  soul  could  be  saved.  He  fell  into  the  blackest  wretchedness  ; 
had  to  wander  staggering  as  on  the  verge  of  bottomless  despair. 

It  must  have  been  a  most  blessed  discovery,  that  of  an  old  Latin 

I  We  Which  lie  found  in  the  Erfurt  Library  about  this  time.     He 

had  never  seen  the  book  before.     It  taught  him  another  lesson  than 

that  of  fasts  and  vigils.     A  brother  monk  too,  of  pious  experience, 

•was  helpful.     Luther  learned  now  that  a  man  was  saved  not  by 


BY    THOMAS    CARLYLE.  53 

singing  masses,  but  by  the  infinite  grace  of  God  :  a  more  credible 
hypothesis.  He  gradually  got  himself  founded,  as  on  the  rock.  No 
Wonder  he  should  venerate  the  Bible,  which  had  brought  this  blessed 
help  to  him.  lie  prized  it  as  the  Word  of  the  Highest  must  be 

Srized  by  such  a  man.  He  determined  to  hold  by  that ;  as  through 
fe  and  to  death  he  firmly  did. 

This  then  is  his  deliverance  from  darkness,  his  final  triumph  over 
darkness,  what  we  call  his  conversion  ;  for  himself  the  most  impor- 
tant of  all  epochs.  That  he  should  now  grow  daily  in  peace  and 
tlearness  ;  that,  .unfolding  now  the  great  talents  and  virtues  im- 
planted in  him,  he  should  rise  to  importance  in  his  convent,  iu  hid 
country,  and  be  found  more  and  more  useful  in  all  honest  business 
of  life,  is  a  natural  result.  He  was  sent  on  missions  by  his  Augus- 
tine Order,  as  a  man  of  talent  and  fidelity  fit  to  do  their  business 
well  :  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  Friedrich,  named  the  Wise,  a  truly 
wise  and  just  prince,  had  cast  his  eye  on  him  as  a  valuable  person  ; 
made  him  professor  in  his  new  University  of  Wittenberg,  a  preacher 
too  at  Wittenberg  ;  in  both  which  capacities,  as  in  ail  duties.he  did, 
this  Luther,  in  the  peaceable  sphere  of  common  life,  was  gaining 
more  and  more  esteem  with  all  good  men. 

It  was  in  his  twenty-seventh  year  that  he  first  saw  Rome  ;  being 
sent  thither,  as  I  said,  on  mission  from  his  convent.  Pope  Julius 
the  Second,  and  what  was  going  on  at  Rome,  must  have  filled  the 
mind  of  Luther  with  amazement.  He  had  come  as  to  the  Sanvd 
City,  throne  of  God's  high-priest  on  earth  ;  and  he  found  it — what 
we  know  !  Many  thoughts  it  must  have  given  the  man  ;  many 
which  we  have  no  record  of,  which  perhaps  he  did  not  himself  know 
how  to  utter.  This  Rome,  this  scene  of  false  priests,  clothed  not 
in  the  beauty  of  holiness,  but  in  far  other  vesture,  is  false  :  but  what 
is  it  to  Luther  ?  A  nu;an  man  he,  how  shall  he  reform  a  world  V 
That  was  far  from  his  thoughts.  An  humble,  solitary  man,  why 
should  he  at  all  muddle  with  the  world?  It  was  the  task  of  quite 
higher  men  than  hu.  His  business  was  to  guide  his  own  footsteps 
wisely  through  the  world.  Lot  him  do  his  own  obscure  duty  in  it 
well ;  the  rest,  horrible  and  dismal  as  it  looks,  is  in  God's  hand,  not 
in  his. 

It  is  curious  to  reflect  what  might  have  been  the  issue,  had  Roman 
popery  happened  to  pass  this  Luther  by  ;  to  go  on  in  its  great 
wasteful  orbit,  and  not  come  athwart  his  little  path,  and  force  him  to 
assault  it  !  Conceivable  enough  that,  in  this  case,  he  might  have; 
held  his  peace  about  the  abuses  of  Rome  ;  left  Providence,  and  God 
on  high,  to  deal  with  them  !  A  modest,  quiet  man  ;  not  prompt  ha 
to  attack  irreverently  persons  in  authority.  His  clear  task,  as  I  say, 
was  to  do  his  own  duty  ;  to  walk  wisely  in  this  world  of  confused 
wickedness,  and  save  his  own  soul  alive.  But  the  Roman  high- 
priesthood  did  come  athwart  him  :  afar  off  at  Wittenberg  he,  Luther, 
could  not  get  lived  iu.  honesty  for  it ;  he  remonstrated,  resisted,  cuun* 


54  SPIRITUAL   PORTRAIT   OF    LUTHER, 

to  extremity  ;  was  struck  at,  struck  again,  and  so  it  came  to  wagei 
of  battle  between  them  !  This  is  worth  attending  to  in  Luther's  his- 
tory. Perhaps  no  man  of  so  humble,  peaceable  a  disposition  ever 
tilled  the  world  with  contention.  We  cannot  but  see  that  he  would 
have  loved  privacy,  quiet  diligence  in  the  shade  ;  that  it  was  against 
bis  will  he  ever  became  a  notoriety.  Notoriety  :  what  would  that  do 
for  him  ?  The  goal  of  his  inarch  through  this  world  was  the  infinite 
heaven  ;  an  indubitable  goal  for  him  :  in  a  few  years  he  should 
cither  have  attained  that,  or  lost  it  forever  !  We  Will  say  nothing  at 
all,  I  think,  of  that  sorrowftillest  of  theories,  of  its  being  some  mean 
shopkeeper  grudge,  of  the  Augustine  monk  against  the  Dominican, 
that  first  kindled  the  wrath  of  Luther,  and  produced  the  Protestant 
Reformation.  We  will  say  to  the  people  who  maintain  it,  if  indeed 
any  such  exist  now  :  Get  first  into  the  sphere  of  thought  by  which  it 
is  so  much  as  possible  to  judge  of  Luther,  or  of  any  man  like  Lu- 
ther, otherwise  than  distractedly  ;  we  may  then  begin  arguing  with  you. 
The  monk  Totzel,  sent  out  carelessly  in  the  way  of  trade,  by  Leo 
Tenth — who  merely  wanted  to  raise  a  little  money,  and  for  the  rest 
seems  to  have  been  a  Pagan  rather  than  a  Christian,  so  far  as  he  was 
anything — arrived  at  Wittenberg,  and  drove  his  scandalous  trade 
there.  Luther's  flock  bought  indulgences  ;  in  the  confessional  of  his 
Church,  people  pleaded  to  him  that  they  had  already  got  their  sins 
pardoned.  Luther,  if  he  would  not  be  found  wanting  at  his  own 
post,  a  false  sluggard  and  coward  at  the  very  centre  of  the  little  space; 
of  ground  that  was  his  own  and  no  other  man's,  had  to  step  forth 
against  indulgences,  and  declare  aloud  that  they  were  a  futility  and 
sorrowful  mockery,  that  no  man's  sins  could  be  pardoned  by  Hunt. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  the  whole  Reformation.  We  know  how  it 
went  ;  forward  from  this  first  public  challenge  of  Tetzel,  on  the  last 
day  of  October,  1517,  through  remonstrance  and  argument ; — spread- 
ing ever  wider,  rising  ever  higher  ;  till  it  became  unquenchable,  and 
enveloped  all  the  world.  Luther's  heart's  desire  was  to  have  this 
grief  and  other  griefs  amended  ;  his  thought  was  still  far  other  than 
that  of  introducing  separation  in  the  Church,  or  revolting  against  the 
pope,  father  of  Christendom.  The  elegant  pagan  pope  cared  little 
about  this  monk  and  his  doctrines  ;  wished  however  to  have  done 
with  the  noise  of  him  :  in  a  space  of  some  three  years,  having  tried 
various  softer  methods,  he  thought  good  to  end  it  by  fire.  He  dooms 
the  monk's  writings  to  be  burnt  by  the  hangman,  and  his  body  to  be 
sent  bound  to  Rome— probably  for  a  similar  purpose.  It  was  the 
way  they  had  ended  with  Huss,  with  Jerome,  the  century  before.  A 
short  argument,  fire.  Poor  Huss  :  he  came  to  that  Constance  Coun- 
cil with  all  imaginable  promises  and  safe-conducts  ;  an  earnest,  not 

'eon 
true 
Thai 
was  not  well  done  I 


BY  THOMA.S   CABLYLB.  55 

I,  for  one,  pardon  Luther  for  now  altogether  revolting  against  the 
pope.  The  elegant  pagan,  by  this  fire-decree  of  his,  had  kindled 
into  uot>le  just  wrath  the  bravest  heart  then  living  in  this  world. 
The  bravest,  if  also  one  of  the  humblest,  peaceablest ;  it  was  now 
kindled.  These  words  of  mine,  words  of  truth  and  soberness,  aim- 
ing faithfully,  as  human  inability  would  allow,  to  promote  God's 
truth  on  earth,  and  save  men's  souls,  you,  God's  vicegerent  on 
earth,  answer  them  by  the  hangman  and  fire?  You  will  burn  mo 
and  them,  for  answer  to  the  God's  message  they  strove  to  bring  you? 
You  are  not  God's  vicegerent ;  you  are  another's  than  his,  I  think  ! 
I  take  your  bull,  as  an  emparchmented  lie,  and  burn  it.  You  will 
do  what  you  see  good  next  :  this  is  what  I  do. — It  was  on  the  10th 
of  December,  1520,  three  years  after  the  beginning  of  the  business, 
that  Luther  "  with  a  great  concourse  of  people,"  took  this  indignant 
step  of  burning  the  pope's  tire-decree  "  at  the  EIster-Gate  of  Wittcju 
berg."  Wittenberg  looked  on  "  with  shoutings  ;"  the  whole  world 
was  looking  on.  The  pope  should  not  have  provoked  that  "  shout !" 
It  was  the  shout  of  the  awakening  of  nations.  The  quiet  German 
heart,  modest,  patient  of  much,  had  at  length  got  mow  than  it 
could  bear.  Formulism,  pagan  popism,  and  other  falsehood  and 
corrupt  semblance  had  ruled" long  enough:  and  here  once  more  was 
a  man  found  who  durst  tell  all  men  that  God's  world  stood  not  on 
semblances  but  on  realities  ;  that  life  was  a  truth,  and  not  a  lie  ! 

At  bottom,  as  was  said  above,  we  are  to  consider  Luther  as  a  proph- 
et idol-breaker  ;  a  bringer-back  of  men  to  reality.  It  is  the  func- 
tion of  great  men  and  teachers.  Mahomet  said,  These  idols  of  yours 
are  wood  ;  you  put  wax  and  oil  on  them,  the  Hies  stick  on  them, 
they  are  not  God,  I  tell  you,  they  are  black  wood  !  Luther  said  to 
the  pope,  This  thing  of  yours  that  you  call  a  pardon  of  sins,  it  is  a 
bit  of  rag-paper  with  ink.  It  is  nothing  else  ;  it,  and  so  much  like 
it,  is  nothing  else.  God  alone  can  pardon  sins.  Popcship,  spirit- 
ual fatherhood  of  God's  Church,  is  that  a  vain  semblance,  of  cloth 
and  parchment  ?  It  is  an  awful  fact.  God's  Church  is  not  a 
semblance,  heaven  and  hell  are  not  semblances.  I  stand  on  this, 
since  you  drive  me  to  it.  Standing  on  this,  I,  a  poor  German  monk 
am  stronger  than  you  all.  I  stand  solitary,  friendless,  but  on  God's 
truth  ;  you  with  your  tiaras,  triple-hats,  with  your  treasuries  and 
armories,  thunders  spiritual  and  temporal,  stand  on  the  devil's  lie, 
and  are  not  so  strong  ! 

The  Diet  of  Worms,  Luther's  appearance  there  on  the  17th  of 
April,  1521,  may  be  considered  as  the  greatest  scene  in  modern  Eu- 
ropean history  ;  the  point,  indeed,  from  which  the  whole  subsequent 
history  of  civilization  takes  its  rise.  After  multiplied  negotiations, 
disputations,  it  had  come  to  this.  The  young  Emperor  Charles 
Fifth,  with  all  the  princes  of  Germany,  papal  nuncios,  dignitaries 
spiritual  and  temporal,  are  assembled  there  :  Luther  is  to  appeal-  and 
answer  for  himself,  whether  he  will  recant  or  not.  The  world's 


56  SPIRITUAL   PORTRAIT   OF   LUTHER, 

pomp  and  power  sits  there  on  this  hand  :  on  that,  stands  up  for 
God's  truth,  one  man,  the  poor  miner  Hans  Luther's  sou.  Friends 
had  reminded  him  of  Huss,  advised  him  not  to  go  ;  he  would  not  be 
advised.  A  large  company  of  friends  rode  out  to  meet  him,  witu 
still  more  earnest  warnings  ;  he  answered,  "  Were  there  as  many 
devils  in  Worms  as  there  are  roof -tiles,  I  would  on."  The  people, 
on  the  morrow,  as  he  went  to  the  hall  of  the  diet,  crowded  the  wiu- 
dows  and  housetops,  some  of  them  calling  out  to  him,  in  solemn 
words,  not  to  recant :  "  Whosoever  deuieth  me  before  men  !"  they 
cried  to  him — as  in  a  kind  of  solemn  petition  and  adjuration.  vVas 
it  not  in  reality  our  petition  too,  the  petition  of  the  whole  world, 
lying  in  dark  bondage  of  soul,  paralyxed  under  a  black  spectral  night- 
mare and  triple-hatted  chimera,  calling  itself  father  in  God,  and  what 
not :  "  Free  us  ;  it  rests  with  thee  ;  desert  us  not  !"  Luther  did  not 
desert  us.  His  speech,  of  two  hours,  distinguished  itself  by  its  re- 
spectful, wise  and  honest  tone  ;  submissive  to  whatsoever  could  law- 
fully claim  submission,  not  submissive  to  any  more  than  that.  His 
writings^ he  said,  were  partly  his  own,  partly  derived  from  the 
Word  of  God.  As  to  what  was  his  own,  human  infirmity  entered 
into  it ;  unguarded  anger  ,.blinduess,  many  things  doubtless  which  it 
were  a  blessing  for  him  could  he  abolish  altogether.  But  as  to  what 
stood  on  sound  truth  and  the  Word  of  God,  he  could  not  recant  it. 
How  could  he  ?  "  Confute  me,"  he  concluded,  "  by  proofs  of  Scrip- 
ture, or  else  by  plain  just  arguments  :  I  cannot  recant  otherwise. 
For  it  is  neither  safe  nor  prudent  to  do  aught  against  conscience. 
Here  stand  I  ;  I  can  do  no  other  :  God  assist  me  !" — It  is,  as  we  say, 
the  greatest  moment  in  the  modern  history  of  men.  English  Puri- 
tanism, England  and  its  Parliaments,  Americas,  and  vast  work  these 
two  centuries  ;  French  devolution,  Europe  and  its  work  everywhere 
at  present :  the  germ  of  it  all  lay  there  :  had  Luther  in  that  moment 
done  other,  it  had  all  been  otherwise  !  The  European  world  was 
asking  him  :  Am  I  to  sink  ever  lower  into  falsehood,  stagnant  putres- 
cence, loathsome  accursed  death  ;  or,  with  whatever  paroxysm,  to 
cast  the  falsehoods  out  of  rne,  and  be  cured  and  live  ? 

Great  wars,  contentions  and  disunion  followed  out  of  this  Refor- 
mation ;  which  last  down  to  our  day,  and  are  yet  far  from  ended. 
Great  talk  and  crimination  has  been  made  about  these.  They  are 
lamentable,  undeniable  ;  but  after  all,  what  has  Luther  or  his  cause 
to  dp  with  them  ?  It  seems  strange  reasoning  to  charge  the  Refor- 
mat ion  with  all  this.  When  Hercules  turned  the  purifying  river  into 
King  Augeas's  stables,  I  have  no  doubt  the  confusion  that  resulted 
\\.i-  considerable  all  around;  but  I  think  it  was  not  llercules's 
blame  ;  it  was  some  other's  blame  !  The  Reformation  might  bring 
what  results  it  liked  when  it  came,  but  the  Reformation  simply  could 
not  help  coming.  To  all  popes  and  popes'  advocates,  expostulat- 
ing, lamenting  and  accusing,  the  answer  of  the  world  is  ;  Once  for 


BY  THOMAS  CARLTLB.  57 

all,  your  popehood  has  become  untrue.  No  matter  how  good  it  was, 
how  good  you  say  it  is,  we  cannot  believe  it ;  the  light  of  our  whole 
mind,  given  us  to  walk  by  from  heaven  above,  finds  it  henceforth  a 
thing  unbelievable.  We  will  not  believe  it,  we  will  not  try  to  be- 
lieve it — we  dare  not  !  The  thing  is  untrue  ;  we  were  traitors  against 
the  Giver  of  all  truth,  if  we  durst  pretend  to  think  it  true.  Away 
with  it ;  let  whatsoever  likes  come  in  the  place  of  it  ;  with  it  we 
can  have  no  farther  trade  !  Luther  and  his  Protestantism  is  not  re- 
sponsible for  wars  ;  the  false  simulacra  that  forced  him  to  protest, 
they  arc  responsible.  Luther  did  what  every  man  that  God  has 
made  has  not  only  the  right,  but  lies  under  the  sacred  duty  to  do  : 
answered  a  falsehood  when  it  questioned  him,  Dost  thou  believe 
me  ? — No  ! — At  what  cost  soever,  without  counting  of  costs,  this 
thing  behoved  to  be  done.  Union,  organization  spiritual  and  mate- 
rial, a  far  nobler  than  any  popedom  or  feudalism  in  their  truest  days, 
I  never  doubt,  is  coming  for  the  world  ;  sure  to  come.  But  on  fact 
alone,  not  on  semblance  and  simulacrum,  will  it  be  able  either  to 
come,  or  to  stand  when  come.  With  union  grounded  on  falsehood 
and  ordering  us  to  speak  and  act  lies,  we  will  not  have  anything  to 
do.  Peace  V  A  brutal  lethargy  is  peaceable,  the  noisome  grave  ia 
peaceable.  We  hope  for  a  living  peace,  not  a  dead  one  ! 

And  yet,  in  prizing  justly  the  indispensable  blessings  of  the  new, 
Id  us  not  be  unjust  to  the  old.  The  old  was  true,  if  it  no  longer  is. 
In  Dante's  days  it  needed  no  sophistry,  self  -blinding  or  other  dis- 
honesty, to  get  itself  reckoned  true.  It  was  good  then  ;  nay  there  is 
in  the  soul  of  it  a  deathless  good.  The  cry  of  "  No  Popery,"  is  fool- 
ish enough  in  these  days.  The  speculation  that  popery  is  on  the  in 
crease,  building  new  chapels,  and  so  forth,  may  pass  for  one  of  the 
idlest  ever  started.  Very  curious  :  to  count  up  a  few  popish  chapels, 
listen  to  a  few  Protestant  logic-choppings — to  much  dull-droning 
drowsy  inanity  that  still  calls  itself  Protestant,  and  say  :  See,  Prot- 
estantism is  dead  ;  Popism  is  more  alive  than  it,  will  be  alive  after 
it ! — Drowsy  inanities,  not  a  few,  that  call  themselves  Protestant  aro 
dead  ;  but  Protestantism  has  not  died  yet,  that  I  hear  of  !  Protes- 
tantism, if  we  will  look,  has  in  these  days  produced  its  Goethe,  its 
Napoleon  ;  German  Literature,  and  the  French  Revolution  ;  rather 
considerable  signs  of  life  !  Nay,  at  bottom,  what  else  is  alive  hut 
Protestantism  ?  The  life  of  most  else  that  one  meets  is  a  galvanic 
one  merely — not  a  pleasant,  not  a  lasting  sort  of  life  ! 

Popery  can  build  new  chapels  ;  welcome  to  do  so,  to  all  lengths. 
Popery  cannot  come  back,  any  more  than  paganism  can — wfiieli .also 
still  lingers  in  some  countries.  But,  indeed,  it  is  with  these  things, 
as  with  the  ebbing  of  the  sea  :  you  look  at  the  waves  oscillating 
hither,  thither  on  the  beach  ;  for  minutes  you  cannot  tell  how  it  is 
going  ;  look  in  half  an  hour  where  it  is — look  in  half  a  century  where 
your  popehood  is  !  Alas,  would  there  were  no  greater  danger  to  our 
Europe  than  the  poor  old  pope's  revival  !  Thor  may  as  soon  try  to 


58  SPIRITUAL   PORTRAIT   OP   LUTHER, 

revive. — And  withal  this  oscillation  has  a  meaning.  The  poor  old 
popehood  will  not  die  away  entirely,  as  Thor  has  done,  for  some 
time  yet ;  nor  ought  it.  We  may  say,  the  old  never  dies  till  this  hap- 
pen, till  all  the  soul  of  good  that  was  in  it  have  got  itself  transfused 
into  the  practical  new.  While  a  good  work  remains  capable  of  being 
done  by  the  Romish  form  ;  or,  what  is  inclusive  of  all,  while  npim/a 
life  remains  capable  of  being  led  by  it,  just  so  long,  if  we  consider, 
will  this  or  the  other  human  soul  adopt  it,  go  about  as  a  living  wit- 
ness of  it.  So  long  it  will  obtrude  itself  on  the  eye  of  us  who  reject 
it,  till  we  in  our  practice  too  have  appropriated  whatsoever  of  truth 
was  in  it.  Then,  but  also  not  till  then,  it  will  have  no  charm  more 
for  any  man.  It  lasts  here  for  a  purpose.  Let  it  last  as  long  as  it 
can. 

Of  Luther  I  will  add  now,  in  reference  to  all  these  wars  and  blood- 
shed, the  noticeable  fact  that  none  of  them  began  so  long  as  he  con- 
tinued living.  The  controversy  did  not  get  to  fighting  so  long  as  he 
was  there.  To  me  it  is  proof  of  his  greatness  in  all  senses,  this  fact. 
How  seldom  do  we  find  a  man  that  has  stirred  up  some  vast  commo- 
tion, who  does  not  himself  perish,  swept  away  in  it !  Such  is  the 
usual  course  of  revolutionists.  Luther  continued,  in  a  good  degree, 
sovereign  of  this  greatest  revolution  ;  all  Protestants,  of  what  rank  or 
function  soever,  looking  much  to  him  for  guidance  :  and  he  held  it, 
peaceable,  continued  firm  at  the  centre  of  it.  A  man  to  do  this  must 
have  a  kingly  faculty  :  he  must  have  the  gift  to  discern  at  all  (urns 
where  the  true  heart  of  the  matter  lies,  and  to  plant  himself  cour- 
ageously on  that,  as  a  strong  true  man,  that  other  true  men  may  rally 
round  him  there.  He  will  not  continue  leader  of  men  otherwise. 
Luther's  clear  deep  force  of  judgment,  his  force  of  all  sorts,  of 
silence,  of  tolerance  and  moderation,  among  others,  are  very  notable 
in  these  circumstances. 

Tolerance,  I  say  ;  a  very  genuine  kind  of  tolerance  :  he  distin- 
guishes what  is  essential  and  what  is  not  ;  the  unessential  may  go 
very  much  as  it  will.  A  complaint  comes  to  him  that  such  and  such 
a  Reformed  preacher  "  will  not  preach  without  a  cassock."  Well, 
answers  Luther,  what  harm  will  a  cassock  do  the  man  ?  "  Let  him 
have  a  cassock  to  preach  in  ;  let  him  have  three  cassocks  if  he  find 
benefit  in  them  !"  His  conduct  in  the  matter  of  Carlstadt's  wild 
image  breaking  ;  of  the  Anabaptists  ;  of  the  Peasants'  War,  shows  a 
noble  strength,  very  different  from  spasmodic  violence.  With  sure 
prompt  insight  he  discriminates  what  is  what  :  a  strong  just  man, 
he  speaks  forth  what  is  the  wise  course,  and  all  men  follow  him  in 
that.  Luther's  written  works  give  similar  testimony  of  him.  The 
dialect  of  these  speculations  is  now  grown  obsolete  for  us  ;  but  one 

ill  reads  them  with  a  singular  attraction.  And  indeed  the  mere 
grammatical  diction  is  still  legible  enough  ;  Luther's  merit  in  liter- 
ary history  is  of  the  greatest ;  his  dialect  became  the  language  of  all 


BY  THOMAS   CARLYLE.  59 

writing.  They  are  not  well  written,  these  four-and-twenty  quartos 
of  his  ;  written  hastily,  with  quite  other  than  literary  objects.  But 
in  no  books  have  I  found  a  more  robust,  genuine,  I  will  say  noble 
faculty  of  a  man  than  in  these.  A  rugged  honesty,  homeliness, 
simplicity  ;  a  rugged  sterling  sense  and  strength.  He  flashes  out 
illumination  from  him  ;  his  smiting  idiomatic  phrases  seem  to  cleave 
into  the  very  secret  of  the  matter.  Good  humor  too,  nay  tender 
affection,  nobleness,  and  depth  ;  this  man  could  have  been  a  poet 
too  !  He  had  to  work  an  epic  poem,  not  write  one.  I  call  him  a 
great  thinker  ;  as  indeed  his  greatness  of  heart  already  betokens 
that. 

Ilichter  says  of  Luther's  words,  "his  words  are  half  battles." 
They  may  be  called  so.  The  essential  quality  of  him  was,  that  he 
could  fight  and  conquer  ;  that  he  was  a  right  piece  of  human  valor. 
No  more  valiant  man,  no  mortal  heart  to  be  called  braver,  that  one 
has  record  of,  ever  lived  in  that  Teutonic  kindred,  whose  character  is 
valor.  His  defiance  of  the  "  devils"  in  Worms  was  not  a  mere  boast, 
as  the  like  might  be  if  now  spoken.  It  was  a  faith  of  Luther's  that 
there  were  devils,  spiritual  denizens  of  the  pit,  continually  besetting 
men.  Many  times,  in  his  writings,  this  turns  up  ;  and  a  most  small 
sneer  has  been  grounded  on  it  by  some.  In  the  room  of  the  Wart- 
burg  where  he  sat  translating  the  Bible,  they  still  show  you  a  black 
spot  on  the  wall  ;  the  strange  memorial  of  one  of  these  conflicts. 
Luther  sat  translating«one  of  the  Psalms  ;  he  was  worn  down  with 
long  labor,  with  sickness,  abstinence  from  food  :  there  rose  before 
him  some  hideous  indefinable  image,  which  he  took  for  the  evil  one, 
to  forbid  his  work  :  Luther  started  up,  with  fiend-defiance  ;  flung 
his  inkstand  at  the  spectre,  and  it  disappeared.  The  spot  still  re- 
mains there  ;  a  curious  monument  of  several  things.  Any  apothe- 
cary's apprentice  can  now  tell  us  what  we  are  to  think  of  this  appa- 
rition, in  a  scientific  sense  :  but  the  man's  heart  that  dare  rise  de- 
fiant, face  to  face,  against  hell  itself,  can  give  no  higher  proof  of  fear- 
lessness. The  thing  he  will  quail  before  exists  not  on  this  earth  or 
under  it.— Fearless  enough!  "The  devil  is  aware,"  writes  he  on 
one  occasion,  "  that  this  does  not  proceed  out  of  fear  in  me.  I  have 
seen  and  defied  innumerable  devils.  Duke  George,"  of  Leipzig,  a 
great  enemy  of  his,  "Duke  George  is  not  equal  to  one  devil"— far 
short  of  a  devil  !  "  If  I  had  business  at  Leipzig,  I  would  ride  into 
Leipzig,  though  it  rained  Duke  Georges  for  nine  days  running." 
What  a  reservoir  of  dukes  to  ride  into  ! 

At  the  same  time,  they  err  greatly  who  imagine  that  this  man's 
courage  was  ferocity,  mere  coarse  disobedient  obstinacy  and  sav- 
agery, as  many  do.  "  Par  from  that.  There  may  be  an  absence  of 
fear  which  arises  from  the  absence  of  thought  or  affection,  from  the 
presence  of  hatred  and  stupid  fury.  We  do  not  value  the  courage  of 
the  tiger  highly  !  With  Luther  it  was  far  otherwise  ;  no  accusation 
could  be  more  uujust  than  this  of  mere  ferocious  violence  brought 

A.B.-20 


60 

against  him.  A  most  gentle  heart  withal,  full  of  pity  and  love,  as 
indeed  the  truly  valiant  heart  ever  is.  The  tiger  before  a  xtroxycr 
foe-  -Hies  :  the  tiger  is  not  what  we  call  valiant,  only  fierce  and  cruel. 
I  know  few  things  more  touching  than  those  soft  breathings  of 
affection,  soft  as  a  child's  or  a  mother's,  in  this  great  wild  heart  of 
Luther.  So  honest,  unadulterated  with  any  cant ;  homely,  rude  in 
their  utterance  ;  pure  as  water  welling  from  the  rock.  What,  in  far!, 
was  all  that  downpressed  mood  of  despair  and  reprobation,  which 
•*•(>  saw  in  his  youth,  but  the  outcome  of  pre-eminent  thoughtful 
gentleness,  affections  too  keen  and  fine?  It  is  the  course  such  men 
as  the  poor  poet  Cowper  fall  into.  Luther  to  a  slight  observer  might 
have  seemed  a  timid,  weak  man  ;  modesty,  affectionate  shrinking 
tenderness  the  chief  distinction  of  him.  It  is  a  noble  valor  which  is 
roused  in  a  heart  like  this,  once  stirred  up  into  defiance,  all  kindled 
into  a  heavenly  bhv:e. 

In  Luther's  Tulile-Tnlk,  a  posthumous  book  of  anecdotes  and  say- 
ings collected  by  his  friends,  the  most  interesting  now  of  all  the 
books  proceeding  from  him,  we  have  many  beautiful  unconscious 
displays  of  the  man,  and  what  sort  of  nature  he  had.  His  behavior 
at  the  death-bed  of  his  little  daughter,  so  still,  so  great  and  loving,  is 
among  the  most  affecting  things.  He  is  resigned  that  his  little  Mag- 
dalene should  (lit;,  yet  longs  inexpressibly  that  she  might  live  ; — fol- 
lows in  awe-struck  thought  the  flight  of 'her  little  soul  through  those 
unknown  realms.  Awe  .struck  ;  most  heartfelt,  we  can  see  ;  and 
sincere — for  after  all  dogmatic  creeds  and  articles,  he  feels  what 
nothing  it  is  that  we  know,  or  can  know  :  his  little  Magdalene  shall 
be  with  God,  as  God  wills  ;  for  Luther  too  that  is  all  :  f^u/t  is  ;.ll. 

Once  he  looks  out  from  his  solitary  Patmos,  the  Castle  of  Cohurg, 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  :  the  great  vault  of  immensity,  long  flights 
of  clouds  sailing  through  it— dumb,  gaunt,  huge  : — who  supports  ;ill 
that  V  "  None  ever  saw  the  pillars  of  it ;  yet  it  is  supported."  God 
supports  il.  We  must  know  that  God  is  great,  that  God  is  good  ; 
and  trust  where  we  cannot  see.— Returning  home  from  Leipzig  once, 
he  is  struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  harvest-fields  :  How  it  stands,  that 
golden  yellow  corn,  on  its  fair  taper  stem,  its  golden  head  bent,  all 
rich  and  waving  there— the  meek  earth,  at  God's  kind  bidding,  baa 
produced  it  once  again  ;  the  bread  of  man  !  In  the  garden  at  Witlen- 
berg  one  evening  at  sunset,  a  little  bird  has  perched  for  the  night- 
That  little  bird,  says  Luther,  above  it  are  the  stars  and  deep  heaven 
of  worlds  ;  yet  it  has  folded  its  little  wings  ;  gone  trustfully  to  rest 
there  as  in  its  home ;  the  Maker  of  it  has  given  it  too  a  home  ! — 
Neither  are  mirthful  turns  wanting  :  there  is  a  great  free  human 
heart  in  this  man.  The  common  speech  jf  him  has  a  rugged  noble- 
ness. Idiomatic,  expressive,  genuine;  gleams  here  and  there  with 
beautiful  poetic  tints.  One  feels  him  to  be  a  great  brother  man.  His 
love  of  music,  indeed,  is  not  this,  as  it  were,  the  summary  of  all  these 
olTectiotis  in  him?  Many  a  wild  unutterability  he  spoke  forth  from 


BY   THOMAS   CARLYLE.  61 

him  in  the  tones  of  his  flute.  The  devils  fled  from  his  flute,  he  says. 
Death-defiance  on  the  one  hand,  and  such  love  of  music  on  the 
other  ;  I  could  call  these  the  two  opposite  poles  of  a  great  soul  ;  be- 
tween these  two  all  great  things  had  room. 

Luther's  face  is  to  me  expressive  of  him  ;  in  Kranach's  best  por- 
traits I  find  the  true  Luther.  A  rude,  plebeian  face  ;  with  its  huge 
crag-like  brows  and  bones,  the  emblem  of  rugged  energy  ;  at  first, 
almost  a  repulsive  face.  Yet  in  the  eyes  especially  there  is  a  wild 
silent  sorrow  ;  an  unnamable  melancholy,  the  element  of  all  gentle 
and  fine  affections  ;  giving  to  the  rest  the  true  stamp  of  nobleness. 
Laughter  was  in  this  Luther,  as  we  said  ;  but  tears  also  were  there. 
Tears  also  were  appointed  him  ;  tears  and  hard  toil.  The  basis  of  his 
life  was  sadness,  earnestness.  In  his  latter  days,  after  all  triumphs 
and  victories,  he  expresses  himself  heartily  weary  of  living  ;  he  con- 
siders that  God  alone  can  and  will  regulate  the  course  things  are 
taking,  and  that  perhaps  the  day  of  judgment  is  not  far.  As  for 
him,  he  longs  for  one  thing  ;  that  God  would  release  him  from  his 
labor,  and  let  him  depart  and  be  at  rest.  They  understand  little  of 
the  man  who  cite  this  in  discredit  of  him  ! — I  will  call  this  Luther  a 
true  great  man  ;  great  in  intellect,  in  courage,  affection  and  integrity  ; 
one  of  our  most  lovable  and  precious  men.  Great,  not  as  a  hewn 
obelisk  ;  but  as  an  Alpine  mountain — so  simple,  honest,  spontaneous, 
not  setting  up  to  be  great  at  all  ;  there  for  quite  another  purpose  than 
being  great !  Ah  yes,  unsubduable  granite,  piercing  far  and  wide 
into  the  heavens  ;'yet  in  the  clefts  of  it  fountains,  green  beautiful 
valleys  with  flowers  !  A  right  spiritual  hero  and  prophet  ;  once 
more,  a  true  son  of  nature  and  fact,  for  whom  these  centuries,  »ud 
many  that  are  to  come  yet,  will  be  thankful  to  heaven. 


THB 


A.  4>,— v 


MABT  STUART,  QTJEE1*  OF  SOOTS 


i. 

IP  another  Homer  were  to  arise,  and  if  the  poet  were  to  seek  an- 
other  Helen  for  the  subject  of  a  modern  epic  of  war,  religion,  and 
love,  he  would  beyond  all  find  her  in  Mary  Stuart,  the  most  beaut* 
ful,  the  weakest,  the  most  attractive  and  most  attracted  of  women, 
raising  around  her,  by  her  irresistible  fascinations,  a  whirlwind  of 
love,  ambition,  and  jealousy,  in  which  her  lovers  became,  each  in  his 
turn,  the  motive,  the  instrument,  and  the  victim  of  a  crime  ;  leaving, 
like  the  Greek  Helen,  the  arms  of  a  murdered  husband  for  those  of 
his  murderer  ;  sowing  the  seeds  of  internecine,  religious,  and  foreign 
war  at  every  step,  and  closing  by  a  saintly  death  the  life  of  a  Clytein- 
nestra  ;  leaving  behind  her  indistinct  memories  exaggerated  equally 
by  Protestant  and  Catholic  parties,  the  former  interested  in  condemn- 
ing her  for  all,  the  latter  in  absolving  her  from  all,  as  if  the  same 
factions  who  had  fought  for  her  during  her  life  had  resolved  to  con 
tinue  the  combat  after  her  death  !  Such  was  Mary  Stuart. 

That  which  a  new  Homer  has  not  yet  done  in  poetry,  a  sympathetic 
historian,  M.  Dargaud,  enlightened  by  the  researches  of  other  learned 
writers,  has  recently  achieved  in  his  history  of  the  Queen  of  Scots, 
It  is  from  the  extremely  interesting  documents  collected  by  M.  Dar- 
gaud that  we  shall  now  recompose — though  frequently  in  a  different 
spirit — that  fair  figure,  and  give  a  rapid  sketch  of  a  great  picture. 

II. 

MART  STUAKT  was  the  only  daughter  of  James  V.,  King  of  Scot- 
land, and  of  Marie  de  Lorraine,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Guise.  Sha 
was  born  in  Scotland  on  the  7th  December,  1543.  Her  father  was  one 
of  those  adventurous,  romantic,  gallant,  and  poetic  characters  who 
leave  behind  them  popular  traditions  of  bravery  and  of  licentiousness 
in  the  imagination  of  their  country,  like  Francis  I.  and  Henry  IV.  of 
France.  Her  mother  possessed  that  genius,  at  once  grave,  ambitious, 
and  sectarian,  which  distinguished  the  princes  of  the  House  of  Guise, 
those  true  Maccabees  of  Popery  on  this  side  the  Alps. 

James  V.  died  young,  prophesying  a  mournful  destiny  for  hit 
Daughter,  yot  in  her  cradle.  This  prophecy  was  suggested  by  his 


I  MAHY   STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS. 

misgivings  regarding  the  fate  of  a  child,  dttlivered  up,  during  a  long 


sions  with  the  fanaticism  of  two  hostile  religions  defying  each  other 
face  to  face.  The  dying  king  had,  after  long  hesitation,  adopted  tha 
Catholic  policy  and  proscribed  the  Puritans.  M.  Dargaud  sees  in 
this  policy  of  James  V.  the  cause  of  the  ruin  of  Scotland  and  of  the 
misfortunes  of  Mary,  and  at  first  sight  we  were  tempted  to  think  as 
he  does.  After  a  closer  view,  however,  and  on  a  consideration  of 
the  general  political  situation  of  Europe,  and  more  particularly  of 
Scotland,  perhaps  the  Catholic  party  .adopted  by  the  king  might  have 
been  safest  for  that  country,  if,  indeed,  Scotland  could  have  been 
B»ved  by  state  measures.  It  was  not  the  Catholicism  of  Mary  Stuart 
that  proved  fatal  to  Scotland  ;  it  was  her  youth,  her  levity,  her  loves, 
and  her  faults. 

III. 

WHERE,  in  fact,  lay  the  true  and  permanent  danger  for  Scotland  ? 
In  the  neighborhood,  the  ambition,  and  the  power  of  England.  Had 
Scotland  at  once  become  Protestant,  as  England  had  been  since  th« 
time  of  Henry  VIII.,  one  of  the  greatest  obstacles  to  her  absorption 
by  England  would  have  disappeared  with  the  difference  of  religion. 
Catholicism  was  therefore  esteemed  a  part  of  Scottish  patriotism,  and 
to  destroy  it  would  have  been  to  tear  their  native  country  from  the 
hearts  of  the  Catholic  portion  of  the  people. 

Moreover,  Scotland,  ceaselessly  menaced  by  the  domination  or  in- 
vasions of  England,  stood  in  need  of  powerful  foreign  alliances Jn 
Europe  to  aid  her  in  preserving  her  independence  and  to  furnish  her 
with  that  moral  and  material  support  necessary  to  counterbalance  the 
gold  and  the  arms  of  the  English.  What  were  these  continental 
alliances  ?  France,  Italy,  the  Pope,  Spain.  Scotland  lived  by  such 
imposing  protection  ;  there  lay  her  friendships,  her  vessels,  her  gold, 
her  diplomacy,  her  auxiliary  armies.  Now  all  those  powers — Italy, 
Spain,  France,  the  House  of  Austria,  the  House  of  Lorraine — had 
adopted  the  Catholic  cause  with  fanaticism,  as  opposed  to  the  new 
religion.  The  Inquisition  reigned  at  Madrid,  the  St.  Bartholomew 
already  cast  its  shadow  over  France,  the  Guises,  uncles  of  Mary, 
were  the  very  core  of  that  league  which  attempted  to  proscribe  Henry 
IV.  on  suspicion  of  heresy.  Community  of  religion,  therefore,  could 
alone  and  at  once  interest  the  Pope,  Italy,  Austria,  France,  and  Lor 
raine,  to  maintain  with  a  strong  hand  the  independence  of  Scotland 
The  day  she  ceased  to  become  part  of  the  great  Catholic  system  es- 
tablished on  the  continent  she  fell,  having  no  ally  left  save  her 
mortal  and  natural  enemy— England.  Looking  at  the  political  rather 
than  the  religious  aspect  of  affairs  under  James  V.,  an  alliance  with 
Frote«UMtiun  was  an  alliance  with  death,  M.  Dargaud 's  reproach 


MART   STUART,    QUEEN   OP   SCOTS.  5 

of  the  dying  king,  therefore,  may  be  an  error  engendered  by  his  un- 
compromising predilection  Cwhich  is  also  ours)  for  the  cause  of  re- 
ligious liberty.  But  religious  liberty  in  Scotland  at  that  time  had 
no  existence  in  either  camp  ;  parties  attacked  each  other  with  equal 
ferocity,  and  Knox,  the  deadly  foe  of  the  Catholics,  was  not  less  in- 
tolerant than  Cardinal  Bcatoun,  who  proscribed  the  Puritans.  Kings 
had  only  a  choice  of  blood,  for  the  fanatics  of  each  communion 
equally  demanded  that  it  should  be  shed.  For  Scotland,  then,  the 
question  was  purely  a  diplomatic  one.  In  confiding  his  (laughter  to 
Catholic  Europe:,  James  V.  may  have  acted  the  part  of  a  far-seeing 
parent  and  king.  If  fortune  betrayed  his  policy  and  his  tenderness,  it 
was  the  fault  of  his  heir  and  not  of  his  testament. 

IV. 

His  widow,  Mary  of  Lorraine,  deposed  from  the  regency  by  the 
jealousy  of  the  nobles,  reconquered  it  by  her  ability,  and  allowed  the 
cardinals — the  usual  supporters  of  thrones  at  that  period — to  govern 
the  kingdom  under  her.  Her  daughter  was  sought  after  by  all  tho 
courts  of  Europe,  not  only  because  of  her  precocious  renown  for 
genius  and  beauty,  but  also,  and  principally,  for  the  purpose  of  ac- 
quiring, by  marriage  with  her,  a  right  to  the  Scottish  crown— an  ac- 
quisition strongly  coveted  by  the  wearers  of  other  crowns.  After  a 
journey  to  Lorraine  and  France  to  pay  a  visit  to  her  uncles,  the 
Guises,  the  queen  determined,  by  their  advice,  to  marry  her  daughter 
to  the  Dauphin,  son  of  Henry  II. 

Diana  of  Poitiers,  the  Aspasia  of  the  age,  had  ruled  Henry  II.  for 
twenty  years,  as  much  by  the  love  she  bore  him  as  by  the  affection 
with  which  he  regarded  her  ;  we  know  not,  in  fact,  which  of  the 
two,  the  king  or  his  mistress,  may  be  said  to  have  possessed  the 
other,  such  a  miracle  of  tenderness  was  the  witchcraft  of  this  passion 
of  a  young  king  and  a  woman  of  fifty.  The  Guises  cultivated  the 
friendship  of  Diana  of  Poitiers  for  the  purpose  of  governing  tho 
league. 

I'he  Queen-Regent  of  Scotland  left  her  child-daughter  in  the  cha- 
teau of  St.  Germain,  to  grow  up  under  their  protection  in  the  atmos- 
phere of  that  France  over  which  she  was  destined  one  day  to  reign. 
"  Votre  fille  est  crue,  et  croit  tous  les  jours  en  bonte,  beaute  et  vertu," 
writes  the  Cardinal  de  Lorraine,  her  uncle,  to  the  Queen,  his  sister, 
after  her  return  to  Edinburgh,  "  le  roi  passe  bien  son  temps  a  deviser 
avec  elle.  .  .  .  Elle  le  sait  aussi  bien  entretenir  de  boiis  et  sagea 
propos  comme  feraitune  femme  de  vingt  cinq  ans."  "  Your  daugh- 
ter has  grown  much,  and  continues  to  grow  every  day  in  goodness, 
beauty,  and  virtue.  .  .  .  The  king  passes  much  of  his  time  in 
amusing  himself  with  her.  .  .  .  She  also  knows  well  how  to  en- 
tertain him  with  wise  converse,  like  that  of  a  woman  of  five-and- 
twenty." 


6  MARY  STUAUt,    QUEEK  OF   SCOTS. 

The  learned  and  Italian  education  of  the  young  Scottish  woman  de- 
veloped the  natural  gifts  she  possessed.  French,  Italian,  Greek, 
Latin,  history,  theology,  poetry,  music,  and  dancing,  were  all  learned 
and  studied  under  the  wisest  masters  and  greatest  artists.  In  the  re- 
fined and  voluptuous  court  of  the  Valois,  governed  by  a  favorite,  she 
was  brought  up  rather  as  an  accomplished  court  lady  than  as  a  future 
queen  ;  and  her  education  rather  seemed  to  fit  Her  for  becoming  th« 
mistress  than  the  wife  of  the  Dauphin.  The  Valois  were  the  Medici/ 
of  France. 

V. 

THE  poets  of  the  court  soon  began  to  celebrate  in  their  verses  the 
marvels  of  her  beauty  and  the  treasures  of  her  mind — 

"  En  votre  esprit,  le  ciel  s'est  surmonte, 
Nature  et  artont  en  votre  beaut6, 
Mis  tout  le  beau  dont  la  beaute  s'asemble  !" 

"  The  gods  themselves  excelled,  in  framing  thy  fair  mind, 
Nature  and  art  in  thy  young  form  their  highest  powers  combined, 
All  beauty  of  the  beautiful  to  concentrate  in  thee." 

Writes  du  Bellay,  the  Petrarch  of  the  time. 

Ronsard,  who  was  the  Virgil  of  the  age,  expresses  himself,  when- 
ever  he  speaks  of  her,  in  such  images  and  with  such  delicacy  avd 
polish  of  accent,  as  prove  that  his  praise  sprang  from  his  love — that 
his  heart  had  subjugated  his  genius.  Mary  was  evidently  the  Beatrix 
of  the  poet. 

"  Au  milieu  du  prin temps  entre  les  lie  naquit 
Son  corps  qni  de  blanclieur  les  lis  memes  vainquit, 
Et  lea  roses,  qui  sont  du  sang  d'Adonis  teintes 
Furent  par  «a  couleur  de  leur  vermeil  depeintes, 
Amour  de  ses  beaux  traits  lui  cotnposa  les  yeux, 
Et  les  graces  qui  sont  les  trois  fllles  dee  cieux 
De  lenrs  dons  les  plus  beaux  cette  princesse  ornSrent 
Et  pour  mieux  la  eervir  les  cieux  abandonnerent." 

"In  fulness  of  the  springtide,  from  among  the  lilies  fair, 
Sprang  foith  that  form  of  whiteness,  fairer  than  the  lilies  there. 
Though  stained  with  Adonis'  blood,  the  gentle  cummer  rose 
Lies  vanquished  by  the  ruby  tint  her  cheeks  and  lips  disclose. 
Young  Love  himself  with  arrows  keen  hath  armed  her  peerless  eye, 
The  Graces  too,  those  fairest  three,  bright  daughters  of  the  sky, 
With  all  their  richest,  rarest  gifts  my  prince^shave  endowed, 
And  evermore  to  serve  her  well  have  left  their  high  abode.  " 

"  Notre  petite  reinctte  Ecossaise,"  said  Catherine  de  Medici  herself 
who  looked  upon  her  with  distaste,  "our  little  Scottish  qtteenling 
has  only  to  smile  in  order  to  turn  all  the  heads  in  France  I" 

Neither  did  the  child  love  the  Italian  queen,  whom,  in  her  girlish 
•corn  for  the  low-born  house  of  Medici,  she  called  "  that  Florentine 
market-woman."  Her  prflflilections  were  all  in  favor  of  Diana  oC 
Poitiers,  who  seems  to  have  educated  in  her  a  daughter,  a  future 
eomjwtitor  in  beauty  and  empire.  Diana  cherished  besides,  in  tka 


MAEY   STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS.  7 

young  Scottish  woman,  a  rival  or  possible  victim  of  that  Queen  Eliza- 
beth of  England  whom  she  detested,  and  whose  power  Mary  had  not 
Vet  felt.  The  proof  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  a  curious  letter  written 
by  Diana  of  Poitiers,  and  communicated  in  autograph  to  the  historian 
we  are  following : 

"  To  Madame,  my  good  friend,  Madame  de  Montaigne  : 

"  I  have  just  been  told  about  the  poor  young  queen,  Jane  Grey, 
beheaded,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  and  cannot  help  weeping  at  the 
sweet  language  of  resignation  she  spoke  at  the  hour  of  her  death. 
For  never  have  we  seen  so  gentle  and  accomplished  a  princess, 
and  yet  she  must  perish  under  the  blows  of  the  wicked.  When  are 
you  coming  to  visit  me,  my  good  friend  ?  I  am  very  desirous  of  your 
presence,  which  would  console  me  in  all  my  sorrows,  whaever  there 
may  be,  that  arise  and  weigh  so  heavily  on  me,  turning  everything 
into  evil.  Sometimes  these  become  annoying  to  such  a  degree  as  to 
make  one  .believe  that  an  abyss  lurks  in  high  places.  The  courier 
from  England  has  brought  me  many  fine  dresses  from  that  country, 
which,  if  you  come  soon  to  see  me,  will  have  a  good  share  in  inducing 
you  to  leave  the  place  where  you  are,  and  make  active  preparations 
for  staying  some  time  with  me,  and  orders  will  be  given  that  you 
shall  be  provided  with  everything.  Do  not  pay  me  off  then  with 
fine  words  or  promises,  for  I  would  press  you  in  my  arms  to  assure 
myself  the  more  of  your  presence.  Upon  which  I  pray  God  very 
devoutly  that  he  may  keep  you  in  health  according  to  the  desire  of 
"  Your  affectionate,  to  love  and  to  serve, 

"  DIANA." 

This  letter,  this  pity,  and  the  fine  expression  "  an  abyss  in  high 
places,"  prove  that  the  witchery  of  Diana  lay  in  her  genius  and  in 
her  heart  as  much  as  in  her  fabulous  beauty. 

The  sudden  death  of  Henry  II.,  killed  in  a  tournament  by  Mont- 
gomery, sent  Diana  to  the  solitary  Chateau  of  Anet,  where  she  had 
prepared  her  retreat,  and  where  she  grew  old  in  tears.  The  young 
Mary  of  Scotland  was  crowned  with  her  husband,  Francis  II.,  who 
was  even  more  a  child  in  mind  and  in  weakness  than  in  age.  The 
Guises  reaped  what  they  had  sown  in  advising  this  marriage  ;  they 
reigned  through  their  niece  over  her  husband,  and  through  the  king 
over  France.  They  had  the  boldness  to  proclaim  publicly  their  pre- 
tensions to  the  inheritance  of  the  Scottish  crown,  by  emblazoning  the 
arms  of  the  two  nations  on  the  escutcheon  of  the  young  queen.  They 
testified  their  attachment  for  the  cause  of  the  Pope  by  the  murder  of 
the  Calvinist  Anne  du  Bourg,  a  heroic  confessor  of  the  Protestant 
faith.  "  Six  feet  of  earth  for  my  body,  and  the  infinite  heavens  for 
my  soul,  is  what  I  shall  soon  have,"  cried  Anne  du  Bourg  at  sight 
of  the  scaffold,  and  in  presence  of  her  executioners.  Mary  Stuart, 
in  whose  veins  flowed  the  fanatical  blood  of  her  mother,  took  a  bitter 
sectarian  delight  in  the  execution  of  these  heretics  by  her  uncles, 


8  MART  STUART,    QUEEN   OF   SCOTS. 

This  reign  only  lasted  eleven  months  ;  France  lost  the  phantom  of 
a  king  rather  than  a  master,  and  barely  granted  him  royal  obsequies. 
Mary  alone  sincerely  mourned  him  as  the  mild  and  agreeable  com- 
panion of  her  youth  rather  than  as  a  husband.  The  verses  which  she 
composed  in  the  first  mouths  of  her  widowhood  neither  exaggerate 
nor  lessen  the  sentiment  of  her  grief  ;  they  are  sweet,  sad,  but  luko- 
warm  as  the  first  melancholy  of  the  soul  before  the  age  of  pasaionaU 
despair. 

"  Ce  qui  m'estait  plaisant 

Ores  m'est  peme  dure ; 
Le  jour  le  plus  luisant 
M'est  unit  noire  et  obscure. 

"  Si  en  quelque  sejour, 

Soit  en  bois  on  en  pree. 
Soil  sur  1'aube  du  jour 

On  soil  siir  la  vespree. 
Sans  cesse  mon  cceur  sent 
Le  regret  d'un  absent. 

"  Si  jc  suis  en  repos, 

Somineillant  sur  ma  couche, 
L'oy  qui  me  tient  propos, 

Je  le  sens  qui  me  louche. 
En  labeur  et  requoy, 
Toujours  est  pres  de  moi." 

"  All  that  once  in  pleasure  met 

Now  is  pain  and  sorrow  ; 
The  brilliant  day  hath  quickly  set 
In  night  with  dreary  morrow. 

"  Where'er  I  sojourn,  sad,  forlorn, 

In  forest,  mead,  or  hill; 
Whether  at  the  dawn  of  morn, 

Or  vesper  hour  so  still — 
My  sorrowing  heart  shall  beat  for  thee. 
This  absent  one  I  ne'er  shall  see ! 

"  When  slumbering  on  my  couch  I  lie, 

And  dreams  the  past  reveal, 
Thy  form,  beloved,  seems  ever  nigh, 
Thy  fond  caress  I  feel." 

It  was  in  a  convent  at  Rheims,  where  she  had  retired  to  enjoy  the 
•ocicty  of  the  Abbess  Renee  of  Lorraine,  that  she  lamented  so  sweetly, 
not  the  loss  of  a  throne,  but  the  loss  of  love.  Soon  after,  she  heard 
of  the  death  of  her  mother,  the  Queen  of  Scotland.  A  new  thronu 
awaited  her  at  Edinburgh,  and  she  prepared  for  her  departure. 

"  Ah  !"  cries  her  poet  and  adorer,  the  great  Ronsard,  on  learning 
tkc  approaching  return  of  the  young  queen  to  Scotland— 

"  Comme  le  ciel  s'il  perdait  ses  etoilo 
La  iner  se«  eaux,  le  navire  ses  voile*. 

Et  un  anneau  sa  perle  precieuse 
Aia»i  perdra  la  France  soucieuse 
i  SOB  ornament,  perdant  la  roynute 

tyii  f  ut  sa  ikur,  sou  eclat  sa  benoU  1" 


STUART,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.  9 

"  Like  to  the  heaven  when  starless,  dark, 
Like  seas  dried  up  or  sailless  bark, 
Like  ring  its  precious  pearl  gone, 
Mourns  France,  without  thee  sad  and  lone. 
Thou  wert  her  gem,  her  flower,  her  pride, 
Her  young  and  beauteous  royal  bride." 

"  Scotland,"  continues  the  poet,  "  which  is  about  to  snatch  her 
from  us,  becomes  so  dim  in  the  mist  of  its  seas  that  her  ship  will 
never  reach  its  shores." 

"  Et  celle  done  qui  la  poursuit  envain 
lietournerait  en  Prance  tout  soudain 
Pour  habiter  son  chateau  de  Touraine 
Lorsde  chansons  j'aurais  la  bouche  pleine 
Et  dans  mes  ver«  si  fort  je  la  louerais 
Que  comme  un  Cygne  en  chantant  je  mourais  1" 

*  But  she  I've  sought  long  time  in  vain 
May  soon  to  France  return  again, 
To  dwell  in  castle  of  Touraine! 
Then,  full  of  song,  my  lips  would  try 
To  swell  her  praise,  and  sing  till  I, 
Like  fabled  awan,  might  singing  die!" 

The  same  poet,  when  contemplating  her  dressed  in  mourning  in  the 
park  of  Fontaiuebleau  some  days  before  her  departure,  thus  with  a 
loving  pen  traces  her  image,  blending  it  forever  with  the  beautiful 
shades  of  Diana  of  Poitiers  and  of  Lavalliere,  which  people,  in  im- 
agination, the  waters  and  woods  of  that  exquisite  spot : 

"  Un  crespe  long,  subtil  et  delie, 
Pli  contre  pli  rotors  et  replie, 
Habit  de  deuil,  yous  eertdecouverture 
Depuis  lechef  jusques  ilia  ceinture, 
Qui  s'entle  ainsi  qu'un  voile,  quand  le  vent 
Souffle  la  barque  et  la  eingle  en  avant. 
De  tel  habit  vous  estiez  accoustree, 
Partant,  helas !  de  la  belle  contree 
Dont  aviez  eu  le  sceptre  dans  la  main, 

Lorsque  pensive,  et  baignant  votre  sein 
Dubeau  crystal  de  vos  larmes  rouli'-cs, 
Tristc  nmrchiez  par  les  longues  alleea 
Du  grand  jardin  de  ce  royal  chasteau 
Qui  prend  son  nom  de  la  beaute  d'une  eau." 

"  A  long  and  slender  veil  of  sable  crape; 
Its  folds  unfolding,  ever  folds  anew  ; 
The  mourning  symbol  that  enwraps  thy  shapo 
From  head  to  girdle  falls ; 
Now  swelling  to  the  wind,  even  as  the  sail 
Of  bark  urged  onward  by  the  passing  gale  ; 
(Leaving,  alas  1  this  ever  beauteous  land, 
Whose  sceptre  once  was  borne  by  thy  fair  band  :) 
Thus  wert  thou  clad,  when  thou  didst  pensive  stray 
Along  the  royal  garden's  paths  that  day, 
Bathing  thy  bosom  with  the  crystal  tears." 

Who  does  not  himself  become  a  lover  by  reading  the  verses  of  such 


10  MARY   STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS. 

a  poet?  But  lore,  or  even  poetry,  according  to  Brantdme,  were 
powerless  to  depict  her  at  this  still  progressive  period  of  her  life  ;  to 
paint  that  heauty  which  consisted  less  in  her  form  than  in  her 
fascinating  grace  ;  youth,  heart,  genius,  passion,  still  shaded  by 
the  deep  melancholy  of  a  farewell ;  the  tall  and  slender  shape, 
the  harmonious  movement,  the  round  and  flexible  throat,  the 
oval  face,  the  fire  of  her  look,  the  grace  of  her  lips,  her  Saxon 
fairness,  the  pale  beauty  of  her  hair,  the  light  she  shed  around 
her  wherever  she  went ;  the  night,  the  void,  the  desert  she  left 
behind  when  no  longer  present ;  the  attraction  resembling  witch- 
craft, which  unconsciously  emanated  from  her,  and  which  drew 
toward  her,  as  it  were,  a  current  of  eyes,  of  desires,  of  hearts  ;  the 
tone  of  her  voice  which,  once  heard,  resounded  forever  in  the  ear  of 
the  listener,  and  that  natural  genius  of  soft  eloquence  and  of  dreamy 
poesy  which  distinguished  this  youthful  Cleopatra  of  Scotland.  The 
numberless  portraits  which  poetry,  painting,  sculpture,  and  even 
stern  prose  have  preserved  of  her  all  breathe  love  as  well  as  art  ;  we 
feel  that  the  artist  trembles  with  emotion,  like  Ronsard,  while  paint- 
ing. A  contemporary  writer  gives  a  finishing  stroke  to  these  delinea- 
tions by  a  simple  expression,  conveying  the  idea  of  a  restoration  of 
the  feelings  of  youth  to  all  who  looked  upon  her  :  II  n'y  avail  point 
de  vieillard  devant  elle, "  cried  he — ' '  No  man  in  her  presence  could  feel 
old  ;"  she  could  almost  vivify  death  itself. 

VI. 

A  CORTEGE  of  regret,  rather  than  of  mere  honor,  accompanied  her 
to  the  vessel  which  was  to  bear  her  to  Scotland.  He  who  appeared 
most  grieved  among  the  courtiers  was  the  Marechal  de  Damville,  son 
of  the  Great  Constable  de  Montmorency  ;  being  unable  to  follow  her 
to  Scotland,  on  account  of  his  official  duties,  he  resolved  to  have  * 
constant  representative  there  in  the  person  of  a  young  gentleman  of 
his  household,  Du  Chatelard,  by  whom  he  might  be  daily  gratified 
with  a  narrative  of  the  slightest  events,  and,  so  to  speak,  of  every 
breath  drawn  by  his  idol.  Du  Chatelard,  unhappily  for  himself,  fell 
madly  in  love  with  lier  to  whom  he  was  the  accredited  ambassador  of 
another's  love.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  Chevalier  Bayard,  brave 
and  adventurous  as  his  ancestor,  a  scholar  and  a  poet  like  Ronsard, 
•with  a  tender  soul  ready  to  be,  speedily  scorched  by  such  a  flame. 
Everybody  knows  the  touching  verses  written  by  Mary,  through  her 
tears,  on  the  deck  of  the  vessel,  while  the  coast  of  France  faded  i» 
the  distance. 

"  Adicn,  plaituint  pays  de  France, 
O  ma  patrie 
La  plus  cherie, 

Oui  a  nourri  ma  jeune  enfance  I 
Adieu,  France;  adieu,  mew  beaux  jours  } 
La  nef  qui  disjoint  nos  amours, 
N'a  cu  de  moi  que  la  moitie, 


MART  STUART,   QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.  11 

Une  part  te  restc,  elle  est  tienne, 

Je  la  fie  a  ton  amitie 
Pour  que  de  1'autrc  il  te  sonvienne  I" 

"  Farewell,  thou  ever  pleasant  soil  of  Prance, 

Beloved  land  of  childhood's  early  day  ! 
Farewell,  my  France ;  farewell,  my  happy  years  ! 

Though  from  thy  shores  I  now  am  snatched  away, 
Thou  stiU  retainest  half  my  loving  heart, 
The  rent  will  ne'er  forget  thee  though  we  part !" 

On  the  19th  of  August,  1561— the  very  day  on  which  she  completed 
her  nineteenth  year — Mary  landed  on  Scottish  ground.  The  lords'who 
had  governed  the  kingdom  in  her  absence,  and  the  Presbyterian  part 
of  the  nation,  witnessed  her  arrival  with  repugnance  ;  they  feared 
her  presumed  partiality  for  the  Catholicism  in  which  she  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  courts  of  the  Guises  and  of  Catherine  de  Medici. 
Respect,  however,  for  hereditary  legitimacy,  and  the  hope  of  being  able 
to  fashion  so  young  a  queen  to  other  ideas,  prevailed  over  these  prej- 
udices. She  was  escorted  like  a  queen  to  the  palace  of  Holyrood, 
the  dwelling  of  the  Scottish  monarchs  at  Edinburgh.  The  citizens 
of  that  capital  expressed  in  mute  language  a  symbolic  but  conditional 
submission  to  her  rule,  presenting  to  her,  by  the  hands  of  a  child,  the 
keys  of  the  city,  placed  between  a  Bible  and  a  Presbyterian  psalm- 
book,  on  a  silver  platter.  She  was  saluted  Queen  of  Scotland  on  the 
following  day,  amid  a  splendid  concourse  of  Scottish  lords  and  of  the 
French  seigneurs  of  her  family  and  suite.  Knox,  the  Calvin  of  Snot- 
land,  the  prophet  and  agitator  of  the  popular  conscience,  abstained 
from  appearing  at  this  inauguration  ;  he  seemed  desirous  of  making 
his  submission  as  a  subject  depend  on  the  fulfilment  of  the  conditions 
expressed  by  the  appearance  of  the  Bible  and  psalm-book  on  the 
silver  platter.  Knox  was  the  Savonarola  of  Edinburgh  ;  as  over- 
bearing, popular,  and  cruel  a.«  he  of  Florence,  he  stood  alone  between 
the  people,  the  throne,  and  the  parliament,  as  a  fourth  power  repre- 
senting sacred  sedition,  a  power  which  claimed  a  place  side  by  side 
with  the  other  powers  of  the  state  ;  a  man  the  more  to  be  feared  by 
the  queen  because  his  virtue  was,  so  to  speak,  a  kind  of  fanatical 
conscience.  To  become  a  martyr  or  to  make  martyrs  for  what  he 
believed  to  be  the  cause  of  God  were  to  him  indifferent.  He  was 
ready  to  give  himself  up  to  the  death,  and  why  should  he  hesitate  to 
devote  others  to  the  scaffold  ? 

Scarcely  had  the  first  Queen  Mary  been  invested  with  the  regency 
than  he  had  fulminated  against  her  a  pamphlet,  entitled  "Mrst  HUuit 
of  the  Trumpet  against  tJie  monstrous  Regimen  of  Women. ' ' 

"There  was  in  the  Lothians — one  of  the  Scottish  provinces — a 
solitary  spot  where  Knox  passed  several  hours  every  day.  Under  the 
shade  of  the  nut-trees,  leaning  against  a  rock,  or  stretched  upon  the 
sward  near  a  small  loch,  he  read  his  Bible,  translated  into  the  vulgar 
tongue  ;  there  lie  concocted  his  schemes,  watching  with  anxiety  for 
the  propitious  moment  wheu  they  should  explode  into  action.  When 


12  MART  STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS. 

tired  of  reflection  and  reading,  lie  would  approach  nearer  to  the  pool, 
jeat  himself  on  its  banks,  and  crumble  some  bread  to  feed  the  moor- 
fowl  and  wild  ducks  he  had  succeeded  in  taming." 

Striking  image  this  of  his  mission  among  men,  which  called  him  to 
distribute  to  them  the  Word — that  Bread  of  Life  !  Knox  loved  that 
desert  solitude  on  the  banks  of  the  little  lake.  "  It  is  sweet, "  said  lie, 
"  to  rest  there,  but  we  must  try  to  please  Christ."  To  please  Christ 
was,  in  the  eyes  of  Knox,  as  in  those  o£  Philip  II.  of  Spain,  or 
Catherine  of  Medici,  to  condemn  his  enemies. 

VII. 

THE  young  queen,  feeling  the  necessity  of  securing  the  good-will 
of  such  a  man,  succeeded  in  attracting  him  to  the  palace.  lie  appeared 
in  his  Calvinistic  dress,  a  short  cloak  thrown  over  his  shoulder,  the 
Bible  under  his  arm.  "  Satan,"  said  he,  "  cannot  prevail  against  a 
man  whose  left  hand  bears  a  light  to  illumine  his  right,  when  he 
searches  the  Holy  Scriptures  in  the  hours  of  night." 

"I  would,"  said  the  queen,  "my  words  might  have  the  same 
effect  upon  you  as  yours  have  upon  Scotland  ;  we  should  then  un- 
derstand each  other,  become  friends,  and  our  good  intelligence  would 
do  much  for  the  peace  and  happiness  of  the  kingdom  !"  "  Madam," 
replied  the  stern  apostle,  "  words  are  more  barren  than  the  rock  when 
they  are  only  worldly  ;  but  when  inspired  by  God,  thence  proceed 
the  flower,  the  grain,  and  all  virtues  !  I  have  travelled  over  Ger- 
many ;  I  know  the  Saxon  law,  which  is  just,  for  it  reserves  the 
sceptre  for  man  alone,  and  only  gives  to  woman  a  place  at  the  hearth 
and ia  distaff  !' '— thus  plainly  declaring  that  he  saw  in  her  only  a 
usurper,  and  that  he  was  himself  a  republican  of  the  theocratic  order. 

The  queen,  alarmed  at  the  impotence  of  her  charms,  her  words, 
and  her  rank  on  the  mailed  heart  of  fanaticism,  wept  like  a  child 
before  the  sectary  ;  her  tears  moved  but  did  not  discourage  him  ;  he 
continued  to  preach  with  wild  freedom  against  the  government  of 
women  and  the  pomps  of  the  palace.  The  populace,  already  in  a 
state  of  irritation,  became  still  more  excited  by  his  words. 

The  pupil  of  the  Guises,"  he  said  to  them,  "  parodies  France  ; 
her  farces,  prodigalities,  banquets,  sonnets,  masquerades.  .  .  . 
1  he  paganism  of  the  south  invades  us.  To  provide  for  these  abomi- 
n.itions  the  burgrsses  arc  taxed,  the  city  treasuries  pillaged  ;  Roman 
idolatry  and  French  vices  will  speedily  reduce  Scotland  to  beggary. 
Do  not  the  foreigners  brought  over  by  this  woman  infest  the  streets 
of  Edinburgh  by  night  in  drunkenness  and  debauchery  ?" 

Then-  is  nothing  to  be  hoped  for  from  this  Moabite,"  he  added. 

Scotland  might  as  well  build  upon  clouds,  upon  an  abyss,  over  a 
volcano.  The  spirit  of  caprice  and  of  pride,  the  spirit  of  popery,  the 
•pint  of  her  accursed  uncles,  the  Guises,  is  within  her." 

Repelled  as  *hu  was  from  the  heart  of  the  people,  she  threw  herself 


MAKY   STUAKT,    QUEE2ST   OF   SCOTS.  13 

;n(,o  the  arms  of  the  nobles.  She  confided  the  direction  of  the  gov- 
ernment to  a  natural  son  of  her  father  James  V.  who  bore  the  name 
of  the  "  Lord  James,"  whom  she  treated  as  a  brother,  and  elevated 
to  the  rank  of  Earl  of  Murray.  Murray  was,  by  character  and  spirit, 
worthy  of  the  confidence  of  his  sister  ;  young,  handsome,  eloquent  like 
her,  he  was  better  acquainted  with  the  country  than  she  was  ;  he  had 
the  friendship  of  the  nobles,  wisely  managed  the  Presbyterians,  had 
acquired  the  esteem  of  the  people,  and  possessed  that  loyal  ability, 
that  skilful  uprightness,  which  is  the  gift  of  great  statesmen.  Such 
a  brother  was  a  favorite  given  by  nature  to  the  young  queen,  and 
HO  long  as  he  remained  the  only  favorite  he  made  his  sister  popular 
by  his  government  as  by  his  arms.  He  led  her  into  the  midst  of  the 
camps,  and  she  fascinated  all  -by  her  charms  and  her  courage  ;  her 
address  in  horsemanship  astonished  her  subjects  ;  she  was  present  at 
the  battle  of  Corrichie,  in  which  Murray  vanquished  the  rebels  and 
killed  the  Earl  of  Huntly,  their  leader. 

Once  more  mistress  of  pacified  Scotland,  Mary  returned  in  triumph 
to  Edinburgh.  The  moderate  but  pious  Protestantism  of  Murray 
ontributed  to  this  pacification,  by  furnishing  in  his  own  persona 
pledge  of  toleration  and  even  of  favor  for  the  new  religion.  Every- 
thing promised  Mary  Stuart  a  happy  reign  for  herself  and  her  king- 
dom, had  her  heart  been  devoted  to  nothing  but  state  policy  ;  but 
hers  was  the  heart  not  merely  of  a  queeii  but  of  a  woman  accustom- 
ed to  the  court  of  France,  and  to  the  idolatry  of  her  beauty  professed 
by  an  entire  kingdom.  The  Scottish  nobles  were  not  less  enthusiastic 
than  were  those  of  France  in  this  chivalric  worship  ;  yet  to  declare 
herself  sensible  to  the  homage  of  any  one  of  her  subjects  would  only 
have  been  to  alienate  all  the  rest  by  exciting  their  jealousy  ;  but  the 
politic  watchfulness  over  herself  with  relation  to  the  Scottish  lords, 
which  had  been  recommended  by  Murray,  her  brother  and  minister, 
was  precisely  that  which  ruined  her.  Unconsciously  to  herself,  an 
obscure  favorite  insinuated  himself  into  her  heart ;  this  favorite,  so 
celebrated  afterward  for  his  sudden  elevation  and  tragical  death,  wa» 
named  David  Rizzio. 
i 

VIII. 

llr/.zio  was  an  Italian  of  low  birth  and  menial  station.  Gifted  witi 
a  touching  voice,  a  pliant  spirit,  which  enabled  him  to  bow  bei'oro 
the  great  ;  possessing  a  talent  for  playing  on  the  lute,  and  for  com- 
posing and  for  singing  that  languishing  music  which  is  one  of  tho 
effeminacies  of  Italy,  Ilizzio  had  been  attached  at  Turin  to  the  house- 
hold of  the  French  ambassador  at  the  court  of  Piedmont  in  the  ca- 
pacity of  musical  attendant.  On  his  return  to  France,  the  ambassadoi 
had  brought  Kizzio  with  him  to  the  court  of  Francis  II.,  and  he  en- 
tered the  suite  of  one  of  the  French  nobles  who  had  escorted  Mary 
to  Scotland.  The  young  queen  had  begged  him  of  Ulis  nobloniHu, 


U  MART  STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS. 

tliiit  she  might  retain  in  the  country  where  she  was  less  a  queen  tha» 
an  exile  one  who  would  be  to  her  as  a  living  memory  of  the  arts, 
leisure,  and  delights  of  France  aud  fealy,  those  lands  of  her  soul.  A 
musician  hcrsdi',  as  she  was  also  a  poet— charming  frequently  her 
.-adness  by  composing  words  and  airs  in  which,  she  exhaled  her  sigh? 
— the  society  of  the  Piedmontese  musician  became  habitual  and  dear 
to  her.  The  study  of  his  art  and  even  the  inferiority  of  Rizzio's  con- 
dition concealed  for  some  time  the  assiduity  and  familiarity  of  this 
intimacy  from  the  observation  of  the  court  of  Holyrood. 

Love  for  the  art  had  unfortunately  led  to  an  undue  preference  for 
the  artist.  There  is  in  music  an  attractive  language  without  words 
which  unconsciously  creates  sympathy,  and  which  gives  the  rnusu -iai, 
a  powerful  influence  over  the  imagination  of  women  of  cultivated 
minds.  The  delicious,  impassioned,  or  heroic  notes  of  the  voice  or 
of  the  instrument  seem  to  breathe  a  soul  in  unison  with  those  sublime 
or  touching  chords.  The  music  and  the  musician  become,  as  it  were, 
one.  Rizzio,  after  having  merely  furnished  her  with  amusement  in 
times  of  sadness,  ended  by  becoming  her  confidant,  and  her  favor 
speedily  became  manifest  to  all.  The  musician,  rapidly  elevated  by 
her  from  his  servile  position  to  the  summit  of  credit  and  honors, 
became,  under  the  name  of  secretary,  the  reigning  favorite  and  the 
minister  of  her  policy. 

IX. 

RUMORS  in  the  palace  regarding  this  preference  of  the  queen  for 
the  Italian  were  not  slow  to  lind  an  echo  in  the  city,  and  from  thence 
they  spread  all  over  Scotland.  Kuox  made  the  pulpit  resound  with 
allusions  and  declamations  on  the  corruption  of  the  "  woman  of  Baby- 
lon." Murray  was  grieved  and  the  nobles  offended;  the  clergy 
thundered  ;  the  people  were  incensed  against  the  queen.  The  court, 
meanwhile,  was  devoted  to  tourneys,  hunting-feasts,  banquets,  shows, 
and  music,  concealing  or  betraying  ignoble  love  adventures.  x  The 
queen  alienated  from  herself  all  hearts  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  histrio, 
of  a  player  on  the  lute,  an  Italian,  a  reprobate  Papist,  who  passed  for 
a  secret  agent  of  the  Holy  See,  charged  with  the  task  of  seducing  the 
queen  and  fettering  the  conscience  of  the  kingdom. 

X. 

EVERYTHING:  indicates  that  Mary  and  Rizzio  haci  resolved  to  give  a 
tragic  diversion  to  this  public  scandal,  by  sacrificing  to  the  Presbyte- 
rian rage  of  the  people  another  favorite  than  the  true  one,  and  thus 
to  satisly  the  Protestant  clergy  by  shedding  the  blood  of  a  foolish  en- 
thusiast, the  page  of  the  Marechal  de  Damville,  the  young  Du  Chate- 
lanl,  who  had  remained,  as  we  have  Been,  at  Holyrood.  for  the  pur- 
pose of  entertaining  his  master  with  letters  about  all  that  related  to 
th«  quiicu,  his  idol.  Du  Uhatelard,  treated  as  a  child  by  the  playful 


MARY   STUART,    QUEEN    OF   SCOTS.  15 

indulgence  of  the  queen,  had  conceived  for  his  mistress  a  passion 
bordering  on  madness.  The  queen  had  encouraged  him  too  much  to 
retain  the  right  of  punishing  him.  Du  Chatelard,  constantly  admit- 
ted  to  the  most  intimate  familiarity  with  his  mistress,  ended  by  mis- 
taking sport  for  earnest,  persuading  himself  that  she  only  desired  a 
pretext  for  yielding  to  his  audacity.  The  ladies  of  the  palace  dis- 
covered him  one  night  hidden  under  the  queen's  bed  ;  he  was  ex- 
pelled with  indignation,  but  his  boldness  was  placed  to  the  account 
of  the  thoughtlessness  of  his  age  and  character.  Raillery  was  hi* 
only  punishment.  He  continued  to  profess  at  court  an  adoring  wor- 
ship for  Mary,  filling  the  palace  with  his  amorous  verses,  and  reciting 
to  the  courtiers  those  lines  which  Konsard,  possessed  with  the  same 
image,  had  addressed  to  her  in  Paris. 

"  Quand  cct  y  voire  blauc  qui  enflc  yotrc  sein 
Quand  votri;  longue,  gresle  ct  delicate  main 
Quand  votre  belle  hiille  et  votre  beau  corsage 
Qui  ressemblo  ;ui  portrait  d'un  celeste  image ; 
Quand  vos  sages  propos,  quand  vostre  douce  voix 
Qui  pourroit  emouyoir  les  rochers  et  les  bois, 
Las  !  ne  sout  plus  icy  ;  quand  tant  de  beautaz  rare* 
Dont  les  graces  des  cieux  ne  voiis  furent  avares, 
Abandonnant  la  France  out  d'un  autre  coste 
L'agreable  sujet  de  uos  vers  emporte. 
Comment  pourroit  chanter  les  benches  des  poetes, 
Quand  par  vostre  depart  les  muses  tont  lunettes? 
Tout  ce  qui  est  de  beau  ne  se  garde  longtemps ; 
Les  roses  et  les  lys  ne  regnent  qu'un  printeinps. 
Aiusi  votre  beautti  senlement  apparue 
Quinze  ans  en  nostre  France  est  Boudain  disparue 
C'omme  on  voit  d'un  esclair  s'evanouir  le  trait, 
Et  d'elle  n'a  laisso  si  non  quo  le  regret, 
Sinon  le  deplaisir  qui  mo  remet  sans  cesse 
Au  coeur  le  souvenir  d'une  telle  princesse. 


J'envoyray  mes  pensers  qui  volent  cominc  oiseanx 
Par  eux  je  revoiray  sans  danger  a  toute  heure 
Cette  belle  princcsse  et  sa  belle  demeure  ; 
Et  la  pour  tout  janiais  je  voudray  sejourner, 
Car  d'un  lieu  si  plaisant  on  ne  peut  retourner. 

La  nature  a  toujours  dedans  la  mer  lointaine 

Par  les  bois  par  les  rocs,  sous  les  monceaux  d'arei»6 

ITait  naistre  li^s  Iicautez  et  n'a  j>oint  a  nos  yeux 

N'y  a  nous  fait  present  de  sea  dons  precieux: 

Les  perles,  les  rubis,  sont  enfants  des  rivages, 

Et  toujouru  les  oileurs  sont  aux  terres  sauvageg, 

Ainsi  L)ieu  qui  a  soin  de  vostre  royaute 

A  fait  (miracle  grand)  naistre  vostre  beaute 

Snr  le  bord  estranger,  comme  chose  laissee 

Non  pour  nos  yeiix  helas  1  mais  pour  nostre  pensoe." 

*  The  ivory  whiteness  of  thy  bosom  fair  ; 
Thy  long  and  slender  hand  so  soft  and  rare ; 
Thy  all-surpassing  look  and  form  of  love, 
Enchanting  as  a  vision  from  above  ; 
Then  thy  sweet  voice  and  music  of  thy  speech, 
That  rocks  and  woods  might  move,  nor  art  could  re  Mil, 


i  HART  STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS. 

When  these  are  lost,  fled  to  a  foreign  shore, 

With  loves  and  graces,  France  beholds  no  mor«. 

How  shall  the  poet  sing  now  thou  art  gone  ? 

For  s iknt  is  the  muse  since  thou  hast  flown  ; 

All  that  is  beauteous  short  time  doth  abide, 

The  rose  ami  lily  only  bloom  while  lasteth  the  spring-tide. 

"  Thus  here,  in  France,  thy  beauty  only  shone, 
For  thrice  five  years,  and  suddenly  is  gone  ; 
Like  to  the  lightning-flash,  a  moment  bright, 
To  leave  but  darkness  and  regret  like  night ; 
To  leave  a  deathless  memory  behind, 
Of  that  fair  princess,  in  my  heart  enshrined. 
My  winged  thoughts,  like  birds,  now  lly  to  thee, 
My  beautous  princess,  and  her  home  I  see, 
And  there  for  evermore  I  lain  would  stay, 
Nor  from  that  sweetest  dwelling  ever  stray. 

"  Nature  hath  ever  in  her  deepest  floods, 
On  loftiest  hills,  in  lonely  rocks  and  woods, 
Her  choicest  treasures  hid  from  mortal  ken, 
With  rich  and  precious  gems  unseen  of  men. 
The  pearl  and  ruby  sleep  in  secret  stores, 
And  softest  perfumes  spring  on  wildest  shores. 
Thus  God,  who  over  thee  his  watch  doth  keep, 
Hath  borne  thy  beauty  safe  across  the  deep 
On  foreign  shore,  in  regal  pride  to  rest, 
Far  from  mine  eyes,  but  hidden  in  my  breast." 

These  beautiful  verses  of  Ronsard  were  doubtless  esteemed  an  ex- 
cuse  for  the  passion  of  a  poet  equally  fascinated,  but  less  discreet. 

Du  Chatelard,  surprised  a  second  time  hidden  behind  the  curtains 
of  the  queen's  bed,  was  sent  to  trial  and  condemned  to  death  by  the 
judges  of  Edinburgh  for  a  meditated  treason.  Wfth  a  single  word 
Mary  might  have  commuted  his  punishment  or  granted  him  pardon, 
but  she  ungenerously  abandoned  him  to  the  executioner.  Ascending 
the  scaffold  erected  before  the  windows  of  Holyrood  palace,  the 
theatre  of  his  madness  and  the  dwelling  of  the  queen,  he  faced  death 
like  a  hero  and  a  poet.  "  If,"  said  he,  "  I  die  not  without  n/>rouck, 
like  the  Chevalier  Bayard,  my  ancestor,  like  him  I  die,  at  least,  wit/i- 
inil  j'i'iir. "  For  his  last  prayer  he  recited  Ronsard  \s  beautiful  Ode  on 
Death.  Then  casting  his  last  looks  and  thoughts  toward  the  win- 
lows  of  the  palace,  inhabited  by  the  charm  of  his  life  and  the  cause 
»f  his  death,  "  Farewell  !"  he  cried,  "  thou  who  art  so  beautiful  and 
to  cruel  ;  who  killest  me,  and  whom  I  cannot  cease  to  love  !" 

Tliis  iragedy  was  only  the  prelude  to  others  which  were  soon  after 
to  till  the  palace  with  consternation  and  bloodshed, 


BUT  already  state  politics  began  to  intermingle  with  love,  and  to 
invade  the  happiness  of  the  young  queen.  England,  by  right  of 
kindred,  had  always  exercised,  partly  by  habit,  partly  by  force,  a 
sort  of  recognized  mediation  over  Scotland.  Elizabeth,  tke  daughter 


ifAKY   STUAItT,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS.  it 

<>f  lieury  VIII.,  less  woman  than  statesman,  was  not  of  a  character 
likely  to  forego  this  right  of  mediation.  Public  and  personal  policy 
alike  prompted  her  to  retain  it,  the  more  so  that  Mary  Stuart  possessed 
eventual  rights  to  the  crown  of  England — rights  even  more  legiti- 
mate than  her  own.  In  the  case  of  Elizabeth — who  gloried  in  the 
title  of  virgin  queen — dying  without  issue,  Mary  might  be  called  to 
succeed  her  on  the  English  throne.  The  marriage  of  the  Queen  of 
Scots  was,  therefore,  a  question  which  essentially  interested  Eliza- 
beth, for,  according  as  the  Scottish  princess  should  marry  a  foreign, 
a  Scottish,  or  an  English  prince,  the  fate  of  England  would  not  fail 
to  be  powerfully  influenced  by  the  king  with  whom  Mary  should 
divide  her  two  crowns.  Elizabeth  had  begun  by  supporting  the  pre- 
tensions of  her  own  favorite,  the  handsome  Leicester,  to  the  hand  of 
Mary  ;  then  jealousy  restrained  her,  and  she  transferred  her  favor  to 
a  young  Scot  of  the  almost  royal  house  of  Lennox,  whose  father  was 
devoted  to  her,  and  lived  at  court.  She  indirectly  intimated  to  Mary 
that  such  a  marriage  would  cement  an  eternal  friendship  between 
them,  and  would  be  agreeable  to  both  nations.  The  young  Darnley, 
son  of  the  Earl  of  Lennox,  would  thus  exclude  the  pretensions  of 
foreign  princes,  whose  domination  might  menace  the  independence 
of  Scotland,  and  later,  perhaps,  even  that  of  England,  and  would 
besides  give  to  Queen  Mary  a  pledge  of  domestic  harmony  in  a  com- 
mon Catholic  faith.  It  would  please  the  English,  because  the  house 
of  Lennox  had  immense  possessions  in  England,  and  the  family  in- 
habited London  ;  it  would  accommodate  the  Scotch,  for  he  was  a  Scot 
by  blood  and  race,  and  the  Scottish  nobles  would  more  readily  sub- 
mit to  one  of  their  own  countrymen  than  to  an  Englishman  or  a 
stranger.  This  judicious  reasoning  shows  in  Elizabeth  no  trace  at 
that  time  of  the  perfidy  and  hatred  which  historians  attribute  to  her 
in  this  negotiation.  She  certainly  gave  in  this  case  to  her  sister  Mary 
of  Scotland  the  wisest  counsel  likely  to  assure  repose  to  herself,  hap- 
piness to  her  people,  and  friendship  between  the  two  crowns.  This 
advice,  moreover,  could  not  fail  to  be  well  received  by  a  young 
queen,  whose  heart  should  naturally  take  precedence  of  her  hand,  for 
Darnley,  then  in  the  flower  of  his  youth,  was  one  of  the  handsomest 
of  men,  and  the  most  likely  to  captivate  the  eyes  and  the  heart  of  a 
young  queen  by  the  graces  of  his  person. 

Riz/io  might  perhaps  have  made  himself  the  sole  obstacle  to  the 
marriage  of  Mary  ;  but  whether  it  arose  from  womanly  caprice  or 
from  the  refined  policy  of  llizzio,  which  prompted  him  to  concede  a 
throne  in  order  to  retain  his  influence,  he  favored  the  idea  of  Eliza- 
beth by  every  means,  thinking,  doubtless,  that  he  might  be  unable  to 
resist  alone,  or  for  a  length  of  time,  the  enmity  of  the  Scottish  nobles 
leagued  against  him  ;  that  a  king  was  necessary  to  reduce  them  to 
obedience,  and  that  Darnley,  who,  though  possessing  a  charming  ex- 
terior, had  only  an  inferior  mind,  would  be  ever  grateful  to  him  for 
placing  him  cm  the  throne,  and  would  leave  him  to  reign  in  roalil/, 


18  MARY   STUART,    QUEEtf   OF  SCOTS. 

sheltered  from  public  envy  under  the  protection  of  the  king.  History 
on  this  point  is  wholly  conjectural,  but  the  renewed  and  continuous 
preference  of  Mary  for  her  favorite  leads  to  the  presumption  that  she 
accepted  Darnley  for  the  purpose  of  retaining  Rizzio  in  power. 

XII. 

DARTTLET  appeared  at  Holyrood,  and  charmed  all  eyes  by  his  in, 
comparable  beauty,  but  it  was  that  incomplete  kind  of  beauty  want- 
ing in  thejnanliness  bestowed  by  years  ;  he  had  youth  in  his  face,  and 
something*  of  the  woman  in  his  shape,  which  was  too  slender  and  un- 
steady for  a  king.  A  change,  however,  seemed  to  come  over  Mary's 
heart  on  seeing  him,  and  she  bestowed  upon  him  her  whole  soul  with 
her  crown.  The  recitals  of  the  French  ambassador  at  the  Scottish 
court  represent  this  marriage  as  the  perfect  union  of  two  lovers,  hav- 
ing but  one  heart,  and  ardently  enjoying  the  prolonged  revelries  of 
this  first  bliss  of  their  lives.  The  Presbyterians  alone,  with  Knox  at 
their  head,  formed  a  discordant  element  in  the  general  happiness. 
"  We  should  be  satisfied,"  ironically  remarked  the  Earl  of  Morton  ; 
"  we  are  going  to  be  governed  by  a  buffoon  Rizzio,  a  silly  child 
Darnley,  and  a  shameless  princess  Mary  Stuart. "  "  You  will  hear," 
writes  Paul  de  Foix,  envoy  of  Catherine  de  Medici  at  Holyrood,  "  of 
the  graceful  and  pleasant  life  of  the  said  lady,  who  employs  every 
morning  in  hunting,  and  the  evenings  in  dancing,  music,  and  mas- 
querades." "  She  is  not  a  Christian,"  cried  Knox  from  his  pulpit, 
"  neither  is  she  woman  ;  she  is  a  pagan  divinity — Diana  in  tke  morn- 
ing, Venus  in  the  evening  !" 

XIII. 

MURRAY,  the  brother  of  Mary,  who  had  firmly  established  the 
kingdom  under  her  rule  by  his  spirited  and  wise  administration,  was 
soon  dismissed  by  the  new  king,  now  counselled  and  governed  by 
Ri/.zio.  He  retired,  carrying  with  him  the  esteem  of  the  nobles  and 
univiTsal  popularity  in  the  nation  ;  the  levity  of  the  queen  thus 
prompted  her  to  discard  the  first  statesman  in  Scotland  for  a  musi 
chm,  and  leave  everything  to  the  government  of  caprice.  Under  the 
influence  of  Charles  IX.,  who  then  meditated  the  coming  St.  Barthol- 
omew, of  UH>  Duke  of  Alba,  Philip  the  Second's  fanatical  execu- 
tioner, and  of  Catherine  of  Medici,  the  fountain-head  of  the  religious 
persecution  in  France,  Mary  joined  the  League  of  Bayonne,  whose 
object  was  to  form  a  plan  for  the  religious  unity  of  all  Europe  by  the 
extermination  of  Protestantism.  She  boasted  that  she  would  soon 
li-ad  her  Scottish  troops  and  her  Catholic  continental  allies  to  the  con- 
quest  of  England,  and  achieve  the  triumph  of  Popery  even  in  London 
it*df.  We  can  easily  conceive  what  dissension  and  animosity 
between  the  two  queens  would  immediately  spring  from  such  words 
reported  to  Elizabeth  by  her  envoys  at  Holyrood  .  feminine 


MARY  STUART,    QUEEN   OF   SCOTS.  1ft 

rivalries  speedily  became  intermixed  with  those  of  a  religious  and 
political  nature,  to  envenom  still  more  the  bloody  leaven  of  their 
hypocritical  friendship.  The  inconstancy  of  Mary  soon  began  to 
work  out  the  vengeance  of  Elizabeth. 

XIV. 

MART  had,  after  a  few  days  of  marriage,  abandoned  her  transient 
fondness  for  the  youth. she  imagined  she  had  loved,  conceived  a  cool- 
ness for  Darnley,  and  became  again  prodigal  of  everything  toward 
Rizzio,  on  whom  she  lavished  power  and  honors,  violating  the  almost 
sacred  etiquette  of  the  times  by  admitting  him  to  her  table  in  her 
private  apartments,  and,  suppressing  the  name  of  the  king  in  public 
papers,  substituted  that  of  Rizzio.  Scotland  found  she  had  two 
kings,  or,  rather,  the  nominal  king  disappeared  to  give  place  to  the 
favorite. 

XV. 

DARNL.EY,  a  prey  at  once  to  shame  and  to  jealousy,  bore  all  this 
like  a  child,  dreaming  of  the  vengeance  which  he  had  not  the  strength 
to  accomplish.  The  Scottish  nobles,  feeling  themselves  humbled  in 
his  person,  secretly  excited  in  him  this  ferment  of  hatred,  and  otTered 
to  rid  him  at  once  from  the  worthless  parasite  she  had  palmed  on  the 
kingdom  as  its  ruler.  What  may  be  called  a  national  plot  was  formed 
between  them  and  Darnley,  whose  objects  were  the  death  of  the 
favorite,  the  imprisonment  of  the  queen,  and  the  restoration  of  the 
outraged  royal  power  into  the  hands  of  the  king. 

The  clergy  and  the  people  would  evidently  be  favorable  to  the  plot ; 
there  was  no  need  to  conceal  it  from  them,  so  certain  were  the  con- 
spirators not  only  of  impunity  but  of  public  ar'^r.use.  The  Ear)  of 
Murray,  brother  of  the  queen,  whom  she  hud  so  imprudently  driven 
away  to  deliver  herself  up  to  the  ascendency  of  Rizzio,  was  consult- 
ed, and  listened  with  caution  to  the  incomplete  revelations  of  the 
plotters.  Too  honest  to  participate  by  his  consent  in  an  assassination, 
he  gave  his  approbation,  or  at  least  his  silence,  to  the  enterprise  for 
the  delivery  of  Scotland.  He  promised  to  return  to  Holyrood  at  the 
call  of  the  lords,  awl  to  resume  the  reins  of  government  in  the  inter- 
est of  the  heir  to  the  throne,  whom  Mary  already  carried  in  her 
bosom.  Riz/io,  defeated  and  captured,  might  be  embarked  and 
thrown  upon  the  coast  of  France. 

The  queen  anddthc  favorite,  ill-served  by  a  disaffected  court,  SOB- 
pected  nothing, of  the  plot,  though  the  conspirators,  Hocking  from  tho 
most  distant  castles  in  Scotland,  were  already  armed  anil  assembled 
in  her  antechamber. 

On  the  night  of  the  9th  or  10th  of  March,  15GG,  Darnley,  the  Earl 
of  Lennox,  his  father,  Lord  Ruthven,  George  Douglas,  Lindsay, 
Andrew  Ker,  and  some  other  lords  of  the  Protestant  party,  awaited 


&)  if  ART  STUART,    QUEE3V  OF  SCOTS. 

the  hour  in  the  king's  chamber  ;  three  hundred  men-at-arms,  furnished 
by  the  different  counties,  glided  silently  into  Edinburgh  one  by  ono 
under  the  shade  of  the  walls  by  the  street  leading  from  the  city  to  the 
palace,  ready  to  succor  the  conspirators  if  the  queen's  guards  should 
attempt  to  defend  her. 

According  to  the  French  ambassador,  the  murderers  had  a  stifl 
mort  flagrant  and  justifiable  pretext  for  the  assassination  of  the  fa- 
rorite  than  historians  relate. 

"  The  king,"  we  read  in  the  dispatches  of  .Paul  de  Foix  to  Cathe- 
rine of  Medici,  "a  f.evf  days  before  had  gone  to  the  door  of  the 
queen's  chamber,  tehich  was  immediately  above  his  own,  about  an 
hour  after  midnight.  After  having  knocked  frequently  and  no  one 
replying,  he  called  the  queen  several  times,  praying  her  to  open  the 
door,  and  finally  threatening  to  break  it  open,  upon  which  she  ad- 
mitted him.  The  king  supposed  her  to  be  alone  in  the  chamber,  till, 
after  having  searched  everywhere,  he  discovered  David  in  the  cabi- 
net, his  only  garmenf  being  a  furred  robe." 

This  was  probablj  the  official  version  given  by  the  king  and  his 
accomplices,  but  the  witnesses,  and  even  the  actors  in  the  murder, 
gave  a  more  truthful  one  of  it  afterward.  The  following  is  the 
account  given  by  Lord  Ruthven,  one  of  the  conspirators,  after  his 
flight  to  England,  confirmed  by  unanimous  testimony  and  by  docu- 
mentary evidence. 

The  queen  had  unsuspectingly  prolonged  a  nocturnal  supper  with 
her  favorite,  in  company  with  a  single  female  confidante,  in  a  small 
room  of  the  palace  next  to  her  bedchamber.  Here-let  us  quote  the 
French  writer,  who  has  studied  on  the  spot  the  most  minute  circum- 
stances of  this  event,  and  who  engraves  them  in  our  memory  as  he 
relates  them  : 

"  The  king  had  supped  in  his  own  apartment  in  company  with  the 
Earls  of  Morton,  Ruthven,  and  Lindsay  ;  the  king's  rooms  were  on 
the  ground  door,  elevated  by  a  few  steps,  and  were  situated  under 
the  apartments  of  the  queen  in  the  same  tower.  During  the  dc.-x-r 
he  sent  to  .see  who  was  with  the  queen.  He  was  told  that  the  queer 
had  finished  supper  in  her  little  cabinet,  with  Rizzio  and  her  natural 
sister,  the  Duchess  of  Argyl«.  Their  conversation  had  been  joyous 
and  brilliant.  The  king  went  up  by  a  back  stair,  while  Morton, 
Lindsay,  and  a  troop  of  their  bravest  vassals  occupied  the  great 
staircase,  and  dispersed  in  their  passage  some  of  the  queen's  friend 
and  servants. 

"  The  king  passed  from  the  chamber  int^  Mary's  cabinet 
Ri/zio,  dressed  in  a  short  mantle,  a  satin  vest,  and  lower  clothes  ot 
purple  velvet,  was  seated,  with  his  head  covered,  lie  wore  a  cap 
decorated  with  a  feather.  The  queen  said  to  the  king,  '  My  lord, 
have  you  supped  ?  I  thought  you  were  supping  now.'  The  king 
Ic.-incd  on  the  back  of  the  queen's  chair,  who  turned  round  toward 
him ;  they  embraced,  and  Durnley  took  a  share  in  tlie  conversation. 


MARY   STUART,    QUEBN   OF  SCOTg.  21 

His  voice  trembled,  his  face  was  inflamed,  and  from  time  to  time 
he  cast  anxious  glances'  toward  a  little  door  lie  had  left  ajar. 
Soon  after  a  man  issued  from  under  the  fringes  of  the  curtain  which 
covered  it — Ruthveu,  still  pale  and  shaking  with  fever,  who,  in  spitu 
of  his  extreme  weakness,  had  determined  to  join  in  the  undertaking. 
He  wore  a  damask  doublet  lined  with  fur,  a  brass  helmet,  and  iron 
gauntlets  ;  was  armed  as  if  for  battle,  and  accompanied  by  Douglas, 
Ker,  Ballautyne,  and  Ormiston.  At  this  moment  Morton  and  Lind- 
say violently  burst  into  the  bedchamber  of  the  queen,  and,  pushing 
toward  the  cabinet,  rushed  into  that  small  room. 

"  Ruthven  threw  himself  forward  with  such  impetuosity  that  th« 
floor  groaned  beneath  his  weight.  Mary  and  her  guests  were  terri- 
fied ;  his  livid,  fierce  aspect,  distorted  by  illness  and  wrath,  froze 
them  with  terror. 

"  '  Why  are  you  here,  and  who  gave  you  permission  to  enter?' 
cried  the  queen. 

"  '  I  have  a  matter  to  settle  with  David,'  replied  Ruthven  in  a  deep 
voice. 

"  Another  of  the  conspirators  coming  forward,  Mary  said  to  him, 
'  If  David  be  guilty,  I  am  ready  to  deliver  him  up  to  justice.'  '  This 
is  justice  ! '  replied  the  conspirator,  taking  a  rope  from  under  his 
mantle. 

"  Haggard  with  fear,  Rizzio  retreated  to  a  corner  of  the  chamber, 
lie  was  followed,  and  the  poor  Italian,  approaching  the  queen,  took 
hold  of  her  dress,  crying,  '  I  am  a  dead  man  !  giustizia  !  giusti/.ia  ! 
save  me,  maritime  !  save  me  ! '  Mary  threw  herself  between  Rizzio 
and  the  assassins.  She  tried  to  stay  their  hands.  All  were  crowded 
and  pressed  together  in  that  narrow  space  in  one  confused  mass. 
Ruthveii  and  Lindsay,  brandishing  their  naked  dirks,  spoke  roughly 
to  the  queen  ;  Andrew  Ker  placed  a  pistol  to  her  breast  and  threat- 
cued  to  fire,  and  Mary,  throwing  open  her  bosom,  cried, 

"  '  Fire,  if  you  do  not  respect  the  infant  I  bear  ! ' 

"  The  table  was  overturned  during  this  tumult.  The  queen  still 
struggling,  Darnley  threw  his  arms  round  her  and  pressed  her  into  a 
chair,  in  which  he  held  her  down  ;  while  the  others,  taking  Ki/zio  by 
the  neck,  dragged  him  from  the  cabinet.  Douglas  sri/ed  I)arnley'» 
dirk,  struck  the  favorite  with  it,  and  leaving  the  dagger  in  his  back, 
cried,  '  That  is  the  king's  stroke  ! '  Rizzio  still  struggled  desperately. 
He  wept,  prayed,  and  supplicated  with  lamentable  groans.  Hent 
first  clung  to  the  door  of  the  cabinet,  and  afterward  crept  to  the 
fireplace';  then  he  grasped  the  bed-posts  of  the  queen's  bed  ;  the 
conspirators  threatened,  struck,  insulted  him,  and  forced  him  to  let 
go  his  hold  by  pricking  his  hands  with  their  dirks.  Having  at,  last 
been  dragged  from  the  queen's  chamber  into  the  anteroom,  Rizzio 
fell,  pierced  with  fifty-five  dagger-wounds. 

"  The  queen  made  almost  superhuman  efforts  to  fly  to  the  succor 
of  the  unhappy  man.  The  king  could  scarcely  restrain  l»er. 


22  MARY   STUART,    QUEEN    OF   SCOTS. 

ing  her  in  other  hands,  he  hastened  to  the  room  where  Rizzio  lay 
expiring.  He  asked  if  there  yet  remained  anything  to  do,  and  plunged 
his  dagger  into  the  poor  corpse.  After  this,  Rizzio  was  tied  by  the 
feet  with  the  rope  brought  by  one  of  the  party,  and  was  then  dragged 
down  the  stairs  of  the  palace. 

"  Lord  Ruthven  then  returned  to  the  queen's  cabinet,  where  the 
table  had  been  replaced.  He  then  sat  down,  and  asked  for  a  little 
wine.  The  queen  was  enraged  at  his  insolence.  He  said  he  \v:us 
sick,  and  pouring  out  some  wine  with  his  own  hand  into  an  empty  cup 
(Rizzjo's  perhaps),  he  added  that  '  he  could  not  submit  to  be  gov- 
erned by  a  servant.  Your  husband  is  here  ;  he  is  our  chief  ! ' 

"'Is  it  so?'  replied  the  queen,  still  doubtful  of  Rizzio's  death. 
'  For  some  time,'  said  Daruley,  '  you  have  been  more  devoted  to  him 
than  to  me. '  The  queen  was  about  to  reply,  when  one  of  her  ollicers 
entered,  of  whom  she  asked  whether  David  had  been  taken  to  prison, 
and  where  ?  '  Madam, '  replied  he,  '  we  must  speak  no  more  about 
Rizzio  ;  he  is  dead. ' 

"  The  queen  uttered  a  cry,  and  then  turning  to  the  king,  ex- 
claimed, '  Ah,  traitor  and  son  of  a  traitor  !  is  this  the  reward  you  re- 
served for  him  who  has  done  so  much  for  your  good  ami  fur  your 
honor?  Is  this  my  reward  for  having  by  his  advice  elevated  you  to 
so  high  a  dignity  ?  Ah  !  no  more  tears,  but  revenge  !  No  more  joy 
for  me  till  your  heart  shall  be  as  desolate  as  mine  is  this  day  ! '  Say- 
ing those  words,  she  fainted  away. 

"  All  her  friends  at  Holyrood  immediately  fled  in  disorder.  The  Earl 
of  Athol,  the  Flemings,  and  Livingstone  escaped  by  a  dark  passage  ; 
the  Earls  of  Bothwell  and  Huntly  slid  down  a  pillar  into  the 
garden. 

"  Meantime  a  shudder  ran  through  the  city.  The  bells  were  rung  ; 
the  burgesses  of  Edinburgh,  with  the  Lord  Provost  at  their  head, 
assembled  instantly  around  the  palace.  They  asked  for  the  queen, 
who  had  now  recovered  her  senses.  While  some  of  the  conspirators 
threatened  that  if  she  called  out  she  would  be  slain  and  thrown  over 
the  walls,  others  assured  the  burgesses  that  all  went  well  ;  that  they 
had  only  poniarded  the  Piedmontese  favorite,  who  had  conspired 
with  the  Pope  and  the  King  of  Spain  to  destroy  the  religion  of  the 
Holy  Gospel. 

"  Darnley  himself  opened  a  window  of  the  fatal  tower  and  begged 
the  people  to  retire,  with  the  assurance  that  all  was  done  by  order  of 
Ihe^  queen,  and  that  instructions  would  be  given  next  day. 

"  Guarded  as  a  prisoner  in  her  own  palace,  and  even  in  her  bed- 
chamber, without  a  single  female  attendant,  Mary  remained  alone  all 
night,  delivered  up  to  the  horrors  of  despair.  She  had  been  preg- 
nant for  seven  months,  and  her  emotions  were  so  powerful  that  the 
infant  »he  afterward  bore,  and  who  became  James  I.  of  England, 
could  never  look  upon  a  naked  sword  without  a  shudder  of  fear." 


STUART,    QUEEtf  OF  SCOTS. 


XVL 

Btrr  if  Mary's  offence  was  womanly,  her  vengeance  was  childish. 
Rizzio  had  trusted  all  to  Mary's  preference  ;  the  accomplices  of  the 
king  had  confided  in  his  puerile  jealousy,  a  sentiment  as  inconsistent 
as  love  in  the  heart  of  a  husband  ready  to  pardon  the  queen's  fault  if 
she  would  forgive  his  revenge.  The  queen,  burying  in  her  memory, 
with  Italian  and  feminine  dissimulation,  both  the  outrage  and  her. 
resentment,  in  order  the  better  to  pave  the  way  for  expiation,  passed, 
in  some  hours,  from  imprecations  and  sobs  to  a  feigned  resignation. 
Trembling  for  her  throne,  her  liberty,  her  own  life,  and  that  of  her 
unborn  child,  she  undertook  to  fascinate  in  his  turn  the  offended 
husband,  whose  anger  seems  to  have  been  at  once  extinguished  in 
the  blood  of  the  offender.  The  imagination  cau  alone  fathom  the 
profound  depths  of  the  queen's  avenging  dissimulation  toward  him 
who  had  given  the  last  stab  to  the  dead  body  of  her  favorite. 

With  astonishing  promptitude  Mary  charmed,  reconquered,  and 
again  drew  toward  herself  more  than  ever  the  eyes  and  the  heart  of 
her  young  husband.  "  From  the  12th  of  March,  while  the  blood  of 
Rizzio  was  still  reeking  on  the  floor  of  the  chamber  and  on  the  kind's 
hands,"  writes  the  French  envoy,  "the  queen  resumed  all  her  em- 
pire over  Darnley  ;  the  fascination  was  so  rapid  and  complete  that 
people  believed  in  the  influence  of  witchcraft  on  the  part  of  the  queen 
over  her  husband." 

The  real  witchcraft  was  the  beauty  of  the  one,  the  ardent  youth  of 
the  other,  and  the  intellectual  superiority  of  a  woman  who  now  em- 
ployed her  genius  and  her  charms  in  apparent  submission,  as  she  had 
formerly  employed  them  in  offence. 

XVII. 

THIS  reconciliation  entirely  concealed  the  new  conspiracy  between 
the  king  and  queen  against  Darnley 's  own  accomplices  in  the  murder 
of  the  favorite,  but  which  suddenly  became  apparent  on  the  loth  of 
March,  six  days  after  the  assassination,  by  the  nocturnal  flight  of  the 
king  and  queen  to  the  castle  of  Dunbar,  a  fortress  whence  the  king 
could  brave  his  accomplices  and  the  queen  her  enemies.  From 
thence  Mary  wrote  to  her  sister,  Queen  Elizabeth  of  England,  re- 
counting her  misfortunes  in  her  own  way,  and  demanding  succor 
against  her  revolted  subjects.  She  then  summoned  to  Dunbar  those 
nobles  who  were  innocent  of  the  conspiracy  against  her,  and  eight 
thousand  faithful  Scots  obeyed  her  call.  Placing  herself  with  the 
king  at  the  head  of  these  troops,  she  marched  upon  Edinburgh  ; 
astonishment  and  terror  went  before  her  ;  the  presence  of  the  king 
disconcerted  the  insurgent  nobles,  clergy,  and  people,  and,  without 
striking  a  blow,  she  entered  Holy  rood.  A  proclamation  wae  iaaued 


^4  MAKY  STUAKf,    QiTEEN   OF  SCOTS. 

forbidding  any  mention  of  Darnlcy  as  a  participator  in  Riiszio's  mur 
der,  and  all  the  accomplices  in  that  deed  who  fell  into  the  queen's 
hands  were  beheaded  ;  Ruthven,  Douglas,  and  Morton  fled  beyond 
the  frontiers  ;  she  recalled,  as  chief  of  her  council,  tlie  able  and  up- 
right Murray,  who  had  been  sufficiently  mixed  up  with  the  conspir- 
acy to  insure  his  popularity,  though  sufficiently  guarded  to  preserve 
his  honor.  Finally,  to  gratify  her  affection,  after  having  attained 
the  objects  of  her  ambition,  she  threw  aside  the  mask,  bewailed  the 
fate  of  Ki/.zio,  ordered  his  body  to  be  exhumed,  and  buried  it  with 
regal  obsequies  in  the  sepulchre  of  the  kings  in  Holyrood  chapel. 

Reconciled  with  Daruley,  whom  she  more  and  more  despised  ;  well 
served  by  Murray,  who  brought  back  to  her  the  affections  of  the 
nation,  on  the  19th  of  the  following  June  Mary  gave  birth  to  a  son, 
destined  one  day  to  reign  over  England.  An  amnesty,  ably  coun- 
selled by  Murray,  granted  a  pardon  to  the  conspirators  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  auspicious  event,  and  allowed  those  who  had  been  pro- 
scribedto  return  to  their  country  and  homes. 

The  hour  of  vengeance  on  her  husband  had,  however,  come  ;  her 
aversion  for  him  made  their  lives  miserable,  and  she  no  longer  took 
any  pains  to  conceal  it.  Melvil,  one  of  her  most  intimate  confidants, 
says,  in  his  memoirs  of  the  reign  of  his  mistress,  "  I  constantly 
found  her,  from  the  time  of  Riz/io's  murder,  with  her  heart  full  of 
rancor,  and  the  worst  way  to  pay  court  to  her  was  to  speak  of  her 
reconciliation  with  the  king."  Such  testimony  reveals  to  us  the 
hearts  of  the  actors  in  this  great  drama,  though  hidden  under  the 
mask  of  false  appearances. 

XVIII. 

THE  secret  cause  of  this  growing  aversion  was  a  new  love,  more 
resembling  a  fatality  of  heart  in  the  career  of  a  modern  Phodra 
than  the  aberration  of  a  woman  and  a  queen  in  an  age  enjoying  the 
light  of  civilization. 

The  object  of  this  love  was  as  extraordinary  as  the  passion  itself 
was  inexplicable,  unless,  indeed,  we  attribute  it  to  the  effect  of 
magic  or  of  possession,  a  supernatural  explanation  of  the  phenomena 
of  the  heart  which  was  common  in  those  superstitious  times.  But 
the  female  heart  contains  within  itself  greater  mysteries  than  even 
magic  can  explain.  The  man  now  beloved  by  Mary  Stuart  was 
I'.othwell. 

The  Earl  of  Bothwell  was  a  Scottish  noble  of  a  powerful  and  illus- 
trious house,  whose  principal  stronghold  was  Hermitage  Castle  in 
Roxburghshire.  He  was  born  with  those  perverse  and  unruly  in- 
Btincts  which  indifferently  drive  men  from  exploit  to  exploit,  or  from 
crime  to  crime — to  a  throne  or  to  a  scaffold.  Impetuous  in  every 
impulse,  in  ambition,  and  in  enterprise,  Bothwell  was  one  of  those 
adventurers  gifted  with  superhuman  daring,  who,  in  their  davelop- 
and  as  tlieir  desires  expand,  seek  to  burst  the  social  bowada 


.    MARY   STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS.  25 

within  which  they  exist,  to  make  room  for  themselres  or  perish  in 
the  attempt.  Some  men  seem  born  to  madness,  and  Bothwell  was 
one  of  those.  Byron,  whose  mother's  ancestry  was  connected  with 
the  line  of  Lady  Jean  Gordon,  Both  well's  wife,  has  depicted  him  in 
the  romantic  aud  sombre  "  Corsair  ;"  but  the  poem  is  far  behind  his- 
toric truth,  for  the  sovereign  poet,  Nature,  outvies  fiction  by  reality. 

XIX. 

WE  know  not  whether  precocious  crime,  parental  severity,  or  vol- 
untary flight  exiled  him  from  the  paternal  home,  but  in  his  early 
youth  he  became  enrolled  among  those  corsairs  of  the  ocean  who 
stained  the  coasts,  the  islands,  and  the  waves  of  the  North  Sea  with 
blood.  His  name,  his  rank,  his  courage,  had  speedily  promoted  him 
to  the  command  of  one  of  those  squadrons  of  criminals  who  had  a 
den  wherein  to  stow  their  spoils,  and  an  arsenal  for  their  vessels,  in 
a  rock-fortress  on  the  coast  of  Denmark.  The  crimes  of  Bothwell, 
and  his  exploits  among  those  pirates,  lie  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  the 
past ;  but  his  name  inspired  terror  along  the  shores  of  the  North  Sea. 

After  this  stormy  youth  the  death  of  his  father  recalled  him  to  his 
Scottish  domains  and  wild  vassals.  The  troubles  of  the  court  of 
Edinburgh  had  attracted  him  to  Holyrood,  where  he  discovered  a 
wider  field  for  ambition  and  crime.  He  was  among  those  Scottish 
chiefs  who,  at  the  appeal  of  the  king  to  his  subjects  while  in  the 
castle  of  Dunbar,  hastened  thither  with  their  vassals,  in  the  hope  of 
seizing  and  pillaging  Edinburgh.  Since  the  return  of  the  court  to 
Ilolyrood,  lie  had  distinguished  himself  among  the  foremost  partisans 
of  the  queen.  Whether  inspired  by  ambition  or  spurred  on  by  an 
indefinite  hope  of  subjugating  the  heart  of  a  woman  by  striking  her 
imagination,  he,  at  all  events,  succeeded  in  his  enterprise  ;  perhaps 
he  knew  that  the  surest  way  to  conquer  feminine  pride  is  to  appear 
indifferent  to  it.  » 

XX. 

BOTHWELL  was  no  longer  in  the  flower  of  his  youth  ;  but  although 
he  had  lost  an  eye  by  a  wound  received  in  one  of  his  sea-fights,  he 
was  still  handsome.  His  beauty  was  not  effeminate,  like  Darnley's, 
nor  melancholy  and  pensive  like  Riz/io's,  but  of  that  rude  and  manly 
order  which  gives  to  passion  the  energy  of  heroism.  The  licentious- 
ness of  his  manners  and  the  victims  of  his  libertinage  had  made  him 
well  known  at  the  court  of  Holyrood.  He  had  many  attachments 
among  the  women  of  that  -court,  less  for  their  love  than  their  dis- 
honor. One  of  those  mistresses,  Lady  Reves,  a  dissipated  woman, 
celebrated  by  Brantome  for  the  notoriety  of  her  adventures,  was  the 
confidante  of  the  queen.  She  had  retained  for  Bothwell  an  admira- 
tion which  survived  their  intimacy.  The  queen,  who  amused  herself 
by  interrogating  her  confidante  retfavdine;  the  exploits  and  amours  of 


26  MAKY   STUART,    QUEEN    0£   SCOTS. 

ker  old  favorite,  allowed  herself  to  be  gradually  attracted  toward 
him  by  a  sentiment  which^  at  first,  assumed  the  appearance  of  a  mere 
good-natured  curiosity.  The  confidante,  divining,  or  believing  she 
divined,  the  yet  unexpressed  desires  of  the  queen,  introduced  Both- 
well  one  evening  into  the  garden,  and  even  to  the  apartment  of  her 
mistress.  This  secret  meeting  forever  sealed  the  ascendency  of 
Bothwell  over  the  queen.  Her  passion,  though  hidden,  was,  for  that 
reason,  still  more  commanding,  and  became  for  the  first  time  appar- 
ent to  all  some  weeks  after  this  interview,  on  the  occasion  of  a 
wound  Bothwell  had  received  in  a  border  feud,  on  the  marches  of 
which  he  had  the  command.  On  hearing  of  this,  Mary  mounted  on 
horseback,  and  rode,  without  resting  by  the  way,  to  the  Hermitage 
where  he  had  been  carried,  assured  herself  with  her  own  eyes  of  the 
danger  he  had  run,  and  returned  the  same  day  to  Holyrood. 

"  The  Earl  of  Bothwell,"  writes  at  this  time  the  French  ambassa- 
dor to  Catherine  of  Medici,  "  is  out  of  danger,  at  which  the  queen  is 
well  pleased.  To  have  lost  him  would  have  been  no  small  loss  indeed 
to  her." 

She  herself  avows  her  anxiety  in  verses  composed  on  the  occasion  : 

"  Pour  lui  aussi  j'ai  pleure  mainte  larme 

D'abord  quand  il  se  fit  de  ce  corps  possesseur 
Duquel  alors  il  n'avait  pas  le  coeur  ! 
Puis  me  donna  une  autre  durc  alarme 
Et  me  pensa  oter  vie  et  frayeur  !" 

"  When  first  my  master  he  became, 

For  him  I  shed  full  many  a  tear  ; 
But  now  this  new  and  dire  alarm 
Destroys  in  me  both  life  and  fear  1" 

After  his  cure  Bothwell  became  master  of  the  kingdom.  Every 
filing  was  lavished  on  him  as  previously  on  Rizzio,  and  he  accepted 
all,  not  as  a  subject  but  as  a  master.  The  king,  shut  out  from  the 
councils  of  the  queen,  and  even  from  her  society  as  his  wife, 
"walked  about  alone,"  says  Melvil,  "from  place  to  place,  and  it 
was  evident  to  all  that  she  regarded  it  as  a  crime  that  any  one  should 
keep  company  with  him." 

"  The  Queen  of  Scots  and  her  husband,"  writes  the  Duke  of  Bed- 
ford, envoy  of  Elizabeth  at  the  court  of  Scotland,  "live  together  as 
before,  and  even  worse  ;  she  rarely  sits  at  table,  and  never  sleeps 
with  him  ;  she  in  no  wise  esteems  his  society,  and  loves  not  those 
who  entertain  friendship  for  him.  To  such  an  extent  docs  she  ex- 
clude him  from  business  that  when  she  leaves  the  palace  to  go  out 
he  knows  nothing.  Modesty  forbids  me  to  repeat  what  she  has  said 
of  him,  and  which  would  not  be  honorable  to  the  queen." 

The  insolence  of  the  new  favorite  partook  of  the  ferocity  of  hia 
former  life  ;  he  once  drew  his  dagger  in  full  council  before  th« 
queen  to  strike  Lethington,  another  member  of  the  council,  for  hav. 
ing  obj«cted  to  his  ftdMoe, 


MART   STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS.  37 

The  king,  outraged  every  day  by  Both  well's  contempt,  and  some- 
times by  his  insults,  retired  to  Glasgow,  where  he  lived  in  the  house 
of  his  father,  the  Earl  of  Lennox.  The  queen  and  Bothwell  became 
alarmed  lest  he  should  make  public  complaint  against  the  humilia- 
tion and  neglect  to  which  he  was  condemned,  appeal  to  the  discon- 
tented among  the  nobility,  and  in  his  turn  march  against  Edinburgh. 
It  is  to  this  motive  and  to  Bothwell's  fear,  rather  than  to  his  desira 
to  become  the  husband  of  the  queen,  that  we  must  attribute  the  odi- 
ous crime  which  soon  after  threw  the  world  into  consternation,  and 
of  which  Mary  Stuart  was  at  least  the  accomplice,  if  she  were  not 
the  principal  actor.  In  all  the  acts  of  the  queen  which  preceded 
this  tragedy  there  are  not  only  proofs  of  complicity  in  the  plan  for 
assassinating  her  husband,  but  something  even  still  more  atrocious — - 
namely,  the  hypocritical  art  of  a  woman  who  hides  murderous  inten- 
tions under  the  appearance  of  love  ;  who  lends  herself  to  the  vile 
office  of  decoying  her  victim  and  drawing  him  within  reach  of  the 
sword  of  the  assassin. 

Without  granting  to  Mary's  correspondence  with  Bothwell,  be  it 
real  or  apocryphal,  more  historical  authority  than  it  deserves,  it  is 
evident  that  a  correspondence  of  that  nature  did  exist  between  the 
queen  and  her  seducer,  and  if  she  did  not  write  what  is  contained  in 
those  letters  (which  are  not  written  by  her  own  hand,  and  the  au- 
thenticity of  which  is  consequently  suspected),  still  she  acted  in  all 
the  preliminaries  of  the  tragedy  in  such  a  manner  as  to  leave  no 
doubt  of  her  participation  in  the  snare  by  which  the  unfortunate  and 
amorous  Darnley  was  inveigled. 

The  letters  written  at  Glasgow  by  the  queen  to  Bothwell  breathe 
Insensate  love  for  her  favorite  and  implacable  aversion  for  her  hus- 
band. They  inform  Bothwell  day  by  day  of  the  state  of  Darnley's 
health,  of  his  supplications  to  be  received  by  the  queen  as  a  king  and 
a  husband  ;  of  the  progress  which  her  blandishments  make  in  the 
confidence  of  the  young  king,  whose  hopes  she  now  nursed  ;  of  his 
resolution  to  return  with  her  and  to  go  with  her  wherever  she  might 
wish,  even  to  death,  provided  she  would  restore  to  him  her  heart  and 
his  connubial  rights.  Although  these  letters, we  repeat,  may  possess  no 
material  textual  authenticity  in  our  eyes,  though  they  even  bear  the 
traces  of  falsehood  and  impossibility  in  the  very  excess  of  their 
wickedness  and  cynicism,  it  is  yet  certain  that  they  very  nearly  ap- 
proach the  truth  ;  for  a  grave  and  confidential  witness  of  the  conver- 
sations between  Darnley  and  the  queen  at  Glasgow  gives  a  uarrativ* 
in  perfect  conformity  with  this  correspondence.  He  even  quotes  ex- 
pressions identical  with  those  in  the  letters,  proving  that  if  the  word* 
were  not  written  they  were  at  least  spoken  between  the  queen  and 
her  husband. 

"We  therefore  dismiss  as  improbable  the  text  of  these  letters, 
adopted  as  authentic  by  M.  Dargaud  and  by  a  number  of  the  most 
accredited  historians  of  England  ;  but  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  avoid 


28  MARY   STUART,    QUJM3N    OF   SCOTS. 

acknowledging  that  the  part  taken  by  Mary  in  the  death -snare  spread 
for  Darnley  was  a  substantial  confirmation  of  the  perfidy  inferred 
from  this  correspondence. 

Certain  it  is  that  the  queen,  on  hearing  of  the  flight  of  Darnley  to 
the  house  of  his  father,  the  Earl  of  Lennox,  suddenly  left  her  favor- 
ite Bothwell,  and  repairing  to  one  of  her  pleasure  castles  called 
('raiginillar,  near  Edinburgh,  secretly  convoked  the  confederated 
lords  of  her  own  and  Bothwell's  party.  The  French  ambassador  re- 
marks on  her  sadness  and  anxiety  ;  her  torment  between  the  fears  of 
her  husband  and  the  demands  of  her  favorite  was  such  as  to  make 
her  cry  out  in  presence  of  the  ambassador,  "  I  wish  I  were  dead  !" 
Shu  craftily  proposed  to  the  assembled  lords,  who  were  friendly  to 
15otli\vell,  to  give  up  to  Darnley  the  government  of  Scotland  ;  they 
protested  against  this,  as  she  doubtless  expected,  and  gave  utterance; 
to  threats  of  deadly  import  against  Darnley  !  "  We  will  deliver 
you  from  this  competitor,"  they  said.  "  Murray,  though  present, 
and  protesting  as  we  do,  will  not  join  in  our  measures,  but  he  will 
leave  us  free  to  act,  watching  us  as  from  between  his  fingers  !  Leave 
us  to  act  for  ourselves,  and  when  things  are  accomplished  the  parlia- 
ment will  approve  of  all."  The  queen's  silence  was  sufficient  to 
give  authority  to  these  sinister  resolutions,  and  her  departure  for  Glas- 
gow  on  the  following  day  served  them  yet  more  effectually.  She 
leaves  the  conspirators  at  Craigmillar  ;  against  all  propriety  or  ex- 
pectation she  proceeds  to  Glasgow,  where  she  finds  Darnley  recover- 
ing from  the  small-pox,  overwhelms  him  with  tenderness,  passes  days 
and  nights  by  his  pillow,  renews  the  scenes  of  Holyrood  after  the 
murder  of  lli//.io,  and  finally  consents  to  the  conjugal  conditions 
implored  by  Darnley.  In  vain  is  Darnley  warned  of  the  danger  he 
incurs  in  following  the  queen  to  Craigmillar  into  the  midst  of  his  en- 
emies ;  he  replies  that  though  it  may  appear  strange,  he  will  follow 
the  queen  he  adores  even  to  death.  The  queen  leaves  Glasgow  be- 
fore him,  to  await  his  restoration  to  health,  prolongs  with  him  the 
tenderest  farewells,  and  places  on  his  finger  a  ring,  as  a  precious 
pledge  of  reconciliation  and  love. 

What  is  there  in  the  disputed  letters  more  perfidious  than  this? 
These  particulars  are  at  all  events  authentic  ;  they  are  the  narrative 
of  Mary's  daily  life  at  Glasgow  with  her  husband. 

XXI. 

CKKTAIN  now  that  he  will  fall  into  the  snare,  she  returned  to  Holy- 
rood,  where  she  was  received  by  torchlight  in  the  midst  of  n  festi- 
val prepared  for  her.  Darnley  followed  her  shortly  after.  Under 
pretext  of  promoting  his  recovery,  apartments  were  prepared  for  him 
in  a  solitary  country-house  in  the  neighborhood,  called  Kirk  o'  Field, 
with  no  other  attendants  than  five  or  six  servants,  underlings  sold  to 
Jiothwell,  and  whom  he  ironically  called  bis  lambs.  Only  a  favorite 


MARY  STUART,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.  29 

page,  named  Taylor,  slept  in  Darnley's  chamber.  The  queen  came 
to  visit  him  with  the  same  demonstrations  of  tenderness  as  she  ex- 
hibited at  Glasgow,  bat  refused  to  live  with  him  yet.  Darnley,  as- 
tonished at  this  isolation,  fell  into  deep  melancholy,  from  which  he 
•ought  relief  by  praying  and  weeping  with  his  page.  An  inward 
presentiment  seemed  to  warn  him  of  approaching  death. 

XXII. 

MEANTIME  the  festivities  at  Holyrood  continued.  At  the  dose  of 
one  of  these  feasts,  during  which  Both  well  had  conversed  much  and 
alone  with  the  queen,  the  favorite  (according  to  the  testimony  of  his 
valet  Dalglish)  came  home  and  retired  to  bed  ;  soon  afterward  he 
calls  his  valet  and  dresses  ;  one  of  his  agents  enters  and  whispers 
something  in  his  ear  ;  he  takes  his  riding-cloak  and  sword,  covers 
his  face  with  a  mask,  puts  on  a  hat  with  a  broad  brim,  and  proceeds, 
at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  the  king's  solitary  dwelling. 

What  happened  on  that  mysterious  night?  We  know  not;  the 
only  thing  known  is  that  before  the  morning  twilight  a  terrible  ex- 
plosion was  heard  at  Holyrood  and  in  Edinburgh.  The  house  of 
Kirk  o'  Field  was  blown  to  atoms,  and  its  ruins  would  have  buried 
the  victim,  but  owing  to  a  strange  forgetfulness  on  the  part  of  the  as- 
sassins, the  bodies  of  Darnley  and  his  page  had  been  left  lying  in  an 
orchard  attached  to  the  garden,  where  they  were  found  next  morn- 
ing, bearing  on  their  bodies,  not  the  marks  of  gunpowder  but  thoso 
of  a  deadly  struggle  and  of  strangulation.  It  was  supposed  that 
the  king  and  his  page,  hearing  the  steps  of  the  murderers  early  in  the 
night,  had  tried  to  escape  by  the  orchard,  but  had  been  overtaken 
and  strangled  by  Both  well's  assassins,  and  their  bodies  left  on  the 
so'ene  of  the  murder  by  negligence,  or  in  ignorance  of  the  explosion 
which  was  to  have  destroyed  the  murderers  with  their  victims.  It  i* 
added  that  Bothwell,  believing  that  the  corpses  of  Darnley  and  the 
page  were  in  the  house,  had  needlessly  fired  the  mine,  and  had  re- 
turned to  Holyrood  after  the  explosion,  believing  that  no  vestiges  of 
the  murder  remained,  and  hoping  that  Darnley's  death  would  be  at- 
tributed to  the  accidental  explosion  of  a  store  of  gunpowder  tired  by 
his  own  imprudence. 

However  that  might  be,  Bothwell  went  home  without  betraying 
any  agitation  ;  again  went  to  rest  before  the  end  of  the  night,  anil 
when  his  attendants  awoke  him  and  told  him  of  what  had  occurred, 
manifested  all  the  surprise  and  grief  of  perfect  innocence,  and,  leap 
ing  from  his  bed,  cried  "  Treason  !" 

The  two  bodies  were  not  discovered  in  the  orchard  till  daylight. 

XXIII. 

MORNING  spread  horror  with  the  rumor  of  this  murder  amoug  the 
people  of  Edinburgh.  The  emotion  was  so  great  that  the  queen  was 


30  MARY   STUART,    QUEES   OF  SCOTS. 

forced  to  leave  Holyrood  and  take  refuge  in  the  castle.  She  was  in- 
sulted by  the  women  as  she  passed  along  the  streets  ;  avenging  pla- 
cards covered  the  walls,  invoking  peace  to  the  soul  of  Daruley  and 
the  vengeance  of  heaven  on  his  guilty  wife.  Bothwell,  fnoiuited  on 
horseback,  and  sword  in  hand,  galloped  through  the  streets,  crying, 
"  Heath  to  the  rebels,  and  to  all  who  speak  against  the  queen  !" 

Knox  ascended  the  pulpit  for  the  last  time  and  fearlessly  ex- 
claimed, "  Let  those  who  survive  speak  and  avenge  !"  Then  shak- 
ing the  dust  from  off  his  feet,  he  turned  his  back  upon  Edinburgh, 
and  retired  to  await  death  or  vengeance. 

Such  was  the  fate  of  Darnley.  Up  to  this  point  the  queen  might 
be  suspected,  but  had  not  been  convicted  of  his  murder  ;  but  what 
followed  removed  all  doubt  of  her  participation — by  espousing  the 
murderer  she  adopted  the  crime. 

Sedition  being  calmed  for  a  time,  she  proclaimed  her  grief  at  Holy- 
rood  by  assuming  the  garb  of  a  mourning  widow,  and  remained  for 
some  days  shut  up  in  her  apartments,  with  no  other  light  than  the 
dim  glimmering  of  lamps.  Bothwell  was  accused  of  regicide  before 
the  judges  of  Edinburgh,  at  the  instance  of  the  Earl  of  Lennox,  the 
king's  father.  The  favorite,  with  undaunted  audacity,  supported  by 
the  queen  and  by  the  troops,  devoted,  as  usual,  to  the  reigning 
power,  appeared  in  arms  before  the  judges  and  insolently  exacted 
from  them  an  acquittal.  The  same  day  he  rode  forth,  mounted  on 
one  of  Darnley's  favorite  horses,  which  the  people  recognized  with 
horror  heaving  his  murderer.  The  queen  saluted  him  from  her  bal- 
cony with  a  gesture  of  encouragement  and  tenderness.  The  French 
ambassador  saw  this,  and  expressed  to  his  court  the  indignation  it 
excited  in  him.  ,  < 

XXIV. 

"  THE  queen  seems  insane,"  writes  at  the  same  period  one  of  the 
witnesses  of  these  scandalous  outbursts  of  passion  ;  "  all  that  is  most 
infamous  is  uppermost  in  this  court — God  help  us  !  The  queen  will 
very  soon  marry  Bothwell.  She  has  drunk  all  shame  to  the  dregs. 
'  V\  hat  matters  it, '  she  said  yesterday,  '  if  1  lose  for  his  sake  France, 
Scotland,  or  England?  sooner  than  leave  him  I  would  go  with  him 
to  the  ends  of  the  world  in  nothing  but  a  petticoat ! '  She  will  never 
stop  till  she  lias  mined  all  here  ;  she  has  been  persuaded  to  let  her- 
aelf  be  carried  off  by  Bothwell  to  accomplish  the  marriage  sooner. 
This  was  an  understood  thing  between  them  before  the  murder  of 
Uarnley,  of  which  she  was  the  adviser  and  he  the  executioner." 

This  was  the  language  of  an  enemy,  but  the  event  very  soon  justi- 
fied the  wrathful  prophecy.  Some  days  after  the  24th  of  April, 
while  returning  from  Stirling,  where  she  had  been  visiting  her  son, 
Bothwell,  with  a  body  of  his  friends,  awaited  her  at  Almond  Bridge, 
six  miles  from  Edinburgh.  He  dismounted- from  his  horse,  respect- 
fully took  hold  of  the  bridle  of  the  queen's  palfrey,  feigned  a  *Jigli| 


MARY  STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS.  3} 

compulsion,  and  conducted  his  voluntary  captive  to  the  castle  of 
Dunbar,  of  which  he"  was  governor,  as  warden  of  the  borders. 
There  she  passed  with  him  eight  days,  as  if  suffering  violence,  and 
returned  on  the  8th  of  May  with  him  to  Edinburgh,  "  resigned,"  she 
said,  "  to  marry  with  her  consent  him  who  had  disposed  of  her  by 
force."  This  comedy  deceived  no  one,  but  saved  Mary  from  the 
open  accusation  of  espousing  from  choice  the  assassin  of  her  hus- 
band. 

Both  well,  besides  the  blood  which  stained  his  hands,  had  three 
other  wives  living.  By  gold  or  threats  he  rid  himself  of  two,  and  he 
divorced  the  third,  Lady  Gordon,  sister  of  the  Earl  of  Huntly.  In 
order  to  secure  tlu's  divorce,  he  consented  to  be  found  guilty  of 
adultery.  The  verses  written  by  Mary  at  this  period  mid  addressed 
to  Both  well  prove  the  jealousy  with  which  she  regarded  this  repudi- 
ated but  still  loved  wife.  ^ 

"  Sea  paroles  fardoes, 
Se8  pleurs  ses  plainets  rempliu  d'affection 
Et  ses  hauts  ens  et  lamentation, 
Ont  taut  gagne  quepar  vous  sont  gardeee 
A  sea  cents  encor  foy  vous  douncz 
Ansel  I'aymez  et  croyez  plus  quemoy. 

Vous  la  croyez,  las  !  trop  je  I'apperceoy, 

Et  vous  doubtez  de  ma  lerme,  constant*, 

A  mon  seul  bien  <et  ma  scale  esporance, 

Et  ni  vous  puis  asseurer  de  ma  foy, 

Vous  m'estnnez  legere  que  je  voy, 

Et  n'avez  en  moi  nulle  assureance, 

Kt  Hoiipeeonnez  mon  coeureatiB  apparence 

Vous  defiant  a  trop  grand  tort  de  moy, 

Vous  ignorez  l'amo,ur  que  je  vousporte, 

Votis  soupceonnez  qu'aultre  amour  me  transport*, 

Voua  estimez  mes  paroles  du  vent, 

Vous  depeignez  decire  elas  !  mon  error 

Vous  me  pensez  femme  sans  jugemcnt, 

Et  tout  cela  augmeute  mon  ardeur. 


Non  amour  croist,  et  plus  en  plus  croistra, 
Tant  que  vivry." 

"  Her  painted  words,  complaints,  and  tears, 
Her  cries,  her  loud  laments,  her  fears, 
Though  feigned,  deceitful,  every  art, 
Are  cherished  still  within  thy  heart. 
To  all  she  writes  full  faith  thou  giyest, 
In  her  love  more  than  mine  thou  livest. 
Still,  still  thou  trusted  her  too  well,  I  see, 
And  doubted  ever  my  firm  constancy. 
O  my  sole  hope  !    My  solitary  bliss  1 
Could  I  but  show  thee  my  true  faithfulness, 
Too  lightly  thou  esteem' Bt  my  love,  my  puio. 
Nor  of  my  faith  can  full  assurance  gain. 
With  dark  suspicion  thou  dost  wrong  my  hojw 
As  if  another  in  my  love  had  part. ; 
ICy  .words  and  vows  seem  but  a  fleeting  wind, 
Bereft  of  wit,  a  woman's  idle  mind  1 
A.B.-21 


32  MARY  STUART,    QUEEN   OF   SCOTS. 

Alas  I  all  this  increases  but  the  flame 
That  burns  for  thee  forever  and  the  same. 


My  love  still  grows,  and  evermore  will  grow, 
So  long  as  life  shall  in  this  bosom  glow  1" 

Why,  after  such  an  avowal,  carved  in  characters  of  poetic  immor- 
tality, need  we  calumniate  the  queen  who  thus  calumniates  herself 
with  her  own  hand  ? 

She  only  refused  Bothwell  one  thing — the  tutelage  and  guardian- 
ship of  her  son,  who  was  kept  at  Stirling.  Violent  and  noisy  quar- 
rels took  place  about  this  at  Hotyrood,  even  on  the  evening  before 
the  marriage  of  the  widow  and  her  husband's  assassin.  The  French 
ambassador  heard  the  turmoil.  Bothwell  insisted,  and  the  queen, 
determined  to  resist,  called  loudly  for  a  dagger  wherewith  to  kill 
herself. 

^  "On  the  day  after  the  ceremony,"  writes  the  ambassador,  "  I  per- 
ceived strange  clouds  on  the  countenances  both  of  the  queen  and  her 
husband,  which  she  tried  to  excuse,  saying  that  if  1  saw  her  sad  it 
was  because  she  had  no  reason  to  rejoice,  desiring  nothing  but 
death." 

The  expiation  had  begun.  A  league  of  indignation  was  formed 
by  the  Scottish  lords  against  her  and  Bothwell.  Thus  confederated 
to  avenge  the  blood-stained  and  dishonored  throne,  they,  on  the  113th 
of  June,  1567,  met  the  troops  of  the  queen  and  Bothwell  at  Carberry 
Hill.  Courage  deserted  their  partisans  before  the  battle  ;  they  were 
defeated.  Bothwell,  covered  with  blood,  rode  up  to  the  queen,  A\  lieu 
all  hope  of  safety  from  flight  was  already  lost.  "Save  your  life," 
cried  he,  "  for  my  sake  ;  we  shall  meet  in  happier  times  !"  Both-well 
seemed  to  desire  death.  The  queen  burst  into  tears.  "  Will  you 
keep  faithful  to  me,  madam,"  said  he,  in  a  doubtful  accent,  "  as  to  a 
husband  and  king?"  "Yes,"  she  replied,  "and  in  token  of  my 
promise  I  give  you  my  hand  !"  Bothwell  carried  her  hand  to  his  lips, 
kissed  it,  and  lied  to  Dunbar,  followed  by  only  a  dozen  horsemen. 

The  lords  conducted  the  queen  as  a  prisoner  to  Edinburgh  Castle. 
In  passing  through  the  army  she  was  assailed  with  the  imprecations 
of  the  military  and  the  populace.  The  soldiers  waved  before  her 
horse  a  banner,  on  which  was  represented  the  dead  body  of  Darnley 
Wing  beside  his  page  in  the  orchard  of  Kirk  o'  Field,  and  the  little 
King  James  on  his  knees  invoking  the  vengeance  of  heaven  against 
his  mother  and  the  murderer  of  his  unhappy  father,  La  these  words 
of  ^the  royal  poet  of  Israel,  "  Judge  and  avenge  my  cause,  O  Lord  1" 
'  By  this  royal  hand, ' '  she  said  to  Lord  Lindsay,  who  had  aided  in 
the  unpardonable  murder  of  her  first  favorito,  Rizzio,  "  I'll  have  your 
bends  for  this  !"  • 

On  her  arrival  in  Edinburgh  she  took  courage  even  in  the  excess  of 
her  humiliation.  She  appeared,  says  a  chronicle  of  Edinburgh,  at 
flie  window  fronting  the  High  Street,  and  addressing  the  people  in  a 
firm  Toice  told  them  how  »!;e  had  been  thrown  into  prison  by  her 


33 

own  traitorous  subjects  ;  she  showed  herself  many  times  at  the  same 
window  in  miserable  plight,  her  dishevelled  hair  flowing  over  her 
shoulders  and  bosom,  her  body  uncovered  nearly  to  the  girdle.  At 
other  times  she  became  softened,  and  assuming  the  accents  of  a  sup- 
pliant, "  Dear  Lethington,"  she  said,  "you,  who  have  the  gift,  of 
persuasion,  speak  to  these  lords  ;  tell  them  I  pardon  all  who  will 
consent  to  placti  me  in  a  vessel  with  Bothwell,  whom  I  espoused  with 
their  approbation  at  Holyrood,  and  leave  us  to  the  mercy  of  th« 
winds  and  waves."  She  wrote  the  most  impassioned  letters  to  Both- 
well,  which  were  intercepted  by  her  jailers  at  the  gates  of  her  prison. 
Finally  she  was  conducted  with  a  small  escort  through  a  hostile. 
country  to  the  castle  of  Lochleven,  belonging  to  the  Douglases. 

Lady  Douglas,  who  inhabited  this  stronghold,  had  been  the  mis- 
tress of  King  James  V.,  the  queen's  father,  and  was  the  mother  of 
Lord  James  Murray.  "  Of  a  proud  and  imperious  spirit,"  says  a 
Scottish  historian,  "  she  was  accustomed  to  boast  that  she  was  the 
lawful  wife  of  James,  and  her  son  Murray  his  legitimate  issue,  who 
had  been  supplanted  by  the  queen." 

The  castle,  situated  in  the  county  of  Kinross,  was  built  on  an  island 
in  the  middle  of  a  small  lake  which  bathed  its  walls  and  intercepted 
all  flight.  There  she  was  treated  by  the  Douglases  with  the  respect 
due  to  her  rank  and  misfortunes.  . 

Queen  Elizabeth  saw  with  alarm  the  triumph  of  this  revolt  against 
ttie  tjuuen.  She  prevailed  on  Murray,  who  was  respected  by  all  par- 
tics,  to  undertake  the  government  during  Mary's  captivity.  Murray 
went  to  Lochleveii  to  confer  with  his  captive  sister  about  the  fate  of 
the  kingdom,  and  of  James,  the  infant  heir  to  the  throne.  Hope- 
fully she  saw  him  assume  the  supreme  authority,  believing  with  rea- 
son that  he  would  be  indulgent  toward  her.  She  learned  from  him 
that  IJothwell  had  fled  to  the  Shetland  Islands,  where  he  had  cm- 
barked  for  Denmark,  there  to  resume,  with  his  old  companions,  the 
sea  robbers,  the  life  of  a  pirate  and  a  brigand,  the  only  refuge  fortune 
had  left  him.  We  shall  afterward  find  him  closing  in  captivity  and 
insanity  a  life  passed  alternately  in  disgrace  and  on  a  throne,  in  ex- 
ploits and  in  assassinations.  The  queen's  heart  never  forsook  him. 

She  made  several  attempts  to  escape  from  Lochleven  to  join  Both- 
well  or  to  fly  to  England.  The  historian  we  quote,  who  has  visited 
its  ruins,  thus  describes  this  first  prison  of  the  queen  : 

"  The  sojourn  at  Lochleven,  over  which  romance  and  poetry  have 
shed  their  light,  must  be  depicted  by  history  only  in  its  nakednesa 
iiiiil  horrors.  The  castle,  or  rather  fortress,  is  a  massive  block  of 
granite,  flanked  by  heavy  towers,  peopled  by  owls  and  bats,  eternally 
bathed  in  mists,  and  defended  by  the  waters  of  the  lake.  There  lan- 
guished Mary  Stuart,  oppressed  by  the  violence  of  the  Presbyterian 
lords,  torn  by  remorse,  troubled  by  the  phantoms  of  the  past  and  by 
the  terrors  of  the  future." 

There  she  is  said  to  have  given  birth  to  a  daughter,  the  fruit  of  hsf 
guilty  love,  who  died  long  after  unknown  in  a  convent  in  Paris. 


34  MARY   STUART,    QUEEK    OF   SCOTS. 

The  English  ambassador,  Drury,  thus  relates  to  his  sovereign  the 
last  unsuccessful  attempt  at  escape  : 

"  Toward  the  25th  of  last  month  (April,  1568)  she  very  nearly 
escaped,  thanks  to  her  habit  of  passing  the  mornings  in  bed.  She 
acted  in  this  way  :  The  washerwoman  came  early  in  the  morning, 
as  she  had  often  done,  and  the  queen,  as  had  been  arranged,  donned 
the  woman's  cap,  took  up  a  bundle  of  linen,  aud  cowering  her  face 
With  her  cloak,  left  the  castle  and  entered  the  boat  used  in  traversing 
tie  loch.  After  some  minutes  one  of  the  rowers  said  laughingly, 
"  Let  us  see  what  kind  of  lady  we  have  got,"  at  the  same  time  at- 
tempting to  uncover  her  face.  To  prevent  him  she  raised  her  hands, 
and  he  remarked  their  beauty  and  whiteness,  which  made  him  im- 
mediately suspect  who  she  was.  She  showed  little  fear,  and  ordered 
the  boatmen,  under  pain  of  death,  to  conduct  her  to  the  coast.  They 
refused,  however,  rowed  back  toward  the  island,  promising  secrecy 
toward  the  commander  of  the  guard  to  whom  she  was  confided. 
It  appears  that  she  knew  the  place  where,  once  lauded,  she  could 
take  refuge,  for  she  saw,  in  Kinross  (a  little  village  near  the  banks  of 
the  loch),  George  Douglas  aud  two  o?  her  former  most  devoted  ser- 
vants wandering  about  in  expectation  of  her  arrival. 

George  Douglas,  the  youngest  son  of  that  house,  was  passionately 
in  love  with  the  captive.  £Iis  enthusiastic  admiration  for  her  beauty, 
rank,  and  misfortunes,  determined  him  to  brave  all  dangers  in  the 
attempt  to  restore  her  to  liberty  and  her  throne.  He  arranged  signals 
with  the  llamiltons  and  other  chiefs,  who,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  loch,  awaited  the  hour  for  an  enterprise  in  favor  of  the  queen.  The 
•ignal  agreed  upon  for  the  flight,  which  was  to  be  a  fire  kindled  on  the 
highest  tower  of  the  castle,  at  length  shone  forth  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Hamiltous.  Soon  an  unperccived  boat  glides  over  the  lake,  and,  ap- 
proaching its  banks,  delivers  to  them  the  fugitive  queen.  They 
throw  themselves  at  her  feet,  carry  her  off  to  the  mountains,  raise 
their  Catholic  vassals,  form  an  army,  revoke  her  abdication,  flcht  for 
her  cause  under  her  eyes  at  Langside  against  the  troops  of  Murray, 
and  arc  a  second  time  defeated.  Mary,  without  refuge  and  without 
hope,  fled  to  England,  where  the  letters  of  Queen  Elizabeth  led  her 
to  expect  the  welcome  due  from  one  sovereign  to  another.  Mary 
thus  wrote  to  Elizabeth  from  the  Cumberland  borders  : 

"It  is  my  earnest  request  that  your  Majesty  will  send  for  me  ag 
«oon  as  possible,  for  my  condition  is  pitiable,  not  to  say  for  a  queen, 
but  for  a  simple  gentlewoman.  I  have  no  other  dress  than  that  in 
which  I  escaped  from  the  field  ;  my  first  day's  ride  was  sixty  milea 
across  the  country,  and  I  have  not  since  dared  to  travel  except  by 
night.  Make  known  to  me  now  the  sincerity  of  your  natural  alfcc- 
tiou  toward  your  true  sister,  cousin,  and  sworn  friend.  Remember 
that  I  once  sent  you  my  heart  on  a  ring,  and  now  I  bring  you  my 
true  heart  and  my  body  with  it,  to  tie  more  firmly  th«  knot  of  f  rjend- 
•bio  between  us  1" 


MARY   STUARl,    QUEKN    Of   SCOTS.  35 


XXV. 

WE  may  see  by  the  tone  of  this  letter,  so  different  from  her  boasting 
when  she  threatened  the  downfall  of  Elizabeth  and  the  invasion  of 
England  Ijf  the  Scottish  Catholics,  how  Mary's  mind  and  tongce 
could  conform  to  the  changing  times. 

Elizabeth  had  the  choice  of  two  policies — the  one  magnanimous,  to 
welcome  and  relieve  her  unfortunate  cousin  ;  the  other  openly  hostile, 
to  profit  by  her  reverses,  or  to  dethrone  her  a  second  time  by  her 
freely  expressed  condemnation.  She  adopted  a  third  policy,  indeii. 
nite,  dissembling,  caressing  in  speech,  odious  in  action,  which  de 
livered  up  her  ""sister"  by  turns  to  hope  and  to  despair,  wearing  out 
the  bean  of  her  rival  by  endless  longing,  as  if  she  had  resolved  that 
grief,  anguish,  and  time  should  be  her  executioners.  This  queen, 
so  great  in  genius,  so  mean  in  heart,  cruel  by  policy,  and  rendered 
more  so  by  feminine  jealousies,  proved  herself,  in  this  instance,  the 
worthy  daughter  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  all  whose  passions  were 
slaked  in  blood. 

She  offered  to  Mary  the  castle  of  Carlisle  as  a  royal  refuge,  and 
detained  her  there  as  in  a  prison.  She  wrote  that  she  could  not  witli 
propriety  treat  her  as  a  queen  and  a  sister  till  she  should  clear  herself 
of  the  crimes  imputed  to  her  by  her  Scottish  subjects.  She  thus 
evoked  before  her  own  tribunal,  as  a  foreign  queen*  the  great  suit 
pending  between  Mary  Stuart  and  her  people.  By  assuming  this  at- 
titude, her  influence  in  Scotland,  whose  queen  she  retained  as  a  pris- 
oner, and  whose  regent,  Murray,  had  everything  to  hope  or  to  fear 
from  her,  became  all-powerful.  She  was  about  to  rule  over  Scotland 
as  arbiter,  and  even  without  an  army.  This  policy,  counselled,  it  in 
said,  by  hergieat  minister  Cecil,  was  ignoble,  but  national.  To  receive 
Mary  with  honor  would  infer  an  amnesty  to  the  murderers  of  Darnlcy, 
approbation  of  the  muniage  with  Bothwell,  and  the  supremacy  of  adul- 
tery. It  would  be  to  restore  her  to  the  throne  of  Scotland.  All  this 
would  give  mortal  offence  to  Protestant  England,  and  to  the  Presbyte- 
rian half  of  Scotland.  By  setting  Mary  at  liberty,  she  would  only  deliver 
her  into  the  hands  of  Spain,  of  France,  and  of  the  Catholic  house  of 
Austria,  to  make  her  the  lever,  by  the-  aid  of  which  those  powers 
would  agitate  Scotland,  snatching  her  from  England  to  give  her  up  to 
t'opery.  These  ideas  were  expedient  in  policy,  but  the  avowal  of 
f,hem  was  humbling  to  a  queen,  and  above  all  to  a  woman,  the  more 
so  that  Mary  was  her  own  kinswoman.  The  whole  secret  of  this 
temporizing  craft  of  Elizabeth  lay  in  the  impossibility  of  openly 
avowing  a  course  which  served  her  views,  but  which  dishonored  her 
in  the  eyes  of  Europe. 

"No,  madam,"  replied  Mary  from  Carlisle  Castle,  "1  have  not 
come  hither  to  justify  myself  before  my  subjects,  but  to  punish  tkem, 
and  to  demand  vour  succor  against  them.  I  neither  can  nor  will 


36  MAKY   STUART,    QUEEN   OF   SOOTS. 

reply  to  their  false  accusations  ;  Imt  knowing  well  your  friendship 
ami  good  pleasure,  I  am  willing  to  justify  myself  to  you,  though  not 
in  the  form  of  a  suit  with  my  subjects.  They  and  I  are  in  no  wise 
equal ;  and  should  I  even  remain  here  forever,  rather  would  I  di« 
than  recognize  such  a  thing  !" 

Already  she  was  in  reality  a  captive.  The  Spanish  ambassador  in 
London,  Don  Guzman  da  Silva,  who  had  gone  to  Carlisle  to  offer  to 
her  the  condolence  of  his  court,  thus  describes  her  abode  in  th« 
castle  : 

"  The  room  occupied  by  the  queen  is  dark,  and  has  but  one  wim- 
dow,  garnished  with  bars  of  iron.  It  is  entered  through  three  other 
rooms,  guarded  and  occupied  by  armed  men.  In  the  last,  which 
forms  an  antechamber  to  the  queen's  room,  Lord  Scrope  is  stationed, 
who  is  governor  of  the  border  district  of  Carlisle.  The  queen  has 
only  three  of  her  women  with  her.  Her  attendants  and  domestics 
sleep  outside  of  the  castle.  The  gates  are  opened  only  at  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  The  queen  is  allowed  to  go  as  far  as  the  city 
church,  but  is  always  escorted  by  a  hundred  soldiers.  On  asking 
Lord  Scrope  to  send  her  a  priest  to  say  mass,  he  replied  that  in/ 
England  there  were  none." 

Alarmed  at  the  evidently  evil  intentions  of  Elizabeth,  Mary  implored 
the  interference  of  France.  Forgetting  her  secret  hatred  of  Catherine 
de  Medici,  she  wrote  to  her,  and  also  to  Charles  IX.  and  the  Duke 
of  Anjou,  asking  them  to  aid  her. 

To  the  Cardinal  of  Lorraine  she  wrote,  with  the  same  purpose,  as 
follows  : 

"  CARLISLE,  21st  June,  1568. 

"  I  have  not  wherewith  to  buy  bread,  nor  shift,  nor  robe.  The 
queen  has  sent  me  a  little  linen,  and  has  furnished  me  with  a  dish 
(plat).  You  also  have  a  share  in  this  shame  ;  Sandy  Clarke,  who 
slays  in  France  on  the  part  of  that  false  bastard  (Murray),  has  boasted 
that  you  would  not  give  me  money,  nor  interfere  with  my  affairs. 
God  tries  me  much.  At  least,  be  assured  that  I  shall  die  a  Catholic. 
God  will  take  me  away  from  these  miseries  very  soon  ;  for  I  have 
Hiilfcrcd  insults,  calumnies,  imprisonments,  hunger,  cold,  heat,  flight, 
without  knowing  whither  ;  ninety  miles  have  I  rode  across  the  coun- 
try without  stopping  or  dismounting,  and  then  have  had  to  sleep  on 
hard  beds,  drink  sour  milk,  and  eat  oatmeal  without  bread.  I  have 
been  three  nights  without  my  women  in  this  place,  where,  after  all, 
I  am  no  better  than  a  prisoner.  They  have  pulled  down  the  houses 
of  my  servants,  and  I  cannot  help  or  reward  them  ;  but  they  still  re- 
main constant  to  me,  abhorring  those  cruel  traitors,  who  have  only 
three  thousand  men  under  their  command,  and  if  I  had  succor,  the 
half  would  leave  them  for  certain.  I  pray  God  that  he  send  help  to 
me,  which  will  come  when  it  pleases  him,  and  that  he  may  give  you 
health  and  long  life. 

"  Your  humble  and  obedient  niece,  MARIE  B. " 


MARY  STUART,    QUEEN   OP  SCOTS.  37 

The  silence  of  Elizabeth  froze  her  with  terror,  and  she  resorted  to 
much  feminine  persuasion  in  order  to  obtain  an  answer  from  her  : 

"From  CAKLISLE,  5th  July,  1568. 

"  My  good  sister,  .  .  .  seeing  you,  I  think  I  could  satisfy  you 
in  all.  Alas  !  do-not  act  like  the  serpent,  who  shutteth  his  ear  :  for 
I  am  not  an  enchanter,  but  your  sister  and  cousin.  ...  I  am 
not  of  the  nature  of  the  basilisk,  nor  of  the  chameleon,  to  turn  you 
into  my  likeness,  even  if  I  were  so  dangerous  or  so  bad  as  they  say  ; 
you  are  sufficiently  armed  with  constancy  and  justice,  the  winch  I 
ask  also  of  God,  and  that  he  may  give  you  grace  to  make  good  use 
of  them,  with  tongue  and  with  a  happy  life. 

"  Your  good  sister  and  cousin,  M.  R." 

Mary's  apprehensions  were  soon  reaMzed.  Elizabeth  determined  to 
remove  her  from  the  Scottish  Marches.  On  the  28th  July,  l.">i;s,  the 
august  captive  was  conducted,  in  spite  of  her  energetic  protestations, 
to  Boltou  Abbey,  in  the  county  of  York,  which  belonged  to  Lord 
Scrope,  brother-in-law  to  the  Earl  of  Norfolk. 

After  her  arrival  there  she  wrote  in  a  very  different  style  to  the 
Queen  of  Spain,  wife  of  Philip  II.  : 

"  If  .1  had  hope  of  succor  from  you  or  your  kindred,  I  would  put 
religion  in  Subs  [meaning  that  she  would  promote  the  triumph  of 
Catholicism],  or  would  die  in  the  work.  All  this  country  where  I 
am  is  devoted  to  the  Catholic  faith,  and  because  of  that,  and  of  my 
right  that  I  have  in  me  to  this  kingdom,  little  would  serve  to  touch 
this  Queen  of  England  the  consequence  of  intermeddling  and  aiding 
rebel  subjects  against  their  princes  !  For  the  rest,  you  have  daugh- 
ters, madam,  and  I  have  a  son  ;  .  .  .  Queen  Elizabeth  is  not, 
much  loved  by  either  of  the  two  religions,  and,  thank  (!od,  1  have  a 
good  part  in  the  hearts  of  the  honest  people  of  this  country  since;  my 
arrival,  even  to  the  risk  of  losing  all  they  have  with  me  and  for  my 
cause!  .  .  .  Keep  well  my  secret,  for  it  might  cost  me  my  life  !" 

It  will  be  seen  that,  from  the  first  days  of  her  stay  in  Kngland, 
while  caressing  Elizabeth  with  one  hand  she  wove  with  the  othcr, 
and  with  strangers  as  well  as  with  her  own  subjects,  that  net  in  which 
she  was  herself  caught  at  last.  Captivity  was  her  excuse,  religion 
her  pretext  ;  oppression  gave  her  a  right  to  conspire  ;  but  if  she  could 
urge  her  misfortunes  as  a  reason  for  thus  plotting,  she  could  not  with 
truth  urge  her  innocence.  She  unceasingly  demanded  from  Madrid 
and  from  Paris  armed  interventions  against  Scotland  and  against 
/Elizabeth.  Her  whole  life  during  her  captivity  was  one  long  cou- 
'spiracy  ;  the  inhuman  and  unprincipled  duplicity  of  Elizabeth's 
policy  justified  all  she  did. 

XXVI. 

A  CIRCUMSTANTIAL  narrative  of  this  captivity,  of  this  conspiracy 
of  nineteen  years,  however  interesting  in  reality,  would  be  mouotc- 


38  MABT  STUART,   QUEEN   OF  SCOTS. 

nous  as  history.  Nothing  dirersifies  it  save  the  different  localities 
and  prisons,  and  the  plots  continually  renewed,  only  to  be  as  often 
frustrated. 

At  Hampton  Court,  the  palace  presented  to  Henry  VIII.  by  Wol- 
xey,  conferences  were  opened  to  settle  the  differences  between  Queen 
Mary  and  her  subjects.  Murray  and  the  Scots  brought  forward,  as 
proofs  of  the  complicity  of  Mary  in  the  murder  of  her  husband,  her 
Konuets  to  Bothwell,  and  the  letters  of  that  favorite,  found  in  a  silver 
casket  carved  with  the  arms  of  Francis  II.,  her  first  husband. 

Neither  accusations  nor  justifications  being  satisfactory,  Elizabeth 
broke  off  the  conference  without  pronouncing  judgment,  watching 
the  struggle  between  the  different  factions  which  distracted  Scotland. 
It,  seems  probable  that  she  trusted  to  these  very  factions  for  deliver- 
ing Ilieir  country  into  her  hand^  sooner  or  later.  Meantime  she  left 
Scotland  to  its  fate. 

"Would  you  like  to  marry  my  sister  of  Scotland?"  ironically 
asked  Elizabeth  of  the  Earl  of  Norfolk,  who  was  believed  to  be  smit- 
ten by  the  charms  of  his  prisoner.  "Madam,"  replied  the  earl, 
horrified  at  such  an  idea,  "  1  shall  never  espouse  a  wife  whose  hus- 
band cannot  lay  his  head  with  safety  on  his  pillow." 

XXVII. 

M  rim  AY,  guardian  of  the  infant  king  James  and  dictator  of  the 
kingdom,  governed  the  unhappy  country  with  vigor  and  address. 
Hut  a  proscribed  gentleman  of  good  family,  James  Hamilton  of 
Bothwellhaugh,  whose  wife  Murray  had  left  to  die  in  misery  and 
madness  on  the  threshold  of  her  own  dwelling,  which  had  been  be- 
stowed by  the  regent  on  Bellenden,  one  of  his  partisans,  swore  to 
avenge  at  once  his  wife  and  his  country.  Gathering  a  handful  of 
the  earth  which  covered  the  bier  of  his  wife,  he  wore  it  within  his 
girdle  as  an  eternal  incentive  to  revenge  ;  and,  repairing  in  disguise 
to  the  small  town  of  Linlithgow,  through  which  Murray  had  to  pass 
on  his  return  to  Edinburgh,  he  placed  himself  at  a  window,  fired 
upon  and  killed  the  regent.  lie  then  mounted  a  horse  ready  for 
him  behind  the  house,  and  by  swift  flight  escaped  the  regent's 
guards.  "  I  alone,"  cried  the  dying  Murray,  "  could  have  saved  the 
church,  the  kingdom,  and  the  king  ;  anarchy  will  now  devour  them 
sill  I" 

The  assassin  fled  to  France,  where  he.  was  well  received  by  the 
(iuiscs.  who  saw  in  him  an  instrument  of  murder,  ready  to  delivei 
them  from  their  enemy,  the  Admiral  Coligny.  They  wrote  to  theif 
niece  Mary,  persuading  her  to  urge  Bothwellhaugh  to  the  commissic* 
of  this  ('rime.  Mary's  reply  was  characterized  "by  all  the  shameless- 
ness  of  the  tunes,  when  assassination  was  merely  regarded  a*  a  justi- 
fiable act  of  haired. 

"  As  for  that  of  which  you  write  from  my  cousin  M.  de  Guise,  J 


MABT   BTUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS.  3S 

wish  that  so  wicked  a  creature  as  the  personage  in  question  [tho 
Admiral]  were  out  of  the  world,  and  would  be  very  glad  if  some  on« 
pertaining  to  me  should  be  the  instrument,  and  yet  more,  that  he 
should  be  hanged  by  the  hands  of  the  executioner,  as  he  deserves  ; 
you  know  how  I  have  that  at  heart,  ...  .  but  to  meddle  or  order 
anything  in  this  way  is  not  my  business.  What  Bothwellhaugh 
has  done  was  without  my  command  ;  but  I  am  well  pleased  with  him 
for  it— better  than  if  I  had  been  of  his  counsel." 

Murray  was  her  brother,  and  had  twice  been  her  minister  and  her 
preserver  from  the  avengers  of  Darnlcy's  death.  Eli/abeth  deplored 
him  as  the  protector  of  the  reformed  religion  in  Scotland.  The  an- 
archy he  had  foretold  in  his  dying  words  immediately  followed. 
The  Earl  of  Lennox,  father  of  Darnley,  father-in-law  of  Mary,  antf 
grandfather  of  James,  was  named  regent.  The  party  of  James  aitf 
the  party  of  his  mother,  Mary,  vied  with  each  other  in  crimes.  Len 
nox  was  killed  in  battle.  The  Earl  of  Morton  assumed  the  regenc* 
in  his  place.  He  ruled  like  an  executioner,  sword  in  hand,  over 
whelmed  the  party  of  the  queen  by  the  terrors  of  his  govern  me  in 
and  by  a  deluge  of  blood.  But  scarcely  had  he  placed  the  sceptre  ii\ 
the  hands  of  his  ward  than  the  favorites  of  the  young  king  had  him 
put  to  death  as  an  accomplice  in  the  murder  of  Kizzio.  lie  did  not 
deny  the  crime,  and  died  like  a  man  who  expected  the  ingratitude  of 
princes.  James  VI.  had  been  brought  up  by  him  in  detestation  of 
the  religion  of  his  mother  and  in  contempt  for  herself. 

XXVIII. 

DURING  the  minority  of  the  Scottish  king,  Mary  conspired  with 
the  Earl  of  Norfolk,  whom  she  had  fascinated  anew,  to  get  posses- 
sion of  England  in  the  name  of  Catholicism.  A  correspondence 
with  Koine,  revealed  by  unfaithful  agents,  furnished  proofs  of  this 
plot.  Norfolk  was  consigned  to  the  scaffold,  Mary  shut  up  in  a  still 
closer  captivity,  and  Elizabeth  began  to  find  out  the  danger  of  keep- 
ing in  her  strongholds  an  enchantress  whose  jailers  all  became  her 
adorers  and  accomplices. 

The  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  those  Sicilian  Vespers  of  religion 
and  policy,  made  Elizabeth  tremble.  The  example  of  so  triumphant 
a  plot,  she  feared,  might  tempt  flie  Catholics  of  England,  who  would 
find  in  Mary  another  Catherine  of  Medici,  younger,  and  hardly  less 
scrupulous  than  the  queen-mother  of  Charles  IX. 

The  advisers  of  Elizabeth  represented  to  her,  for  the  first  time, 
the  necessity  of  the  immediate  trial  and  death  of  the  Queen  of  Scots, 
to  secure  the  peace  of  the  kingdom,  and  perhaps  even  the  safety  of 
her  own  life.  Her  most  eminent  statesmen,  Burleigh,  Leicester,  and 
WaMngham,  were  unanimous  in  recommending  this  sacrifice. 

"  Alas  !"  hypocritically  replied  Elizabeth,  "  the  Queen  of  Scot- 
land is  my  daughter,  but  siie  who  knows  not  how  to  Ixihaye  toward 
ber  mother  deserves  a  step-mother." 


40  MAKT   STUART,    QUETJN    OF   SCOTS. 

The  feelings  and  intercourse  of  the  two  queens  was  still  further 
embittered  by  the  feminine  malice  of  Mary's  conduct  toward  Eliza 
both.  History  would  not  credit  this,  if  the  proof  did  not  exist  among 
its  archives.  Knowing  the  somewhat  equivocal  predilection  of 
Elizabeth  for  her  handsome  favorite  Leicester,  whom  she  had  herself 
hoped  to  fascinate,  and  with  whom  she  kept  up  a  correspondence, 
she  had  the  audacity  to  rally  her  rival  on  the  inferiority  of  her 
charms. 

Under  cover  of  recrimination  against  the  Countess  of  Shrewsbury, 
•who  had  accused  Mary  of  attracting  her  husband  to  Sheffield,  Mary 
wrote  a  letter  to  Elizabeth,  in  which  she  attributes  to  Lady  Shrews- 
bury remarks  so  insulting  to  Elizabeth  as  a  woman  and  a  queen  that 
the  wickedness  of  the  expressions  forbids  us  to  quote  them.  She 
ends  the  letter  thus  :  "  She  told  me  that  your  speedy  death  was  pre- 
dicted in  an  old  book  ;  that  the  reign  succeeding  yours  would  not 
last  for  three  years ;  after  that  there  was  another  leaf  in  the  book 
which  she  would  never  tell  me  of." 

"\V<:  may  well  suppose  that  this  last  leaf  related  to  Mary  herself, 
and  doubtless  predicted  her  accession  to  the  throne  of  England,  and 
the  restoration  of  the  Church  throughout  that  kingdom  !  The  termij 
used  in  this  letter  show  that  it  was  an  indirect  method,  ingeniously 
contrived  by  the  hatred  of  an  imprisoned  rival,  to  *hrow  at  her  enemy 
those  insults  which  were  likely  to  be  most  keenly  felt  by  the  heart  of 
a  queen  and  a  woman.  One  is  astonished  at  so  much  audacity  and 
outrage  on  the  part  of  a  captive  queen,  when,  by  a  single  word, 
Elizabeth  could  have  retorted  with  death  ;  but.  death  at  this  moment 
was  less  terrible  to  Mary  than  revenge  was  sweet.  What  a  spectacle 
history  effcrs  in  these  two  queens  condescending  thus  to  unyielding 
strife  ;  the  one  tempting  punishment,  the  othsr  holding  the  sword  of 
DamoclcS  constantly  suspended  over  the  heiMl  of  her  rival  1 

XXIX. 

MEAKWIITLE  Europe,  upon  which  Mary  had  relied,  forgot  her  ; 
but  she  did  not  forget  Europe.  Her  de*«ntion,  attended  at  first  by 
circumstances  befitting  her  royal  rank,  became  closer  and  closer  as 
F!IC  changed  her  prisons.  She  describes  in  pathetic  terms  the  suffer- 
ings of  her  last  prison  but  one,  in  a  ^tter  to  the  envoy  of  Charles 
IX.  at  London  : 

"  It  is  of  old  carpentry,  with  openings  at  every  half  foot,  so  that 
the  wind  blows  into  my  chamber  on  all  sides  ;  I  know  not  how  it 
will  be  possible  for  me  to  keep  the  little  health  I  have  recovered.  My 
physician,  who  has  himself  suffered  much  from  it,  has  protested  that 
lie  will  altogether  give  up  my  cure  if  I  be  not  placed  in  a  better  lodg- 
«i!-r,  he  himself,  while  watching  me  during  my  meals,  having  expe- 
rienced the  incredible  cold  caused  by  the  wind  in  my  chamber,  not- 
withstanding the  stoves  and  fires  that  are  always  there,  and  the  heat 


MART   STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS.  41 

of  the  season  of  the  year  ;  I  leave  you  to  judge  how  it  will  lie  in  the 
middle  of  winter.  This  house  is  situated  on  a  mountain,  in  the; 
middle  of  a  plain  ten  miles  in  extent,  being  exposed  to  all  the  winds 
and  inclemencies  of  heaven.  ...  I  pray  you  to  request  her  in 
my  name,  assuring  her  that  there  are  a  hundred  peasants  in  these 
mean  villages  better  lodged  than  I  am,  who  have  for  my  sole  dwell- 
ing two  small  chambers.  ...  So  that  I  have  not  even  a  rooro 
where  I  can  retire  apart,  as  I  have  divers  occasions  for  doing,  nor 
for  walking  about  alone  ;  and,  to  tell  you  all,  I  have  never  befon 
been  so  badly  lodged  in  England." 

Her  Scottish  attendants,  the  companions  of  her  flight  and  her  ca'j!  .• 
tivity,  sank  one  by  one  under  this  tedious  agony  of  imprisomnc/u. 
She  learned,  we  know  not  whether  with  joy  or  grief,  the  death  of 
her  husband  Bothwell,  after  a  wandering  life  oil  the  waves  of  the 
North  Sea,  where,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  resumed  the  infamous 
calling  of  a  pirate.  Surprised  in  a  descent  on  the  coast  of  Dena.urk, 
and  chained  in  the  cell  of  a  rock-prison,  Bothwell  died  in  a  state  of 
insanity  ;  the  extraordinary  oscillations  of  his  fortune,  his  miracu- 
lous elevation  and  dizzy  fall,  had  shaken  his  reason.  He  /."covered 
it,  however,  at  the  last  moment,  and  whether  it  arose  from  the 
power  of  truth  or  of  tenderness,  he  dictated  to  his  jailers  a  justifica- 
tion of  the  queen  in  the  matter  of  Darnley's  death,  and  took  the 
crime  and  its  expiation  wholly  upon  himself.  The  <\ueeu  was 
moved  by  this  dying  declaration,  which,  in  the  eyes  of  b.v  partisans, 
restored  to  her  that  innocence  which  her  enemies  stil)  deny  to  her 
memory.  Bothwell  was  so  loaded  with  crimes  that  evea  his  dying 
words  were  no  pledge  of  truth,  but  his  declaration  was  at  least  a 
proof  that  his  love  had  survived  twenty  years  of  sepai&Uon  and  pun- 
ishment. 

XXX. 

THE  dangers  to  which  the  Protestant  succession  in  England  would 
be  exposed  if  Elizabeth — now  advanced  in  age,  and  who  had  never 
shared  her  throne  with  a  husband — should  die  before  Mary,  appear 
to  have  decided  her  council  to  perpetrate  the  state  crime,  which  the 
queen  till  then  had  refused  to  authorize.  No  one  entertained  doubts 
of  the  permanent  conspiracy  of  the  Queen  of  Scots  with  the  Catholic 
princes  of  Europe,  and  with  the  Catholic  party  in  Scotland  and  in 
England.  This  conspiracy,  which  was  the  right  of  a  captive  queen, 
could  only  appear  criminal  in  the  eyes  of  her  jailers  and  persecutors. 
No  guilt  had  yet  appeared  to  Elizabeth  or  to  her  chk'f  counsellors 
Sufficiently  clear  to  b/ing  the  Queen  of  Scots  to  trial  ;  it  was  neees 
sary  to  find  another  crime  of  a  more  flagrant  and  odious  nature  in 
order  to  justify  the  murder  in  the  eyes  of  Europe.  The  unscrupu- 
lous temerity  of  Mary  and  the  cunning  of  her  enemieo  in  council 
soon  furnished  one  to  Elizabeth. 

Mary  was   ceaselessly  engaged  in  concocting  ihouu  inuuiuemble 


42  MARY   STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOT&. 

plots  so  identified  in  her  mind  with  the  Catholic  cause  ;  her  corre- 
Kpondence,  ardent  as  her  sighs,  agitated  Scotland,  England,  and  the 
Continent.  Notwithstanding  her  age,  her  ineffaceable  beauty,  her 
grace,  her  seductive  manners,  her  rank,  her  genius,  attracted  toward 
her  new  agents,  whose  worship  for  her  was  intimately  allied  to  love. 

In  the  words  of  Mr.  Eraser  Tytler,  the  eminent  Scottish  historian, 
"  we  now  enter  upon  one  of  the  most  involved  and  intricate  portions 
of  the  history  of  England  and  of  Scotland — the  '  Babington  plot,'  in 
which  Mary  was  implicated,  and  for  which  she  afterward  suffered." 

One  of  the  Earl  of  Derby's  gentlemen,  named  Babington,  brought 
up  in  the  household  of  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury,  where  he  had  be- 
come acquainted  with  the  queen  while  she  was  a  prisoner  at  Bolton 
Abbey,  had  resolved  to  serve  and  save  her.  Babington  had  gone 
over  to  the  Continent,  and  was  at  Paris  the  agent  of  the  correspond- 
ence in  which  the  queen  was  engaged  with  France  and  Spain  to 
bring  about  her  deliverance  and  restoration.  The  death  of  Elizabeth 
was  the  preliminary  object  of  this  plot.  Two  Jesuits  of  Rheims, 
named  Allen  and  Ballard,  did  not  recoil  from  this  rcgicidal  crime. 
Ballard  came  to  London,  sought  out  Babington,  who  had  returned 
from  France,  enlisted  him  in  the  cause  of  Queen  Mary's  deliverance, 
and  also  through  him  enrolled  a  handful  of  Catholic  conspirators, 
ready  to  dare  all  for  the  trumph  of  religion.  Walsingham,  the  chief 
counsellor  and  minister  of  Elizabeth,  who  had  brought  the  spy-system 
to  a  state  of  what  might  be  called  infamous  perfection,  and  had  his 
tools  and  agents  everywhere,  who  insinuated  themselves  into  the 
confidence  of  the  conspirators,  urged  them  on  to  the  execution  of 
their  designs,  at  the  same  time  revealing  all  to  him,  and,  with  a  ma- 
lignant ingenuity,  even  adding  to  the  reality  by  inventions  of  their 
own,  in  order,  doubtless,  to  please  their  employer  and  lead  the  more 
certainly  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  aim. 

One  of  these  spies,  named  Gifford,  whose  earnestness  seemed  to 
plart:  him  above  suspicion  at  the  French  embassy,  in  which  was  the 
repository  of  the  correspondence,  received  letters,  pretended  he  had 
forwarded  them  to  their  address,  but  conveyed  them  secretly  to  Wai- 
ringham.  These  letters  prove  some  hesitation'at  first  on  the  part  of 
tin-  conspirators  regarding  the  propriety  of  the  assassination  of  Eliza- 
beth, and  afterward  a  more  decided  resolution  in  favor  of  the  mur- 
der, after  a  consultation  with  Father  Ballard,  the  Jesuit  of  Rheims. 
One  of  the  letters,  bearing  the  signature  of  Babington,  thus  addressed 
Mary  : 

"  Very  dear  Sovereign  :  I  myself,  with  six  gentlemen,  and  a  hundred 
others  of  our  company  and  following,  will  undertake  the  deliverance 
of  your  royal  person  from  the  hands  of  your  enemies.  As  for  that 
which  tends  to  rid  us  of  the  usurper,  from  the  subjection  of  the  .  .  . " 

At  the  subsequent  trial  the  copy  only  »f  a  letter  from  Mary  in  reply 
was  produced,  containing  these  words  :  "These things  being  pre- 
pared, and  Ui«  forces,  without  as  well  as  within  tlie  kiogdom/beiB*; 


MARY   STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS.  43 

»fl  ready,  it  is  necessary  that  the  six  gentlemen  should  be  set  to 
work,  and  orders  given  that,   their  design  being  effected,  I  may  then  , 
be  taken  hence,  and  all  the  troops  be  at  the  same  time  in  the  field  to 
receive  me  while  awaiting  the  succors  from  abroad,  who  must  also 

hasten  with  all  diligence "    Mary  solemnly  declared  that 

•he  never  wrote  this  letter  ;  and  although  she  insisted  on  the  original 
being  shown,  it  never  appeared,  its  only  substitute  being  an  alleged 
copy  in  the  handwriting  of  Phellips,  one  of  Walsingham's  creatures, 
and  an  expert  forger  of  autographs.  No  trace  of  any  such  original 
letter  has  ever  been  found  ;  and  when  we  consider  Elizabeth's  evi- 
dent anxiety  to  get  rid  of  her  troublesome  captive,  her  subsequent 
remorse,  the  unscrupulous  efforts  of  Walsingham  to  please  his  mis- 
tress, by  fair  means  or  foul,  and  the  zeal  of  his  spies  and  tools,  wo 
cannot  but  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  this  letter,  which  was  so 
fatal  to  Mary,  but  which  no  one  ever  saw,  was  a  forgery  executed 
by  Phellips,  who,  besides,  is  proved  to  have  added  a  postscript  of 
his  own  to  another  of  Mary's  letters  now  extant. 

These  letters  were  placed  by  Gifford  in  the  hands  of  the  queen's 
council,  and  Ballard  and  Babington  were  arrested  by  Walsingham. 
The  conspirators  could  not  deny  the  plot,  for  portraits  of  all  the  six 
were  found  in  a  regicide  picture,  executed  by  their  own  order,  sur- 
mounted by  this  device  :  "  Our  common  peril  is  the  bond  of  our 
friendship."  They  were  tried  and  executed  on  the  20th  of  Septem- 
ber, together  with  Ballard  and  Babington. 

XXXI. 

THE  punishment  of  her  friends  impressed  Mary  with  a  presenti- 
ment of  her  own  fate.  Involved  in  their  plots,  and  more  feared  than 
they  were,  she  could  not  long  remain  in  suspense  as  to  her  own  des- 
tiny. She  was  carried,  in  fact,  some  days  afterward  to  Fotheringay 
Castle,  her  last  prison.  This  feudal  residence  was  solemn  and 
gloomy,  even  as  the  hour  of  approaching  death.  Elizabeth,  after 
long  and  serious  deliberation,  at  last  named  thirty-six  judges  to  ex- 
amine Mary  and  to  report  to  the  council.  The  Queen  of  Scots  protest- 
ed against  the  right  of  trying  a  queen  and  of  judging  her  in  a  foreign 
country,  where  she  was  forcibly  detained  as  a  prisoner. 

"Is  it  thus,  "cried  she,  when  she  appeared  before  the  commis- 
sioners, "that  Queen  Elizabeth  makes  kings  be  tried  by  their  sub- 
jects ?  I  only  accept  this  place  "  (pointing  to  a  seat  lower  than  that 
of  the  judges)  "  because  as  a  Christian  I  humble  myself.  My  place 
is  thare,"  she  added,  raising  her  hand  toward  the  dais.  "  I  was  a 
queen  from  the  cradle,  and  the  first  day  that  saw  me  a  woman  saw 
me  a  queen  !"  Then  turning  toward  Melvil,  her  esquire,  and  the 
chief  of  her  household,  on  whose  arm  she  leaned,  she  said,  "  llere  ar« 
many  judges,  but  not  one  friend  !" 

She  denied  energetically  having  consented  to  the  pl»n  for  a«8as». 


44  MA.RY  STUART,  QUEE^  OF  SCOTS. 


nating  Elizabeth  ;  she  insinuated,  but  without  formally  asserting,  that 
•  secretaries  might  easily  have  added  to  the  meaning  of  the  letters  dic- 
tated to  them,  as  none  were  produced  in  her  own  handwriting. 
"  When  I  came  to  Scotland,"  she  said  to  Lord  Burleigh,  the  princi- 
pal minister,  who  interrogated  her,  "I  offered  to  your  mistress, 
through  Lethington,  a  ring  .shaped  like  a  heart,  in  token  of  my 
friendship  ;  and  when,  overcome  by  rebels,  I  entered  England,  I  in 
my  turn  received  from  her  this  pledge  of  encouragement  and  protec- 
tion." Saying  these  words,  she  drew  from  her  finger  the  ring 
which  had  been  sent  her  by  Elizabeth.  "  Look  at  this,  my  lords, 
and  answer.  During  the  eighteen  years  that  I  have  passed  under 
your  bolts  and  bars,  how  often  have  your  queen  and  the  English 
people  despised  it  in  my  person  !" 

xxxii. 

THE  commissioners,  on  their  return  to  London,  assembled  at  West- 
minster, declared  the  Queen  of  Scots  guilty  of  participation  in  the 
plot  against  the  life  of  Elizabeth,  and  pronounced  upon  her  sentence 
of  death.  The  two  houses  of  parliament  ratified  the  sentence. 

Mary  asked,  as  a  single  favor,  not  to  be  executed  in  secret,  but  be- 
fore her  servants  and  the  people,  so  that  no  one  might  attribute  to 
her  a  cowardice  unworthy  of  her  rank,  and  that  all  might  bear  testi- 
mony to  her  constancy  in  suffering  martyrdom.  Thus  she  already 
spoke  of  her  punishment,  a  consolatory  idea  most  natural  in  a  queen 
who  desired  that  her  death  should  be  imputed  to  her  faith  rather  than 
to  her  faults.  She  wrote  letters  to  all  her  relatives  and  friends  in 
France  and  Scotland. 

"  My  good  cousin,"  she  wrote  to  the  Duke  of  Guise,  "  who  art  the 
most  dear  to  me  in  the  world,  I  bid  you  farewell,  being  ready  by  un- 
just judgment  to  be  put  to  death—  what  no  one  of  our  race,  thanks 
to  God,  has  ever  suffered,  much  less  one  of  my  quality.  But,  praise 
God,  my  good  cousin,  for  I  was  useless  in  the  world  to  the  cause  of  God 
and  of  his  Church,  being  in  the  state  in  which  I  was  ;  and  I  hope 
that  my  death  will  testify  my  constancy  in  the  faith,  and  my  readi- 

ss  to  die  for  the  maintenance  and  restoration  of  the  Catholic  Church 

this  unhappy  island  ;  and  though  never  executioner  dipped  his 

hands  in  our  blood,  be  not  ashamed,  my  friend,  for  the  judgment  of 

leretics  and  the  enemies  of  the  Church,  who  have  no  jurisdiction 

over  me,  a  free  queen,  is  profitable  before  God  to  the  children  of  his 

I  had  yielded  to  them  I  would  not  have  suffered  this 

All  of  our  house  have  been  persecuted  by  this  sect  ;  witness 

your  good  father  with  whom  I  hope  to  be  received  by  the  mercy  of 

st  Judge.     1  recommend  to  you  my  poor  servants,  the  payment 

>f  my  debts,  and  the  founding  of  some  annual  masses  for  my  soul  • 

at  your  expense,  but  to  make  solicitation  and  ordinance  as  may  be 

acquired,  and  as  you  will  learn  my  intentions  from  my 

•WYMat*.  eye-witnesee.  of  thw  my  last  tragedy. 


MAKT   STUAUT,    QUEEN    OF   SCOTS.  43 

"  God  prosper  you,  your  wife,  children,  brothers,  and  cousins,  and 
above  all  our  chief,  my  good  brother  aud  cousin,  aud  all  his.  May 
the  blessing  of  God  aud  that  which  I  would  bestow  on  my  children 
be  yours,  whom  I  recommend  less  to  God  than  my  own — who  is  uii 
fortunate  and  ill-used. 

"  You  will  receive  tokens  from  me  to  remind  you  to  pray  for  the 
soul  of  your  poor  cousin,  deprived  of  all  help  aud  counsel  but  that  of 
God,  who  gives  me  strength  and  courage  to  resist  alone  so  many 
wolves  howling  after  me  ;  to  him  be  the  glory. 

"  Believe,  in  particular,  what  will  be  told  you  by  a  person  who 
•will  give  you  a  ruby  ring  from  me,  for  I  take  it  to  my  conscience  that 
you  shall  be  told  the  truth  in  that  with  which  I  have  charged  her, 
specially  as  to  what  regards  my  poor  servants,  and  the  share  of  each. 
I  recommend  to  you  this  person  for  her  simple  sincerity  and  honesty, 
that  she  may  be  settled  in  some  good  place.  I  have  chosen  her  as 
the  least  partial,  and  who  will  the  more  plainly  report  to  you  my 
commauds.  I  pray  you  that  it  be  not  known  that  she  have  said  any- 
thing particular  to  you,  for  envy  might  injure  her. 

"  I  have  suffered  much  for  two  years  and  more,  and  have  not  made 
it  known  to  you  for  an  important  reason.  God  be  praised  for  all, 
and  give  you  the  grace  to  persevere  in  the  service  of  the  Church  as 
long  as  you  Uve  ;  and  never  may  this  honor  depart  from  our  race, 
that,  men  as  well  as  women,  we  have  been  ready  to  shed  our  blood  to 
tnaiutaiu  the  cause  of  the  faith,  putting  aside  all  other  worldly  con- 
ditions ;  as  for  me,  I  esteem  myself  born,  on  both  father's  and 
toother's  side,  to  offer  my  blood  in  this  matter,  aud  have  no  inten- 
tion of  falling  back.  Jesus  crucified  for  us  aud  all  the  holy  martyrs, 
make  us,  through  their  intercession,  worthy  of  the  voluntary  sacri- 
fice of  our  bodies  for  his  glory  ! 

"  Tliinkiug  to  humble  me,  my  dais  had  been  thrown  down,  and, 
afterward,  my  guardian  offered  to  write  to  the  queen,  as  this  act.  \vas 
not  by  her  command,  but  by  the  advice  of  some  one  in  the  council. 
I  showed  them,  in  place  of  my  arms  on  the  said  dais,  the  cross  of  my 
Saviour.  You  will  understand  all  this  discourse  ;  they  were  milder 
afterward." 

This  letter  is  signed,  "  Votre  affectionee  cousinc  et  parfaitte  amye- 
Marie  It.  d'Ecosse,  D.  de  France." 

XXXIII. 

WHEN  she  was  shown  the  ratification  of  her  sentence,  and  the 
order  for  her  execution  signed  by  Elizabeth,  she  tranquilly  re- 
marked, "It  is  well ;  this  is  the  generosity  of  Queen  Elizabeth  ! 
Could  any  one  believe  she  would  have  dared  to  go  to  these  extreme- 
lies  with  me,  who  am  her  sister  and  her  equal,  and  who  could  not  be 
her  subject  ?  Nevertheless,  God  be  praised  for  all,  since  he  does  mo 
this  honor  of  dying  for  him  aad_  for  his  Church  !  Blessed  b«  the 


40  MARY   STUART,    QUEEK   OF  SCOTS. 

moment  that  will  end  iny  sad  pilgrimage  ;  a  soul  so  cowardly  as  r*A 
to  accept  this  last  combat  on  earth  would  be  unworthy  of  heaven  !>J 
On  the  last  moments  of  her  life  we  shall  follow  the  learned  and 
pathetic  historian  who  has  treasured  up,  so  to  speak,  her  last  sighs. 
The  queen,  guilty  till  then,  became  transformed  into  a  martyr  by  the 
approach  of  death.  When  the  soul  is  truly  great  it  grows  with  its 
destiny  ;  her  destiny  was  sublime,  for  it  was  at  once  au  accepted  ex- 
piatiou  and  a  rehabilitation  through  blood. 

XXXIV. 

IT  was  night,  and  she  entered  her  chapel  and  prayed,  with  her 
naked  knees  on  the  bare  pavement.  She  then  said  to  her  women, 
"  I  would  eat  something,  so  that  my  heart  may  not  fail  me  to- 
morrow, and  that  I  may  do  nothing  to  make  my  friends  ashamed  of 
me."  Her  last  repast  was  sober,  solemn,  but  not  without  some 
sallies  of  humor.  "  Wherefore,"  she  asked  Bastien,  who  had  been 
her  chief  buffoon,  "dost  thou  not  seek  to  amuse  me?  Thou  art  a 
good  mimic,  but  a  better  servant." 

Returning  soon  after  to  the  idea  that  her  death  was  a  martyrdom, 
and  addressing  Bourgoin,  her  physician,  who  waited  ou  her,  and 
Melvil,  her  steward,  who  were  both  kept  under  arrest,  as  well  as 
1'reaux,  her  almoner  :  "  Bourgoin,"  said  she,  "did  you  hear  the  Earl 
of  Kent  V  It  would  have  taken  another  kind  of  doctor  to  convict  me. 
lit-  lias  acknowledged  besides  that  the  warrant  for  my  execution  is 
the  triumph  of  heresy  in  this  country.  It  is  true,"  she  rejoined  with 
pious  satisfaction,  "  they  put  me  to  death  not  as  an  accomplice  of 
conspiracy,  but  as  a  queen  devoted  to  the  Church.  Before  their 
tribunal  my  faith  is  my  crime,  and  the  same  shall  be  my  justification 
before  my  Sovereign  Judge." 

Her  maidens,  her  officers,  all  her  attendants  were  struck  with  grief, 
ami  looked  upon  her  in  silence,  being  scarcely  able  to  contain  them- 
selves. Toward  the  end  of  the  repast  Mary  spoke  of  her  testament, 
in  which  none  of  their  names  were  to  be  omitted.  She  asked  for  the 
silver  and  jewels  which  remained,  and  distributed  them  with  her 
hand  as  \\  ith  her  heart.  She  addressed  farewells  to  each,  with  that 
delicate  tact  so  natural  to  her,  and  with  kindly  emotion.  She  asked 
(heir  pardon,  and  gave  her  own  to  everyone  present  or  absent,  her 
secretary  Mau  cxcepted.  They  all  burst  into  sobs,  and  threw  them- 
eclves  on  their  knees  around  the  table.  The  queen,  much  moved, 
drank  to  their  health,  inviting  them  to  drink  also  to  her  salvation. 
I  hey  weepjngly  obeyed,  and  in  their  turn  drank  to  their  mistress, 
carrying  to  their  lips  the  cups  in  which  their  tears  mingled  with  the 
wine. 

The  queen,  affected  at  this  sad  spectacle,  wished  to  be  alone.  She 
composed  her  last  will.  When  -written  and  finished,  Mary,  alone  in 
ner  chamber  with  Jane  Kennedy  and  Elizabeth  Curie,  asks  how 


MARY   STUART,    QUEEN   OF  SCOTS.  47 

much  money  she  has  left.  She  possessed  five  thousand  crowns, 
which  she  separates  iuto  as  many  lots  as  she  has  servants,  proportion- 
jug  the  sums  to  their  various  ranks,  functions,  ami  wants.  These 
portions  she  placed  in  au  equal  number  of  purses  for  the  following 
ilay.  She  then  asked  for  water,  and  had  her  feet  washed  hy  her 
maids  of  honor.  Afterward  she  wrote  to  the  king  of  France  : 

"  I  recommend  to  you  my  servants  once  more.  You  will  ordain, 
if  it  please  you,  for  my  soul's  sake,  that  1  be  paid  the  sum  that  you 
owe  to  me,  and  that  for  the  honor  of  Jesus  Christ,  to  whom  I  shall 
pray  for  you  to-morrow  at  the  hour  of  my  death,  there  may  bo 
enough  to  found  a  mass  for  the  repose  of  my  soul,  and  for  the  need- 
ful  alms.  This  Wednesday,  at  two  of  the  clock  after  midnight, 

"M.  R." 

She  now  fe}t  the  necessity  of  repose,  and  lay  down  on  her  bed.  On 
her  women  approaching  her,  she  said,  "  I  would  have  preferred  a 
sword  in  the  French  manner,  rather  than  this  axe."  She  then  fell 
asleep  for  a  short  time,  and  even  during  her  slumber  her  lips  moved 
as  if  in  prayer.  Her  face,  as  if  lighted  up  from  within  with  a  spiriU 
ual  beatitude,  never  shone  with  a  beauty  so  charming  and  so  pure. 
It  was  illuminated  with  so  sweet  a  ravishment,  so  bathed  in  tin; 
grace  of  God,  that  she  seemed  to  "  smile  with  the  angels,"  according 
to  the  expression  of  Elizabeth  Curie.  She  slept  and  prayed,  praying 
more  than  she  slept,  by  the  light  of  a  little  silver  lamp  given  IUT  by 
Henry  II.,  and  which  she  had  preserved  through  all  her  fortunes. 
Tliis  little  lamp,  Mary's  last  light  in  her  prison,  was  as  the  twilight 
of  4ier  tomb  ;  humble  implement  made  tragic  by  the  memories  it 
recalls  ! 

Awaking  before  daylight,  the  queen  rose.  Her  first  thoughts  were 
for  eternity.  She  looked  at  the  clock,  and  said,  "  I  have  only  two 
hours  to  live  here  below."  It  was  now  six  o'clock. 

She  added  a  postscript  to  her  letter  addressed  to  the  King  of 
France,  requesting  that  the  interest  of  her  dowry  should  be  paid  after 
her  death  to  her  servants  ;  that  their  wages  and  pensions  should  con- 
tinue during  their  lives  ;  that  her  physician  (Bourgoin)  should  be  re- 
ceived into  the  service  of  the  king,  and  that  Didicr,  an  old  officer  of 
her  household,  -night  retain  the  place  she  had  given  him.  She  add- 
ed, "Moreover,  that  my  almoner  may  be  restored  to  his  estate,  and 
in  my  favor  provided  with  some  small  curacy,  where  he  may  pray 
God  for  my  soul  during  the  rest  of  his  life."  The  letter  was  thus 
subscribed  :  "  Faict  le  matin  de  rnamort,  ce  mercredy  huitiesme  Fev« 
rier,  1587.  Marie,  lloyne.  Done  on  this  morning  of  my  death,  this 
Wednesday,  eighth  February,  1587.  Mary,  Queen," 

A  pale  winter  daybreak  illuminated  these  last  lines.  Mary  per- 
ceived it,  and,  calling  to  her  Elizabeth  Curie  and  Jan«  Kennedy, 
made  a  sign  to  them  to  robe  her  for  this  last  ctremony  of  royalty. 


48  MARY   STUART,    QUEEN    OF   SCOTS. 

While  their  friendly  hands  thus  apparelled  her  she  remained  silent 
"When  fully  dressed  she  placed  herself  before  one  of  her  two  large 
mirrors  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl,  and  seemed  to  consider  her  face 
with  pity.  She  then  turned  round  and  said  to  her  maidens  :  "  This 
is  the  moment  to  guard  against  weakness.  I  remember  that,  in  my 
youth,  my  uncle  Francis  said  to  me  one  day  in  his  house  at  Meudon, 
'  My  niece,  there  is  one  mark  above  all  by  which  I  recognize  you 
as  of  my  own  blood.  You  are  brave  as  the  bravest  of  my  men-at- 
arms,  and  if  women  still  fought  as  in  the  old  times,  I  think  you 
would  know  well  how  to  die. '  It  remains  for  me  to  show  to  both 
friends  and  enemies  from  what  race  I  have  sprung. ' ' 

She  had  asked  for  her  almoner  Preaux  ;  two  Protestant  ministers 
were  sent  to  her.  "Madam,  we  come  to  console  you,"  they  said, 
stepping  over  the  threshold  of  her  chamber..  "Are  you  Catholic 
priests?"  she  cried.  "No,"  replied  they.  "Then  I  will  have  no 
comforter  but  Jesus,"  she  added,  with  a  melancholy  firmness. 

She  now  entered  her  chapel.  She  had  there  prepared  with  her  own 
hands  an  altar,  before  which  her^ilmoner  sometimes  said  mass  to  her 
secretly.  There,  kneeling  down,  she  repeated  many  prayers  in  a  low 
voice.  She  was  reciting  the  prayers  for  the  dying  when  a  knock  at 
the  door  of  her  chamber  suddenly  interrupted  her.  "  W'mt  do  they 
wish  of  me?"  asked  the  queen,  arising.  Bourgoin  replied  from  the 
chamber  where  he  was  placed  with  the  other  servants,  that  the  lords 
awaited  her  Majesty.  "  It  is  not  yet  time,"  she  replied  ;  "  let  them 
return  at  the  hour  fixed."  Then,  throwing  herself  anew  on  her 
knees  between  Elizabeth  Curie  and  Jane  Kennedy,  she  melted  into 
tears,  and  striking  her  breast  gave  thanks  to  God  for  all,  praying  to 
him  fervently  and  with  deep  sobs  that  he  would  support  her  inkier 
last  trial.  Becoming  calmer  by  degrees,  in  trying  to  calm  her  two 
companions,  she  remained  for  some  time  in  silent  and  supreme  con- 
verse with  her  God. 

What  was  passing  at  that  moment  within  her  conscience  ? 

She  then  went  to  the  window,  looked  out  upon  the  calm  sky,  the 
river,  the  meadows,  the  woods.  Returning  to  the  middle  of  the 
chamber  and  casting  her  eyes  toward  the  time-piece  (called  la 
Ileale),  she  said  to  Jane,  "  The  hour  has  struck,  they  will  soon  be 
here." 

Scarcely  had  she  pronounced  these  words  when  Andrew,  sheriff 
of  the  county  of  Northampton,  knocked  a  second  time  at  the  door, 
and,  her  women  drawing  back,  she  mildly  commanded  them  to  open 
it.  The  officer  of  justice  entered,  dressed  in  mourning,  a  white  rod 
in  his  right  hand,  and,  bowing  before  the  queen,  twice  repeated,  "  I 
am  here." 

A.  alight  blush  mounted  to  the  queen's  cheeks,  and,  advancing  with 
majesty,  she  said,  "  Let  us  go." 

ate  took  with  her  the  ivory  crucifix,  which  had  never  left  her  for 
seventeen  years,  and  wbicb  sbe  had  carried  from  cell  to  cell,  su*- 


MARY   STUART,    QUEEtf   OP  SCOTS.  49 

pending  it  in  the  various  chapels  of  her ( captivity.  As  she  suffered 
much  from  pains  brought  on  by  the  dampness  of  her  prisons,  she 
leaned  on  two  of  her  domestics,  who  led  her  to  the  threshold  of  the 
chamber.  There  they  stopped,  and  Bourgoin  explained  to  the  queen 
the  strange  scruple  of  her  attendants,  who  desired  to  avoid  the  ap- 
pearance of  conducting  her  to  slaughter.  The  queen,  though  she 
would  have  preferred  their  support,  made  allowance  for  their  weak, 
ness,  and  was  content  to  lean  on  two  of  Paulet's  guards.  Then  all 
her  attendants  accompanied  her  to  the  uppermost  flight  of  stairs, 
where  the  guards  barred  their  passage  in  spite  of  their  supplications, 
despair,  and  lamentations,  with  their  arms  extended  toward  the  dear 
mistress  whose  footsteps  they  were  hindered  from  following. 

The  queen,  deeply  pained,  slightly  quickened  her  steps,  with  the 
design  of  protesting  against  this  violence  and  of  obtaining  a  more 
fitting  escort. 

Sir  Amyas  Paulet  and  Sir  Drew  Drury,  the  governor  of  Fothcrin- 
gay,  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury,  the  Earl  of  Kent,  the  other  commis- 
sioners, and  many  strangers  of  distinction,  among  whom  wen-  Sir 
Henry  Talbot,  Edward  and  William  Montague,  Sir  Richard  Knight- 
ly, Thomas  Bruducll  Bevil,  Robert  and  John  Wingfleld,  received  her 
at  the  bottom  of  the  stair. 

Perceiving  Melvil  bent  down  with  grief,  "  Courage,  my  faithful 
friend,"  she  said  ;  "  learn  to  resign  thy  self."  "  Ah,  madam,"  cried 
Melvil,  approaching  his  mistress  and  falling  at  her  feet,  "  I  have 
lived  too  long,  since  my  eyes  now  sec  you  the  prey  of  the  execu- 
tioner, and  since  my  lips  must  tell  of  this  fearful  punishment,  in  Scot- 
land." Sobs  then  burst  from  his  breast  instead  of  words. 

"  No  weakness,  my  dear  Melvil  !"  she  added.  "  Pity  those  who 
thirst  for  my  blood,  and  who  shed  it  unjustly.  As  for  me,  I  maku 
no  complaint.  Life  is  but  a  valley  of  tears,  and  I  leave  it  without, 
regret.  I  die  for  the  Catholic  faith,  and  in  the  Catholic  faith  ;  I  die 
the  friend  of  Scotland  and  of  France.  Bear  testimony  everywhere 
to  the  truth.  Once  more,  cease,  Melvil,  to  afflict  thyself  ;  rather  re- 
joice that  the  misfortunes  of  Mary  Stuart  are  at  an  end.  Tell  my 
son  to  remember  his  mother." 

While  the  queen  spoke,  Melvil,  still  on  his  knees,  shed  a  torrent  of 
tears.  Mary,  having  raised  him  up,  took  his  hand,  and,  leaning 
forward,  embraced  him.  "Farewell,"  she  added,  "farewell,  my 
dear  Melvil  ;  never  forget  me  in  thy  heart  or  thy  prayers  !" 

Addressing  the  Earls  of  Shrewsbury  and  Kent,  she  then  asked  that 
her  secretary  Curie  might  be  pardoned  ;  Nau  was  left  out.  The 
earls  keeping  silence,  she  again  prayed  them  to  allow  her  women 
and  servants  to  accompany  her,  and  to  be  present  at  her  death.  Tho 
Earl  of  Kent  replied  that  such  a  course  w$mld  be  unusual,  and  even 
dangerous  ;  that  the  boldest  would  desire  to  dip  their  handkerchiefs  in 
her  blood  ;  that  the  most  timid,  and,  above  all,  the  women,  would  tit 
J»a8t  trouble  the  course  of  Elizabeth's  justice  by  their  cries.  Mary 


60  MART   STUART,    QUEKK   OF  SCOTS. 

persisted.  "My  lords,"  said  she,  "  if  your  queen  were  here,  your 
virgin  queen,  she  would  not  think  it  fitting  for  my  rank  and  my  sex 
to  die  in  the  midst  of  men  only,  and  would  grant  rue  some  of  my 
women  to  be  beside  my  hard  and  last  pillow."  Her  words  were  so 
eloquent  and  touching  that  the  lords  who  surrounded  her  would  have 
yielded  to  her  request  but  for  the  obstinacy  of  the  Earl  of  Kent. 
The  queen  perceived  this,  and,  looking  upon  the  puritan  carl,  she 
cried  in  a  deep  voice, 

"  Shed  the  blood  of  Henry  VII.,  but  despise  it  not.  Am  I  Tint 
Rtill  Mary  Stuart  ?  a  sister  of  your  mistress  and  her  equal  :  twice 
crowned  ;  twice  a  queen  ;  dowager  Queen  of  France  ;  legitimate 
Queen  of  Scotland."  The  earl  was  affected,  but  still  unyielding. 

Mary,  with  softer  look  and  accent,  then  said,  "My  lords,  I  give 
you  my  word  that  my  servants  will  avoid  all  you  fear.  Alas  !  the 
poor  souls  will  do  nothing  but  take  farewell  of  me  ;  surely  you  will 
not  refuse  this  sad  satisfaction  either  to  me  or  to  them  ?  Think,  my 
lords,  of  your  own  servants,  of  those  who  please  you  best ;  the  nurses 
who  have  suckled  you  ;  the  squires  who  have  Tiorne  your  arms  in 
war;  these  servants  of  your  prosperity  are  less  dear  to  you  than  lo 
me  are  the  attendants  of  my  misfortunes.  Once  more,  my  lords,  do 
not  send  away  mine  in  my  last  moments.  They  desire  nothing  but 
to  remain  faithful  to  me,  to  love  me  to  the  end,  and  to  see  me  die." 

The  peers,  after  consultation,  agreed  to  Mary's  wishes.  The  Earl 
of  Kent  said,  however,  that  he  was  still  doubtful  of  the  effect  of  their 
lamentations  on  the  assistants,  and  on  the  queen  herself. 

"  1  will  answer  for  them,"  Mary  replied  ;  "  their  love  for  me  will 
give  them  strength,  and  my  example  will  lend  them  courage.  To 
me  it  wiH  be  sweet  to  know  they  are  there,  and  that  I  shall  have 
witnessed  of  my  perseverance  in  the  faith." 

The  commissioners  did  not  insist  further,  and  granted  to  the 
queen  four  attendants  and  two  of  her  maidens.  She  chose  M  civil 
her  steward,  Bourgoin  her  physician,  Gervais  her  surgeon,  Gosion 
her  druggist,  Jane  Kennedy  and  Elizabeth  Curie,  the  two  companions 
who  had  replaced  Elizabeth  Pierrepoint  in  her  heart.  Melvil,  AV!IO 
was  present,  was  called  by  the  queen  herself,  and  an  usher  of  Lord 
Paulct  was  sent  for  the  others,  who  had  remained  at  tbe  upper  bal- 
cony of  the  stair,  and  who  now  hastened  down,  happy  even  in  their 
anguish  to  perform  this  last  duty  of  devotion  and  fidelity. 

Appeased  by  this  complaisance  on  the  part  of  the  earls,  the  queen 
beckoned  to  the  sheriff  and  his  followers  to  advance.  She  was  the 
first  to  lead  the  melancholy  procession  to  the  scaffold. 

She  arrived  in  the  hall  of  death.  Pale,  but  unflinching,  she  con- 
templated the  dismal  preparations.  There  lay  the  block  and  the  axe. 
Tnere  stood  the  executioner  and  his  assistant.  All  were  clothed  in 
mourning.  On  the  floor  was  scattered  the  sawdust  which  was  to 
soak  her  blood,  and  in  u  dark  corner  lay  the  bier  which  was  to  be  ber 
last  prinuu. 


STUART,  QUEIW  OF  SCOTS.  51 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  the  queen  appeared  in  the  funeral  hall. 
Fletcher,  Dean  of  Peterborough,  and  certain  privileged  persons  to 
the  number  of  more  than  two  hundred,  were  assembled.  The  hall 
was  hung  with  black  cloth  ;  the  scaffold,  which  was  elevated  alxmt 
two  feet  and  a  half  above  the  ground,  was  covered  with  black  frieze 
of  Lancaster  ;  the  armed  chair  in  which  Mary  was  to  sit,  the  foot- 
stool on  which  she  was  to  kneel,  the  block  on  which  her  head  was  to 
be  laid,  wejre  covered  with  black  velvet. 

The  queen  was  clothed  in  mourning  like  the  hall  and  as  the  en- 
signs of  punishment.  Her  black  velvet  robe,  with  its  high  collar 
and  hanging  sleeves,  was  bordered  with  ermine.  Her  mantle,  lined 
with  marten  sable,  was  of  satin,  with  pearl  buttons  and  a  long  train. 
A  chain  of  sweet-smelling  beads,  to  which  was  attached  a  scapu- 
lary,  and  beneath  that  a  golden  cross,  fell  upon  her  bosom.  Two 
rosaries  were  suspended  to  her  girdle,  and  a  long  veil  of  white  lace, 
which,  in  some  measure,  softened  this  costume  of  a  widow  and  of  » 
condemned  criminal,  was  thrown  around  her. 

She  was  preceded  by  the  sheriff,  by  Drury  and  Paulet,  the  carls 
and  nobles  of  England,  and  followed  by  her  two  maidens  and  four 
officers,  among  whom  was  remarked  Melvil,  bearing  the  train  of  the 
royal  robe.  Mary's  walk  was  firm  and  majestic.  For  a  single  mo- 
ment sbx)  raised  her  veil,  and  her  face,  on  which  shone  a  hope  no  long- 
er of  this  world,  seemed  beautiful  as  in  the  days  of  her  youth.  The 
whole  assembly  were  deeply  moved.  In  one  hand  she  held  a  cruci- 
fix and  in  the  other  one  of  her  chaplets. 

The  Earl  of  Kent  rudely  addressed  her,  '  We  should  wear  Christ 
in  our  hearts." 

"  And  wherefore,"  she  replied  quickly,  "  should  I  have  Christ  in 
my  hand  if  he  were  not  in  my  heart?"  Paulet  assisting  her  to 
mount  the  scaffold,  she  threw  upon  him  a  look  full  of  sweetness. 

"  Sir  Amyas,"  she  said,  "  I  thank  you  for  your  courtesy  ;  it  is  the 
last  trouble  I  will  give  you,  and  the  most  agreeable  service  you  can 
render  me." 

Arrived  on  the  scaffold,  Mary  seated  herself  in  the  chair  provided 
for  her,  with  her  face  toward  the  spectators.  The  Dean  of  Peter- 
borough, in  ecclesiastical  costume,  sat  on  the  right  of  the  queen,  with 
a  black  velvet  footstool  before  him.  The  Earls  of  Kent  anil  Shrews- 
bury were  seated  like  him  on  the  right,  but  upon  larger  chairs.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  queen  stood  the  sheriff  Andrews,  with  wh'te 
wand.  In  front  of  Mary  were  seen  the  executioner  and  his  assistant., 
distinguishable  by  their  vestments  of  black  velvet,  with  red  crape 
round  the  left  arm.  Behind  the  queen's  chair,  ranged  by  the  wall, 
wept  her  attendants  and  maidens.  In  the  body  of  the  hall  the  nobles 
and  citizens  from  the  neighboring  counties  were  guarded  by  the 
musketeers  of  Sir  Amyas  Paulet  and  Sir  Drew  Drury.  Beyond  th« 
balustrade  was  the  liar  of  the  tribunal.  The  sentence  was  read  ;  the 
queen  protesteC  against  it  in  the  name  of  royalty  aud  iuiu>cenc«,  Uu 
accepted  death  for  the  sake  of  tiie  faitk. 


52  MARY  SfUA&T,   QUEEN   OF  SCOTS. 

She  then  knelt  dovrn  before  the  block,  and  the  executioner  pro 
ceeded  to  remove  1  er  veil.     She  repelled  him  by  a  gesture,  and  turn- 
ing toward  the  earls  with  a  blush  on  her  forehead,  "  I  am  not  accus 
tomed,"  she  said,  "  to  be  undressed  before  so  numerous  a  company, 
and  by  "the  hands  of  such  grooms  of  the  chamber." 

She  then  called  Jane  Kennedy  and  Elizabeth  Curie,  who  took  off 
her  mantle,  her  veil,  her  chains,  cross,  and  scapulary.  On  their 
touching  her  robe,  the  queen  told  them  to  unloose  the  corsage  and 
fold  down  the  ermine  collar,  so  as  to  leave  her  neck  bear  for  the  axe. 
Her  maidens  weepingly  yielded  her  these  last  services.  Melvil  and 
the  three  other  attendants  wept  and  lamented,  and  Mary  placed  her 
finger  on  her  lips  to  signify  that  they  should  be  silent. 

"  My  friends,"  she  cried,  "  I  have  answered  for  you,  do  not  melt 
me  ;  ought  you  not  rather  to  praise  God  for  having  inspired  your 
mistress  with  courage  and  resignation?"  Yielding,  however,  in  her 
turn  to  her  own  sensibility,  she  warmly  embraced  her  maidens  ;  then 
pressing  them  to  descend  from  the  scaffold,  wtiere  they  both  clung 
to  her  dress,  with  hands  bathed  in  their  tears,  she  addressed  to  them 
a  tender  blessing  and  a  last  farewell.  Melvil  and  his  companions 
remained,  as  if  choked  with  grief,  at  a  short  distance  from,  the  queen. 
Overcome  by  her  accents,  the  executioners  themselves  besought  her 
on  their  knees  to  pardon  them. 

"  I  pardon  you, "  she  said,  "  after  the  example  of  my  Redeemer." 

She  then  arranged  the  handkerchief  embroidered  with  thistles  of 
gold,  with  which  her  eyes  had  been  covered  by  Jane  Kennedy. 
Thrice  she  kissed  the  crucifix,  each  time  repeating,  "  Lord,  into  thy 
hands  I  commend  my  spirit."  She  knelt  anew,  and  leaned  her  head 
on  that  block  which  was  already  scored  with  deep  marks  ;  and  in 
tliis  solemn  attitude  she  again  recited  some  verses  from  the  psalms. 
The  executioner  interrupted  her  at  the  third  verse  by  a  blow  of  the 
axe,  but  its  trembling  stroke  only  grazed  her  neck  ;  she  groaned 
slightly,  and  the  second  blow  separated  the  head  from  the  body. 
The  executioner  held  it  up  at  the  window,  within  sight  of  all,  pro- 
claiming aloud,  according  to  usage,  "  So  perish  the  enemies  of  our 
queen !" 

The  queen's  maids  of  honor  and  attendants  enshrouded  the  body, 
and  claimed  it,  in  order  that;  it  should  be  sent  to  France  ;  but  these 
relics  of  their  tenderness  and  faith  were  pitilessly  refused.  Relics 
which  might  rekindle  fanaticism  were  to  be  feared. 

But  that  cruel  prudence  was  deceived  by  the  result.  Mary's  death 
resembled  a  martyrdom  ;  her  memory,  which  had  been  execrated 
alike  by  the  Scottish  Presbyterians  and  the  English  Protestants,  was 
practically  adopted  by  the  Catholics  as  that  of  a  saint.  The  passions 
wen;  Mary's  judges  ;  therefore  she  was  not  fairly  judged,  nor  will 
fchc  ever  be. 

Kliaalx-th,  having  thus  mercilessly  sacrificed  the  life  of  h«r  whom 
Mt«  Lad  so  long  aad  so  unjustly  retained  in  hopeless  captivity,  now 


MARY   STUART,    QUEEN"    OF   SCOTS.  53 

Aided  the  most  flagrant  duplicity  to  her  cruelty.  Denying,  with 
many  oaths,  all  intention  of  having  her  own  warrant  carried  into  «ix- 
ecution,  she  attempted  to  throw  the  entire  odium  on  those  who  in 
reality  had  acted  as  her  blind  and  devoted  agents.  This  policy  of  the 
English  queen  was  unsuccessful,  however  ;  posterity  has  with  clear 
voice  proclaimed  her  guilty  of  the  blood  of  her  royal  sister,  and  the 
sanguinary  stain  will  ever  remain  ineffaceable  from  the  character  of 
that  otherwise  great  sovereign. 

If  we  regard  Mary  Stuart  in  the  light  of  her  charms,  her  Ulents. 
her  magical  influence  over  all  men  who  approached  her,  she  may  be 
called  the  Sappho  of  the  sixteenth  century.  All  that  was  iiDt  love  m 
her  soul  was  poetry  ;  her  verses,  like  those  of  Konsard,  her  worship 
per  and  teacher,  possess  a  Greek  softness  combined  with  a  quaint 
simplicity  ;  they  are  written  with  tears,  and  even  after  the  lapse  of 
so  many  years  retain  something  of  the  warmth  of  her  sighs. 

If  we  judge  her  by  her  life,  she  is  the  Scottish  Semiramis  ;  casting 
herself,  before  the  eyes  of  all  Europe,  into  the  arms  of  the  assassin  of 
her  husband,  and  thus  giving  to  the  people  she  had  thrown  into  civil 
War  a  coronation  of  murder  for  a  lesson  of  morality. 

Her  direct  and  personal  participation  in  the  death  of  her  young 
husband  has  been  denied,  and  nothing  in  effect,  except,  those  sus- 
pected letters,  proves  that  she  actually  and  personally  accomplished 
or  permitted  the  crime  ;  but  that  she  had  attracted  the  victim  into 
the  snare  ;  that  she  had  given  Bothwell  the  right,  and  the  hope  of  suc- 
ceeding to  the  throne  after  his  death  ;  that  she  had  been  the  end, 
the  means,  and  the  alleged  prize  of  the  crime  ;  finally,  that  she  al> 
solved  the  murderer  .by  bestowing  upon  him  her  hand — 110  doubt  can 
be  entertained  regarding  these  points.  To  provoke  to  murder  and 
then  to  absolve  the  perpetrator — is  not  this  equivalent  to  guilt '! 

In  fine,  if  she  be  judged  by  her  death— comparable,  in  its  majesty, 
its  piety,  and  its  courage,  to  the  most  heroic  and  the  holiest  sacrifices 
of  the  primitive  martyrs — the  horror  and  aversion  with  v.-hich  sho 
had  been  regarded  change  at  last  to  pity,  esteem,  and  admiration. 
As  long  as  there  was  no  expiation  she  remained  a  criminal  ;  by  ex- 
piation, she  became  a  victim.  In  her  history  blood  seems  to  be  washed 
out  by  blood  ;  the  guilt  of  her  former  years  Hows,  as  it  were,  from 
her  veins  with  the  crimson  stream  ;  we  do  not  absolve,  we  sympa- 
thize ;  our  pity  is  not  absolution,  but  rather  approaches  to  love  ;  we  try 
to  find  excuses  for  her  conduct  in  the  ferocious  and  dissolute  manners 
of  the  age  ;  in  that  education,  depraved,  sanguinary,  and  fanatical, 
which  .she  received  at  the  court  of  the  Valois  ;  in  her  youth,  her 
beauty,  her  love.  We  are  constrained  to  say  with  M.  Dargaud — to 
whom  we  feel  deeply  indebted  for  the  researches  which  have  guided 
tta — "  We  judge  not ;  we  only  relate." 


THE  END. 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS. 

(1435-1506.) 


PROVIDENCE  conceals  itself  in  tke  detail  of  human  affairs,  but  be- 
comes unvcik-d  in  the  generalities  of  history.  No  sensible  person 
has  ever  denied  that  the  great  events  which  mark  the  history  of 
man  are  connected  and  linked  together  by  an  invisible  chain,  sup- 
ported by  the  almighty  hand  of  the  great  Creator  of  worlds,  to  give 
them  unity  of  design  and  plan.  I  low  can  lie  be  blind  who  has  given 
sight  to  the  eye  ?  How  can  lie  who  has  endowed  His  work  with 
thought  be  himself  without  thought  ?  The  ancients  gave  to  this  oc- 
cult, absolute,  and  irresistible  influence  of  God  over  human  affair* 
the  name  of  Destiny,  or  Fate  ;  the  moderns  call  it  Providence,  a 
more  intelligent,  more  religious,  and  more  affectionate  name. 

In  studying  the  history  of  humanity,  it  is  impossible  not  to  discern 
the  paramount  action  of  Providence  concurrent  with  and  control 
ling  the  free  action  of  man.  This  general  and  collective  movement, 
is  not  in  any  way  incompatible  with  the  freedom  of  will  which 
alone  constitutes  the  morality  of  individuals  and  of  nations  ;  it  seems 
10  lot  them  move,  act,  and  go  astray  with  complete  liberty  of  inten- 
tion, and  of  choice  of  good  and  evil,  in  a  certain  sphere  of  action, 
and  with  a  fixed  logical  sequence  of  penalties  incurred,  or  rewards 
deserved,  according  to  the  intention,  whether  vicious  or  good  ;  but  it 
reserves  to  itself  the  guidance  of  the  great  general  results  of  these 
acts  of  individuals  or  nations.  It  appears  to  reserve  them,  indepen- 
dently of  us,  for  divine  ends  with  which  we  arc  unacquainted,  and  of 
which  it  allows  us  only  a  glimpse  when  they  are  almost  attained. 
Good  and  evil  are  of  us  and  for  us,  but  Providence  uses  our  vices  and 
our  virtues  alike,  and  with  the  same  unfailing  wisdom  obtains  from 
evil,  as  from  good,  the  accomplishment  of  its  designs  respecting 
humanity.  The  hidden  but  divine  instrument  of  this  Providence, 
when  it  thinks  tit  to  make  use  of  men  to  prepare  or  accomplish  :i 
part  of  its  plans,  is  inspiration.  Inspiration  is  indeed  a  human  mys 
tery,  for  which  it  is  dim* cult  to  find  a  cause  in  man  himself.  It  seems 
to  come  from  a  higher  and  more  distant  source.  Hence  has  arisen  a 
name,  mysterious  also,  and  not  well  defined  in  any  language  —ycniu*. 


<  CHRISTOPHEK  COLUMBUS. 

Providence  causes  a  man  of  genius  to  be  born  ;  genius  is  a  gift,  it 
is  not  acquired  by  labor,  nor  is  it  even  obtained  by  virtue  ;  it  exists, 
or  it  exists  not,  without  its  possessor  being  able  to  explain  its  nature 
or  Low  he  came  to  possess  it.  To  this  genius  Providence  sends  an 
inspiration.  Inspiration  is  to  genius  what  the  magnet  is  to  steel ;  it 
attracts  it,  irrespectively  of  all  knowledge  or  will,  toward  something 
fatal  and  unknown,  as  to  its  pole.  Genius  follows  the  inspiration  by 
which  it  is  attracted,  and  an  ideal  or  an  actual  world  is  discovered. 

So  was  it  with  Christopher  Columbus  and  the  discovery  of  America. 

Columbus  aspired  in  thought  to  the  completion  of  the  globe,  which 
appeared  to  him  to  want  one  of  its  hemispheres.  The  idea  of  the 
earth's  geographical  unity  incited  him.  This  notion  was  generally 
prevalent  in  his  time.  There  seem  to  be  ideas  floating  in  the  air,  a 
species  of  intellectual  miasma,  which  thousands  of  men,  without  con- 
cert, breathe  at  once.  Whenever  Providence  is  preparing  the  world, 
unknown  to  itself,  for  a  religious,  moral,  or  political  change,  this 
phenomenon  may  generally  be  observed — a  tendency  or  progress,  more 
or  less  complete,  to  the  unity  of  the  earth  by  conquest,  language,  re- 
ligious proselytism,  navigation,  geographical  discovery,  or  the  multi- 
plication of  the  relations  of  different  countries  with  each  other,  by 
the  facilitation  of  intercourse  and  frequency  of  contact  between  those 
countries,  of  which  easy  means  of  communication,  common  necessi- 
ties, and  exchanges  make  but  one  people.  This  tendency  to  the 
unity  of  the  earth  at  certain  periods,  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
instances  of  providential  interference  that  occurs  in  history. 

Tims,  when  the  great  oriental-civilization  of  India  and  Egypt  seems 
exhausted  from  age,  and  God  wishes  to  call  Asia  and  the  West  to  a 
younger,  more  active,  and  more  stirring  civilization,  Alexander  star! s, 
without  well  knowing  why,  from  the  valleys  of  Macedon,  taking 
with  him  the  enthusiasm  and  the  soldiers  of  Greece  ;  and  before  the 
terror  and  glory  of  his  name  the  known  world  becomes  one,  from 
the  Indus  to  the  extremes  of  Europe. 

When  He  wishes  to  prepare  an  immense  audience  for  the  trans- 
forming word  of  Christianity  in  the  East  and  in  the  West,  He  spreads 
the  language,  the  dominion,  and  the  arms  of  Rome  and  of  Ca*sar  from 
the  shores  of  the  Persian  Gulf  to  the  mountains  of  Scotland,  uniting 
under  one  mind  and  under  a  common  authority  Italy,  the*  two 
Gauls.  Great  Britain,  Sicily,  Greece,  Africa,  and  Asia. 

When  He  desires,  some  centuries  afterward,  to  snatch  Arabia, 
I'ersia,  and  their  dependencies  from  barbarism,  and  to  make  the  re- 
sistless doctrine  of  the  Divine  Unity  prevail  over  the  jdolatries  or 
Indifference  of  these  remote  or  corrupt  portions  of  the  world.  He 
amis  Mahomet  with  the  Koran  and  the  sword:  He  permits  the  re- 
ligion ot  Islam  in  two  centuries  to  conquer  all  the  space  comprised 
between  the  Oxus  and  theTagus,  Thibet  and  Lebanon,  Atlas  and  the 
Taurus.  An  immense  unity  of  empire  is  the  sure  forerunner  of 
unity  of  thought 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  5 

So  with  Charlemagne  in  the  West,  when  his  universal  monarchy, 
bestriding  the  Alps,  prepares,  even  in  Scythia  and  Germany,  the  vast 
field  in  which  Christian  civilization  is  to  receive  and  baptize  the  bar- 
barians. 

So  also  with  the  French  Revolution,  that  reform  of  the  western 
world  by  reason,  when  Napoleon,  as  enterprising  as  Alexander, 
marches  his  victorious  armies  over  the  subjugated  continent  of 
Europe,  constitutes  for  a  moment  the  great  unity  of  France,  and, 
hoping  to  found  an  empire,  only  succeeds  in  sowing  the  seeds  of  the 
language,  the  ideas,  and  the  institutions  of  the  Revolution. 

Thus  too,  in  our  days — no  longer  in  the  shape  of  conquest,  but 
under  the  form  of  intellectual,  commercial,  and  peaceful  communi- 
cations among  all  the  continents  and  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  - 
science  becomes  the  universal  conqueror,  to  the  advantage  and  honor 
of  all.  Providence  seems  now  to  have  charged  the  genius  of  indus- 
try and  of  discovery  with  the  task  of  preparing  for  Him  the  most 
complete  unity  of  the  terrestrial  globe  that  has  ever  condensed  time, 
space,  and  people  into  a  close,  compact,  and  homogeneous  mass. 
Navigation,  printing,  the  discovery  of  steam — that  cheap  and  irre- 
sistible power  which  propels  man,  with  his  armies  and  his  merchan- 
dise, as  far  and  as  quick  as  his  thoughts  ;  the  construction  of  rail- 
roads, which  pass  through  mountain  and  over  valley,  bringing  all 
the  earth  to  one  level ;  the  discovery  of  the  electric  telegraph,  which 
gives  to  communications  between  the  two  hemispheres  the  rapidity 
of  lightning  ;  the  invention  of  balloons,  to  which  a  helm  is  still  want- 
ing, but  which  will  soon  render  the  air  a  more  simple  and  more  uni- 
versal element  of  navigation  than  the  ocean  :  all  these  nearly  contem- 
porary revelations  of  Providence  through  the  inspiration  of  the  spirit 
of  industry,  are  means  of  concentration,  drawing  the  earth  as  it  were 
together,  and  instruments  of  union  and  assimilation  for  the  human 
race.  These  means  are  so  active  and  so  evident,  that  it  is  impossible 
not  to  perceive  in  them  a  new  plan  of  Providence,  a  new  tendency  in 
an  unknown  direction — impossible  to  avoid  the  conclusion  that  God 
meditates  for  us,  or  for  our  descendants,  some  design  still  hidden  to 
our  narrow  sight;  a  design  for  which  He  is  taking  measures,  by- 
causing  the  world  to  advance  to  the  most  powerful  of  unities,  the. 
unity  of  thought,  which  announces  some  great  unity  of  action  in  the 
future. 

In  like  manner  was  the  spirit  of  the  fifteenth  century  prepared  for 
some  great  human  or  divine  manifestation,  when  the  illustrious  man 
whose  history  we  arc  about  to  relate  was  born.  Something  was  ex- 
pected ;  for  the  human  mind  has  its  forebodings,  the  vague  presages 
of  approaching  events. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year'WM}  at  midday,  beneath  the  burning  sun 
that  scorched  the  roads  of  Andalusia,  on  a  hill  about  half  a  league 
from  the  little  seaport  of  Pulos,  two  strangers,  travelling  on  foot, 
their  shoes  almost  worn  out  with  walking,  their  dress,  which  still 


6  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

retained  the  marks  of  gentility,  soiled  with  dust,  and  their  forcheu<h< 
streaming  with  perspiration,  stopped  to  sit  down  beneath  the  shade 
of  the  outer  porch  of  a  little  convent  called  Santa  Maria  de  Itabida. 
Their  appearance  and  fatigue  were  a  sufficient  prayer  for  hospitality. 
The  Franciscan  convents  were  at  that  period  the  hostelries  for  all 
pedestrians  whose  poverty  prevented  their  seeking  another  refuge. 
Tin  si-  two  strangers  attracted  the  attention  of  the  monks. 

One  was  a  man  who  had  scarcely  reached  the  prime  of  life,  tall  in 
stature,  powerfully  built,  of  majestic  gait,  with  a  noble  forehead, 
open  countenance,  thoughtful  look,  and  pleasing  and  elegant  mouth. 
His  hair,  in  his  youth  of  a  light  auburn,  was  sprinkled  here  and  there 
about  the  temples  with  the  white  streaks  prematurely  traced  by  mis- 
fortune and  mental  anxiety.  His  forehead  was  high  ;  his  com 
plcxiou,  once  rosy,  had  been  made  pale  by  study,  and  bronzed  by 
pun  and  sea.  The  tone  of  his  voice  was  deep  and  sonorous,  power- 
ful and  impressive,  as  that  of  a  man  accustomed  to  utter  profound 
thoughts.  There  was  nothing  of  levity  or  thoughtlessness  in  his 
behavior  :  everything  was  grave  and  deliberate,  even  in  his  slightest 
movement-,  he  seemed  to  have  a  modest  self-respect,  and  to  retain 
habitually  the  controlled  demeanor  of  a  pious  worshipper,  as  though 
he  always  felt  himself  to  be  in  the  presence  of  God. 

The  other  was  a  child  of  eight  or  ten  years  old.  His  features, 
more  feminine,  but  already  matured  by  the  fatigues  of  life,  bore  so 
strong  a  resemblance  to  those  of  the  other  stranger,  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  avoid  taking  him  for  a  sou  or  a  brother  of  the  elder  man. 

The  two  strangers  were  Christopher  Columbus  and  his  son  Diego. 
The  monks,  interested  and  moved  at  the  sight  of  the  noble  counte- 
nance of  the  father  and  the  elegance  of  the  child,  in  such  strong 
contrast  with  the  poverty  of  their  condition,  invited  them  into  the 
monastery,  to  partake  of  the  shelter,  the  food,  and  the  rest  always 
accorded  to  wayfarers.  While  Columbus  and  his  child  were  refresh- 
ing and  recruiting  their  strength  with  the  water,  bread,  and  olives 
.supplied  by  their  hosts,  the  monks  went  to  inform  the  prior  of  the 
arrival  of  the  two  travellers,  and  of  the  singular  interest  inspired  by 
their  noble  appearance,  so  little  in  accordance  with  their  poverty. 
The  prior  came  down  to  converse  with  them. 

The  superior  of  this  convent  of  La  Rabida  was  Juan  Perez  de  la 
Marchenna,  formerly  confessor  to  Queen  Isabella,  who  then  reigned 
over  Spain  with  Ferdinand.  A  man  of  piety,  of  science,  and  of 
thought,  he  had  preferred  the  retirement  of  the  cloister  to  the  honors 
rind  intrigues  of  the  court ;  but  this  very  retirement  had  secured  him 
great  respect  in  the  palace,  and  great  influence  over  the  mind  of  the 
queen.  Providence,  rather  than  chance,  appeared  to  have  directed 
the  steps  of  Columbus,  as  if  it  had  intended  to  open  to  him,  by  a  safe, 
though  unseen,  hand,  the  readiest  approaches  to  the  ear,  the  mind, 
uud  the  heart  of  the  sovereigns. 

The  prior  saluted  the  stranger,  caressed  the  child,  and  kindly 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  7 

inquired  into  the  circumstances  which  obliged  them  to  travel  on  foot 
through  the  byroads  of  Spain,  and  to  'seek  the  humble  roof  of  a  poor 
and  lonely  monastery.  Columbus  related  his  obscure  life,  and  un- 
folded his  great  thoughts  to  the  attentive  monk.  This  life,  these 
thoughts,  were  but  an  expectation  and  a  foreboding.  This  has  since 
been  learned  of  them. 

Christopher  Columbus  was  the  eldest  son  of  a  Genoese  wool-carder, 
a  business  now  low,  but  then  respectable,  and  almost  noble.  In  the 
manufacturing  and  commercial  republics  of  Italy,  the  operatives, 
proud  of  their  discoveries  and  inventions,  formed  guilds,  which  were 
ennobled  by  their  arts,  and  influential  in  the  state"  Christopher  was 
born  in  14:j(j.  lie  had  two  brothers,  Bartholomew  and  Diego,  whom 
he  afterwards  sent  for,  to  share  his  labors,  his  fame,  and  his  ad- 
versity. He  had  also  a  sister,  younger  than  her  brothers.  She  mar- 
ried a  Genoese  artisan,  and  obscurity  long  sheltered  her  from  the 
glory  and  misfortunes  of  her  kindred. 

Our  tastes  depend  on  the  first  views  which  nature  presents  to  our 
eyes  in  the  places  of  our  birth,  especially  when  these  views  arc  m;i- 
jcstic  and  infinite,  like  mountains,  sea,  and  sky.  Our  imagination  is 
but  the  echo  and  reflection  of  the  scenes  which  have  originally  struck 
us.  The  first  looks  of  Columbus,  while  an  infant,  were  upon  the 
heavens  and  the  sea  of  Genoa.  Astronomy  and  navigation  soon  di- 
rected his  thoughts  to  the  spaces  thus  spread  before  his  eyes.  He 
peopled  them  in  his  imagination  before  he  filled  their  charts  with 
continents  and  islands.  Contemplative,  taciturn,  and  from  his 
earliest  years  disposed  to  piety,  his  genius  carried  him,  while  yet  a 
child,  far  and  high  through  space,  not  only  to  vaster  discoveries,  but 
to  more  fervent  worship.  What,  in  the  divine  works,  he  sought  be- 
yond all  things  was  God  himself. 

His  father,  a  man  of  liberal  mind,  and  wealthy  in  his  trade,  did  not 
attempt  to  oppose  the  studious  bent  of  his  son's  inclinations.  He  sent 
him  to  Pavia,  to  study  geometry,  geography,  astronomy,  astrology 
(an  imaginary  science  of  that  day),  and  navigation.  His  powers  soon 
overstepped  the  limits  of  those  sciences,  in  their  then  incomplete 
state.  He  was  one  of  those  that  always  pass  beyond  the  boundary  at 
which  the  common  run  of  people  stop  and  cry  "Enough."  At 
fourteen  years  of  age  he  knew  all  that  was  taught  in  the  schools,  and 
he  returned  to  his  family  at  Genoa.  His  mind  could  not  brook  the 
sedentary  and  unintellectual  confinement  of  his  father's  business. 
He  sailed  for  several  years  in  trading  vessels  and  ships  of  war,  and  in 
the  adventurous  expeditions  which  the  great  houses  of  Genoa 
launched  on  the  Mediterranean,  to  contest  its  waves  and  its  ports 
with  the  Spaniard,  the  Arab,  and  the  Moor  ;  a  sort  of  perpetual 
crusade,  in  which  trade,  war,  and  religion  made  these  fleets  of  the 
Italian  republics  schools  of  commerce,  of  wealth,  of  heroism,  and  of 
devotion.  At  once  a  sailor,  a  philosopher,  and  a  soldier,  he  embarked 
in  one  of  the  vessels  which  his  country  lent  the  Duke  of  Aujou  wheu 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

lie  went  to  conquer  Naples,  in  the  fleet  which  the  King  of  Naples 
sent  to  attack  Tunis,  and  the  squadrons  dispatched  by  Genoa  against 
Spain.  He  even  rose,  it  is  said,  to  the  command  of  some  of  the  ob- 
scure naval  expeditions  of  the  city.  But  history  loses  sight  of  him 
in  this  his  early  career.  His  destiny  was  not  there  ;  he  felt  himself 
trammelled  in  the  narrow  seas,  and  amid  those  small  events.  His 
thoughts  were  vaster  than  his  country.  He  meditated  a  conquest  for 
the  human  race,  not  for  the  little  republic  of  Liguria. 

During  the  intervals  between  his  expeditions,  Christopher  Colum- 
bus found  means  of  satisfying,  by  the  study  of  his  art,  his  fondness 
for  geography  and  navigation,  and  of  increasing  his  humble  fortune. 
He  drew,  engraved,  and  sold  nautical  charts  ;  and  this  business 
afforded  him  a  scanty  livelihood.  He  looked  to  it  less  with  a  view 
to  gain  than  to  the  progress  of  science.  His  mind  and  his  feelings, 
always  fixed  on  the  sea  and  stars,  secretly  pursued  an  object  known 
but  to  himself. 

A  shipwreck,  caused  by  his  vessel  taking  fire  in  the  roads  of  Lis- 
bon, after  a  naval  engagement,  obliged  him  to  remain  in  Portugal, 
lie  threw  himself  into  the  water  to  escape  the  fire  ;  and,  supporting 
himself  by  an  oar  with  one  hand,  and  swimming  with  the  other, 
he  reached  the  shore.  Portugal,  then  completely  occupied  with  the 
passion  for  maritime  discovery,  was  a  field  suited  to  his  inclinations. 
He  hoped  to  find  in  it  opportunities  and  means  of  sailing  where  he 
pleased  over  the  ocean  :  he  only  found  the  unpleasing  sedentary  labor 
of  the  geographer,  obscurity  and  love.  As  he  went  each  day  to  at- 
tend the  religious  services  in  the  church  of  a  convent  at  Lisbon,  he 
became  fondly  attached  to  a  young  recluse,  whose  beauty  had  struck 
him.  She  was  the  daughter  of  an  Italian  nobleman  in  the  service  of 
Portugal.  Her  father  had  confided  her  to  the  care  of  the  sisters  of 
tli is  convent  before  starting  on  a  distant  naval  expedition.  Her  name 
was  Filippa  da  Palestrello.  Attracted  on  her  part  by  the  thoughtful 
and  majestic  beauty  of  the  young  stranger,  whom  she  saw  regularly 
attending  divine  service  in  the  church,  she  felt  the  same  passion  she 
had  inspired.  Both  without  relations  and  without  fortune,  in  a 
foreign  land,  there  was  nothing  to  interfere  with  their  mutual  attach- 
ment ;  and  they  married,  relying  on  Providence  and  on  labor,  the 
only  wealth  of  Filippa  and  her  husband.  In  order  to  support  him- 
self, with  his  wife  and  mother-in-law,  he  continued  the  business  of 
making  his  maps  and  globes,  which  were  much  sought  after,  on 
account  of  their  accuracy,  by  the  Portuguese  mariners.  The  papers 
of  his  father-in  law,  which  his  wife  handed  over  to  him,  and  his  cor- 
respondence with  Toscanelli,  the  famous  Florentine  navigator,  gave 
him,  it  is  said,  precise  information  about  the  distant  seas  of  India,  a» 
well  as  the  means  of  rectifying  the  then  confused  or  fabulous  ele- 
ments of  navigation.  He  was  entirely  absorbed  in  his  domestic  hap- 
piness and  geographical  studies  when  his  wife  gave  birth  to  a  son, 
whom  he  called  Diego,  after  his  brother's  name.  His  Ultimate 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  9 

associates  were  only  mariners,  either  returned  from  distant  expe- 
ditions, or  dreaming  of  unknown  lands,  and  unbeaten  paths  in  the 
ocean.  His  warehouse  of  charts  and  globes  was  a  source  of  ideas, 
conjectures,  and  projects  which  kept  his  imagination  always  fixed 
on  the  unsolved  problems  of  the  world.  His  wife,  the  child  and  sis- 
ter of  seamen,  shared  his  enthusiasm.  While  turning  his  globes 
under  his  hand,  or  dotting  his  charts  with  islands  and  continents,  his 
attention  had  been  seized  by  the  immense  void  space  in  the  middle 
of  the  Atlantic.  On  that  side,  the  earth  seemed  to  want  the  counter- 
poise of  a  continent.  The  imaginations  of  navigators  were  excited 
by  vague,  wondrous,  and  terrible  rumors  of  shores  indistinctly  seen 
from  the  mountains  of  the  Azores — ssiid  by  some  to  be  floating,  and 
by  others  fixed,  appearing  at  intervals  in  clear  weather,  but  disap- 
pearing or  seeming  to  retire  when  any  venturous  pilot  endeavored  to 
approach  them.  A  Venetian  traveller,  Marco  Polo,  then  regarded  as 
an  inventor  of  fables,  and  whose  veracity  time  has  since  shown,  re- 
lated to  the  West  the  wonders  of  the  deserts,  the  states,  and  the.  civ- 
ilization of  Tartary,  which  was  then  supposed  to  extend  to  the  longi- 
tudes in  reality  occupied  by  the  Americas.  Columbus  hiriseif  ex- 
pected to  find,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  those  countries  of 
gold,  pearls,  and  myrrh  from  which  Solomon  drew  his  wealth— the 
Ophir  of  the  Bible,  since  veiled  by  the  clouds  of  distance!  ami 
credulity.  It  was  not  a  new  continent,  but  a  lost  continent  that  he 
sought.  The  pursuit,  of  a  falsehood  was  leading  him  to  truth. 

His  calculations,  founded  on  Ptolemy  and  the  Arabian  geogra- 
phers, led  him  to  suppose  that  the  earth  was  a  globe  which  it  was 
possible  to  journey  round.  He  considered  this  globe  less  by  SOUK; 
thousands  of  miles  than  it  really  is.  He  therefore  concluded  that. 
the  extent  of  sea  to  be  passed  before  reaching  these  unknown  conn 
tries  of  India  was  less  than  navigators  usually  thought.  The  exist- 
ence of  these  lands  seemed  to  be  confirmed  by  the  singular  testimony 
of  the  pilots  who  had  sailed  the  farthest  beyond  the  A/.ores.  SOUK; 
had  seen,  floating  on  the  waves,  branches  of  trees  unknown  in  the 
West  ;  others,  pieces  of  wood  carved,  but  not  with  steel  tools  ;  huga 
pines  hollowed  into  canoes  of  a  single  log,  capable  of  carrying  eighty 
rowers;  others,  gigantic  reeds;  others,  again,  had  seen  corpses  of 
white  or  copper- colored  men,  whose  features  did  not  at  all  resemble 
the  races  of  western  Europe,  of  Asia,  or  of  Africa. 

All  these  indications,  floating  from  time  to  time  in  the  ocean,  after 
storms,  combined  wit.li  the  vague  instinct  which  always  precede:; 
events,  even  as  the  shadow  goes  before  one  who  has  the,  snn  at.  his 
back,  appeared  as  marvels  to  the  ignorant,  but  were  regarded  by 
Columbus  as  proofs  that  other  lands  existed  beyond  those  engraved 
by  geographers  on  their  maps  of  the  world.  He  was,  however,  con- 
vinced that  these  lands  were  only  the  prolongation  of  Asia,  which 
would  thus  occupy  more  than  a  third  of  the  circumference  of  tlio 
globe.  This  circumference  being  then  unknown  to  philosophers  and 


10  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

^geometricians,  the  extent  of  the  ocean  which  would  have  to  be 
/  crossed  in  order  to  reach  this  imaginary  Asia  was  left  entirely  to  con- 
/  jecturc.  Some  thought  it  incommensurable  ;  others  considered  it  a 
species  of  deep  and  boundless  ether,  in  which  navigators  might  lose 
themselves,  as  aeronauts  do  now  in  the  wastes  of  the  atmosphere. 
The  greater  number,  ignorant  of  the  laws  of  gravity,  and  of  the  at- 
traction which  draws  all  things  toward  the  centre,  and  yet  neverthe- 
less admitting  the  roundness  of  the  globe,  thought  that  vessels  and 
men,  if  they  could  ever  reach  the  antipodes,  would  start  away  from 
the  earth  and  fall  eternally  through  the  abysses  of  infinite  space. 
The  laws  which  govern  the  level  and  movement  of  the  ocean  were 
alike  unknown  to  them.  They  considered  the  sea — beyond  a  certain 
horizon  bounded  by  isles  already  known — as  a  liquid  chaos,  whose 
huge  waves  rose  into  inaccessible  mountains,  leaving  between  them 
bottomless  abysses,  into  which  they  rolled  down  from  above  in  irre- 
sistible cataracts,  which  would  swallow  any  vessels  daring  enough  to 
brave  them.  The  more  learned,  while  they  admitted  the  laws  of 
gravity  and  of  a  certain  level  in  the  liquid  spaces,  thought  that  the 
spherical  form  of  the  earth  would  give  the  ocean  a  slope  toward  the 
antipodes,  might  carry  -vessels  onward  to  nameless  shores,  but 
would  not  allow  them  to  return  up  this  slope  to  Europe.  From 
these  divers  prejudices  concerning  the  nature,  form,  extent,  ascents, 
and  descents  of  the  ocean  there  resulted  a  general  and  mysterious 
ilr-ad,  on  which  only  enterprising  minds  would  speculate  in  thought, 
mid  which  none  but  superhuman  boldness  would  venture  to  brave 
in  ships.  It  would  be  a  struggle  between  the  mind  of  man  and  the 
illimitable  sea  ;  to  attempt  this  seemed  to  demand  more  than  a 
mortal. 

The  unconquerable  predilection  of  the  poor  geographer  for  this 
enterprise  was  the  real  cause  that  detained  Columbus  so  many  years 
in  Lisbon,  the  country  of  his  thoughts.  It,  was  during  the  time  that. 
Portugal,  governed  by  John  the  Second— an  enlightened  and  enter- 
prising prince,  and  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  colonization,  commerce. 
imil  adventure— was  making  incessant  attempts  to  connect  Asia  with 
Europe  by  sea,  and  when  Vasco  de  Gama,  the  Portuguese  colonist, 
was  on  the  point  of  discovering  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  Columbus, 
convinced  that  he  should  find  a  more  open  and  direct  road  by  dash- 
ing straightforward  to  the  West,  obtained,  after  repeated  solicita- 
tions, an  audience  of  the  king,  to  whom  he  explained  his  plans  of 
discovery,  :md  applied  for  the  means  of  accomplishing  them,  to  the 
(advantage  and  honor  of  his  states.  The  king  listened  to  him  with 
interest  ;  lie  did  not  think  the  stranger's  faith  in  his  hopes  sufficiently 
levoid  of  foundation  to  be  classed  as  chimerical.  Columbus,  besides 
natural  eloquence,  possessed  the  eloquence  of  earnest  conviction, 
lie  induced  tin-  king  to  appoint  a  council  composed  of  learned  men 
and  politicians  to  examine  the  proposals  of  the  Genoese  navigator, 
itml  report  upon  the  probability  of  its  success.  This  council1,  con- 


CHKISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  11 

aisting  of  the  king's  confessor  and  of  some  geographers  who  enjoyed 
all  the  more  credit  in  the  king's  court  from  falling  in  with  common 
prejudices,  declared  the  ideas  of  Columbus  to  be  chimerical,  and 
contrary  to  all  the  laws  of  nature  and  of  religion. 

A  second  board  of  examiners,  to  whom  Columbus  appealed  by  the 
king's  permission,  confirmed  the  previous  decision.  Nevertheless, 
with  a  perfidy  to  which  the  king  was  no  party,  they  communicated 
the  plans  of  Columbus  to  a  pilot,  and  secretly  sent  a  vessel  to  try  th« 
passage  to  Asia  which  he  pointed  out.  This  vessel,  after  cruising 
about  for  some  days  beyond  the  Azores,  came  back,  with  its  crew 
frightened  by  the  immensity  of  the  void  abyss,  and  confirmed  the 
council  in  their  contempt  for  the  conjectures  of  Columbus. 

Pending  these  fruitless  solicitations  at  the  Portuguese  court,  the 
unfortunate  Columbus  had  lost  his  wife,  the  love  of  his  heart,  and 
the  consolation  and  encouragement  of  his  thoughts.  His  fortune, 
neglected  for  these  expectations  of  discovery,  was  ruined  ;  his  cred- 
itors seized  the  produce  of  his  labor,  even  to  his  maps  and  globes, 
and  actually  threatened  his  liberty.  Many  years  had  thus  been  lost 
in  expectation  :  his  age  was  increasing,  his  child  growing,  and  the 
extreme  of  misery  was  his  only  prospect,  in  place  of  the  New  World 
which  he  contemplated.  He  escaped  by  night  from  Lisbon,  on  foot, 
without  any  resources  for  his  journey  but  chance  hospitality  ;  and 
sometimes  leading  his  son  Diego  by  the  hand,  sometimes  carrying  him 
on  his  stalwart  shoulders,  he  entered  Spain,  with  the  determination 
of  offering  to  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  who  then  governed  it,  tlio 
continent  or  the  empire  which  Portugal  had  refused. 

It  was  during  this  tedious  pilgrimage  to  the  shifting  quarters  of  the 
Spanish  court,  that  he  reached  the  gate  of  the  convent  of  La  Kabida, 
near  Palos.  He  intended  first  to  go  to  the  little  town  of  Huerta,  iu 
Andalusia,  in  which  there  lived  a  brother  of  his  wife,  with  whom  he 
was  going  to  leave  his  son  Diego  ;  and  then  he  would  set  forth  alone 
to  encounter  delays,  risks,  and  perhaps  unbelief,  at  the  court  of  Isa- 
bella and  Ferdinand. 

It  has  been  said  that,  before  going  to  Spain,  he  had  thought  it  right, 
as  an  Italian  and  a  Genoese,  to  offer  his  discovery  to  Genoa,  his 
country,  first  ;  and  that  lie  then  offered  it  to  the  Venetian  Senate  ; 
but  that  these  two  republics,  occupied  with  ambitious  projects  and 
rivalries  nearer  home,  had  met  his  applications  with  cold  refusals. 

The  prior  of  the  monastery  of  La  Rabida  was  better  versed  in  the 
sciences  relating  to  navigation  than  was  usual  for  a  man  of  his  pro- 
fession. His  convent,  within  sight  of  the  sea,  and  near  the  little  port 
of  Palos,  then  one  of  the  busiest  in  Andalusia,  had  thrown  the  monk 
into  habitual  contact  witli  the  mariners  and  armorers  of  this  littlb 
town,  which  was  completely  dependent  on  the  sea.  During  his  resi- 
dence in  the  capital  and  at  court,  lie  had  occupied  himself  with  the 
study  of  the  natural  sciences,  and  of  the  problem^  which  were  then 
of  interest.  He  first  felt  pity,  and  his  daily  conversations  with 

A.B.— J3 


/2  CIIillSTOPHEll   COLUMBUS. 

(Columbus  soon  produced  enthusiasm  and  confidence,  for  a  man  who 
appeared  so  superior  to  his  condition.  He  saw  in  him  one  of  those 
sent  by  God,  but  thrust  from  the  gates  of  cities  and  princes,  to  whom 
their  {>ovcrty  brings  the  invisible  treasures  of  truth.  Religion  under- 
stood genius— a  species  of  revelation  which,  like  the  other,  requires  its 
believers.  He  felt  disposed  to  be  among  those  trusting  few  who 
share  in  the  revelations  of  genius,  not  by  inventive  talent,  but  by 
faith.  Providence  almost  always  sends  to  superior  men  one  of  these 
believers,  to  prevent  their  being  discouraged  by  the  incredulity,  the 
harshness,  or  the  persecutions  of  the  multitude.  They  exhibit 
friendship  in  its  noblest  from.  They  are  the  friends  of  disowned 
truth,  believers  in  the  impossible  future. 

Juan  Perez  felt  himself  predestined  by  Heaven,  from  the  depth  of 
his  solitude,  to  introduce  Columbus  to  the  favor  of  Isabella,  and  to 
preach  his  great  design  to  the  world.  What  he  loved  in  Columbus 
was  not  only  the  design,  but  the  man  himself  ;  the  beauty,  energy, 
courage,  modesty,  gravity,  eloquence,  piety,  virtue,  gentleness, 
grace,  patience,  and  misfortune  nobly  borne,  revealing  in  this 
stranger  a  disposition  marked  with  innumerable  perfections  by  that 
divine  stamp  which  prevents  our  forgetting  and  compels  us  to  admire 
a  truly  great  man.  After  his  first  conversation,  the  stranger  won 
over  not  only  the  opinion  but  also  the  heart  of  the  monk  ;  and, 
what  was  more  strange,  he  never  lost  it.  Columbus  had  gained  a 
friend. 

.Juan  Pere/  persuaded  Columbus  to  accept,  for  some  days,  a 
refuge,  »>r  at  least,  a  resting-place,  for  himself  and  his  child,  in  the 
poor  convent.  During  this  short  stay  the  prior  communicated  to 
some  of  his  friends  and  neighbors  of  Palos  the  arrival  and  the  ad- 
ventures of  his  guest.  He  begged  them  to  come  to  the  convent  to 
converse  with  the  stranger  upon  his  conjectures,  his  intentions,  and 
his  plans,  in  order  to  see  how  his  theories  agreed  with  the  practical 
views  of  the  seamen  of  Palos.  An  eminent  man,  and  friend  oi'  the; 
prior,  the  physician  Fernandez,  and  a  skilful  pilot,  Pedro  de  Velasco, 
spent,  at  his  invitation,  several  evenings  in  the  convent,  listened  to 
Columbus,  felt  their  eyes  opened  by  his  conversation,  entered  into 
Ins  plans  with  all  the  warmth  of  earnest  minds  and  simple  hearts, 
and  formed  that  first  conclave,  in  Which  every  new  faith  is  hatched 
with  the  cognizance  of  a  few  proselytes,  under  the  shadow  of  inti- 
macy, solitude!,  and  mystery.  Every  great  truth  begins  as  a  secret 
among  friends  before  bursting  forth  brilliantly  to  the  world.  The 
lir.-4  adherents  won  over  to  his  belief  by  Columbus,  in  the  cell  of  a 
jOOf  monk,  were  perhaps  dearer  to  him  than  the  applause  and  en- 
thusiasm of  all  Spain,  when  success  had  confirmed  his  predictions. 
I  lie  tirst  believed  on  the  faith  of  his  word,  the  others  only  on  seeing 
his  discoveries  ascertained. 

The  monk,  confirmed  in  his  opinion,  and  having  tested  his  impres. 
sious  by  the  science  of  the  physician  Fernandez  and  the  experience 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  13 

of  the  pilot  Velasco,  was  move  than  ever  charmed  with  his  guest. 
He  persuaded  Columbus  to  leave  the  child  in  his  care  al.  the  convent, 
to  go  to  court  to  offer  the  discovery  of  the  New  World  to  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  and  to  ask  those  sovereigns  for  the  assistance  necessary 
to  carry  out  his  plans.  Chance  made  the  poor  monk  a  powerful  pa- 
tron and  intercessor  at  the  Spanish  court,  lie.  had  lived  there  long, 
had  governed  the  conscience  of  Isabella,  and.  when  his  taste  for  re- 
tirement induced  him  to  withdraw  from  the  palace,  he  had  kept  up 
friendly  relations  with  the  new  cout'essor,  whom  he  had  recom- 
mended to  the  queen.  The  confessor,  at  that  time  keeper  of  the 
sovereign's  conscience,  was  Fernando  de  Talavera,  superior  of  the 
monastery  of  the  Prado,  a  man  of  merit,  reputation,  and  virtue,  to 
whom  all  the  doors  in  the  palace  were  open.  Juan  I 'ere/  gave 
Columbus  a  strong  letter  of  recommendation  to  Fernando  de  Tala- 
vera, and  furnished  him  with  the  equipment  necessary  to  appear  de- 
cently at  court— a  mule,  a  guide,  and  a  purse  of  zecchins.  Then, 
embracing  him  at  the  gates  of  the  monastery,  he  recommended  him 
and  his  designs  to  the  care  of  the  God  who  inspires,  and  the  diance.s 
which  favor  great  ideas. 

Full  of  gratitude  for  the  first  generous  friend,  whose  eyes  an  I 
heart  never  quitted  him,  and  to  whom  he  always  ascribed  the  origin 
of  his  good  fortune,  Columbus  set  out  for  Cordova,  where  the  court 
then  resided.  He  went  with  that  Confidence  of  success  which  is  the. 
illusion  of  genius,  but  also  its  fortunate  star.  It  was  not  long  befon; 
this  illusion  was  to  be  dispelled,  and  the  star  to  be  overshadowed. 
The  moment  seemed  badly  chosen  for  the  Genoese  adventurer  to 
offer  a  new  world  to  the  crown  of  Spain.  Far  from  dreaming  of 
conquering  questionable  possessions  beyond  unknown  seas,  Ferdi- 
nand and  Isabella  were  occupied  with  the  recovery  of  their  own 
kingdom  from  the  Moors  in  Spain.  These  .Moslem  conquerors  of 
the  Peninsula,  after  a  long  and  prosperous  occupation,  saw  snatched 
away  from  them,  one  by  one,  the  towns  and  provinces  which  I  hey 
had  made  their  country.  Vanquished  everywhere,  despite  their  ex- 
ploits, all  that  they  now  possessed  were  the  mountains  and  valley 
surrounding  Granada,'  the  capital  and  the  wonder  of  their  empire. 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella  employed  all  their  power,  all  their  efforts, 
and  all  the  resources  of  their  united  kingdoms,  to  wrest  from  the 
Moors  this  citadel  of  Spain.  United  by  a  marriage  of  policy,  by 
mutual  affection,  and  by  a  glory  shared  by  both  alike,  one  had 
brought  the  kingdom  of  Arragon  and  the  other' the  crown  of  Casiils 
to  their  double  throne.  But  although  the  king  and  queen  had  thus 
united  their  separate  provinces  into  one  country,  each  still  retained  a 
distinct  and  independent  dominion  over  their  hereditary  kingdom. 
They  had  each  a  council  and  ministers,  for  thesepar.te  interests  of 
their  own  subjects.  These  councils  were  oidy  fuaed  into  one  govern- 
ment on  questions  of  common  importance  to  the  two  states  and  the 
two  sovereigns,  Nature  seems  to  have  endowed  them  will)  beauty, 


14  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

qualities,  and  excellences  of  mind  and  body  different,  but  nearly 
equal  ;  as  if  one  was  intended  to  supply  what  was  wanting  to  the 
other  for  the  conquests,  the  civilization,  and  prosperity  which  were 
in  store  for  them.  Ferdinand,  a  little  older  than  Isabella,  was  a  skil- 
ful warrior  and  a  consummate  politician.  Before  the  age  when  sad 
experience  is  teaching  others  to  understand  men,  he  could  see  through 
them.  His  only  defect  was  a  certain  coldness  and  suspicion,  arising 
from  mistrust,  and  closing  the  heart  to  enthusiasm  and  magnanimity. 
'But  these  two  virtues,  in  which  he  was  to  some  extent  wanting. 
Were  supplied  to  his  councils  by  the  tenderness  and  genius  of  the 
full-hearted  Isabella;  Young,  beautiful,  admired  by  all,  adored  by 
him,  well  educated,  pious  without  superstition,  eloquent,  full  of  en- 
thusiasm for  great  achievements,  of  admiration  for  great  men,  of 
faith  in  great  ideas,  she  stamped  on  the  mind  and  policy  of  Ferdi- 
nand the  heroism  which  springs  from  the  heart,  and  the  love  of  the 
marvellous  which  arises  from  the  imagination.  She  inspired — he  ex- 
ecuted. The  one  found  her  reward  in  the  fame  of  her  husband  ;  the 
other,  £is  glory  in  the  affection  of  his  wife.  This  double  reign,  des- 
tined to  become  of  almost  fabulous  import  in  the  annals  of  Spain, 
only  awaited,  in  order  to  immortalize  itself  among  all  reigns,  the 
arrival  of  the  destitute  foreigner  who  came  to  beg  admittance 
within  the  palace  of  Cordova,  with  the  letter  of  a  poor  friar  in  his 
hand. 

This  letter,  read  with  prejudice  and  unbelief  by  the  queen's  con- 
fessor, opened  to  Columbus  a  long  vista  of  delays  exclusion,  and  dis- 
couragement. It  is  only  in  solitude  and  leisure  that  men  give  audi- 
ence to  bold  ideas.  Amid  the  tumult  of  business  and  of  courts, 
they  have  neither  the  kindness  nor  the  time.  Columbus  was  driven 
off  from  every  door,  as  the  historian  Oviedo,  his  contemporary,  re- 
lates, "  because  he  was  a  foreigner,  because  he  was  poorly  clad,  and 
because  he  brought  the  courtiers  and  ministers  no  other  recommen- 
dation than  a  letter  from  a  Franciscan  monk  long  since  forgotten  at 
the  court. ' ' 

The  king  and  queen  did  not  even  hear  of  him.  Isabella's  confess- 
or, either  from  indifference  or  contempt,  completely  belied  the  ex- 
pectations Juan  Perez  had  founded  upon  him.  Columbus,  with  the 
obstinacy  that  arises  from  certainty  biding  its  time,  stayed  at  Cor- 
dova,  to  be  near  enough  to  watch  for  a  favorable  moment.  After 
'exhausting  the  scanty  purse  of  his  friend,  the  prior  of  La  Rabida,  In- 
earned  a  slender  livelihood  by  his  trade  in  globes  and  maps,  thus 
trilling  with  the  images  of  the  world  which  he  was  destined  to  con- 
quer. His  hard  and  patient  life  during  many  years  is  but  a  tale  of 
misery,  labor,  and  blighted  hope.  Young  in  heart,  however,  and 
affectionate,  he  loved  and  was  beloved  iulhose  years  of  trial ;  for  a 
•econd  son,  Fernando,  was  about  this  time  the  offspring  of  a  myste- 
rious attachment,  never  sanctified  by  marriage,  and  of  which  lie 
records  the  fact  and  the  repentance  in'touching  language  in  his  will. 


CHEI8TOPHER  COLUMBUS.  15 

He  brought  up  this  natural  son  with  as  much  tenderness  as  his  other 
son,  Diego. 

His  external  grace  and  dignity,  however,  showed  themselves,  de- 
spite his  humble  profession.  The  distinguished  characters  with 
whom  his  scientific  trade  occasionally  brought  him  into  contact  re- 
ceived of  his  person  and  conversation  an  impression  of  astonishment 
and  attraction — the  magnetic  influence  of  a  great  mind  in  a  lowly 
condition.  His  trade  and  conversation  by  degrees  gained  him  friends 
in  Cordova,  and  even  at  court.  Among  the  friends  whose  names 
history  has  preserved,  as  associated  by  gratitude  to  the  New  World, 
are  those  of  Alonzo  de  Quintanilla,  high-treasurer  of  Isabella  ;  Ger- 
aldini,  the  tutor  of  the  young  princes,  her  children  ;  Antonio  Geral- 
dini,  papal  nuncio  at  Ferdinand's  court ;  and  lastly  Mendoza,  Cardi- 
nal Archbishop  of  Toledo,  who  enjoyed  such  royal  favor  that  he 
was  called  the  third  king  in  Spain. 

The  Archbishop  of  Toledo — at  first  alarmed  at  these  geographical 
novelties,  which  seemed,  from  a  mistaken  idea,  to  clash  with  the 
notions  of  celestial  mechanics  contained  in  the  Bible — was  soon 
quieted  by  the  sincere  and  exalted  piety  of  Columbus.  He  ceased  to 
fear  blasphemy  in  ideas  which  increase  the  proofs  of  the  wisdom  and 
greatness  of  G-od.  Persuaded  by  the  system  and  delighted  with  the 
man,  he  obtained  from  his  sovereigns  an  audience  for  his  prott'gi'i. 
After  two  years'  expectation,  Columbus  appeared  at  this  audiencu 
with  the  modesty  becoming  a  poor  foreigner,  but  yet  with  the  confi- 
dence of  a  tributary  who  is  bringing  his  masters  more  than  they  can 
give  him  in  return.  "  Thinking  on  what  I  was,"  he  himself  after- 
wards remarks,  "  I  was  overwhelmed  with  humility  ;  but,  thinking 
of  what  I  brought,  I  felt  myself  on  an  equality  with  the  two  crowns  ; 
I  perceived  that  I  was  no  linger  my  humble  self,  but  the  instrument 
of  God,  chosen  and  marked  out  for  the  accomplishment  of  a  great 
design." 

Ferdinand  listened  to  Columbus  with  attention,  Isabella  with  en- 
thusiasm. From  his  first  look  and  his  first  tones,  she  felt  for  this 
messenger  of  God  an  admiration  amounting  to  fanaticism — an  attrac- 
tion which  partook  of  affection.  Nature  had  given  to  Columbus  the 
personal  recommendations  which  fascinate  .the  eye,  as  well  as  the 
eloquence  which  persuades  the  mind.  It  might  have  been  supposed 
that  he  was  destined  to  have  for  his  first  apostle  a  queen  ;  and  that 
the  truth  with  which  he  was  to  enrich  his  age  was  to  be  first  re- 
ceived and  fostered  in  the  heart  of  a  woman.  Isabella  was  that 
woman.  Her  constancy  in  favor  of  Columbus  never  wavered"  before 
the  indifference  of  her  court,  before  his  enemies,  or  his  reverses. 
She  believed  in  him  from  the  day  she  first  saw  him  :  she  was  his  pros- 
elyte on  the  throne,  and  his  friend  even  to  the  grave. 

Ferdinand,  after  hearing  Columbus,  appointed  a  council  of  exam- 
ination at  Salamanca,  under  the  presidency  of  Fernando  de  Talavcra, 
prior  of  the  Prado.  This  council  consisted  of  the  men  the  most 


10  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

versed  in  divine  and  human  knowledge  in  the  two  kingdoms.  It  as- 
sembled  in  this  the  literary  capital  of  Spain,  in  the  Dominica*  con- 
vent in  which  Columbus  was  received  as  a  guest.  At  that  time 
priests  and  monks  managed  everything  in  Spain.  Civilization  was 
of  the  sanctuary.  Kings  were  only  concerned  with  acts  :  ideas 
belonged  to  the  priest.  The  Inquisition — a  sacerdotal  police — 
watched,  reached,  and  struck  all  that  savored  of  heresy,  even  at  the 
foot  of  the  throne. 

To  this  council  the  king  had  added  the  professors  of  astronomy, 
of  geography,  of  mathematics,  and  of  all  the  sciences  taught  at  Sala- 
manca. The  audience  did  not  alarm  Columbus.  He  expected  to  be 
tried  by  his  peers,  but  he  was  only  tried  by  his  despisers.  The  first 
time  ho  appeared  in  the  great  hall  of  the  convent,  the  monks  and  so- 
called  wise  men,  convinced  beforehand  that  all  theories  surpassing 
their  ignorance  or  their  routine  were  but  the  dreams  of  a  diseased  or 
arrogant  mind,  saw  in  this  obscure  foreigner  only  an  adventurer  seek- 
ing his  fortune  by  these  chimeras.  None  deigned  to  listen  to  him, 
save  two  or  three  friars  of  the  convent  of  St.  Stephen  of  Salamanca, 
obscure  monks  without  any  influence,  who  devoted  themselves  in 
their  cells  to  studies  despised  by  the  superior  clergy.  The  other  ex- 
aminers of  Columbus  puzzled  him  by  quotations  from  the  Bible,  the 
prophets,  the  psalms,  the  Gospels,  and  the  fathers  of  the  Church  ; 
who  demolished  by  anticipation,  and  by  indisputable  texts,  the 
theory  of  the  globe,  and  the  absurd  and  impious  idea  of  antipodes. 
Among  others,  Lactantius  had  expressed  himself  deliberately  oil 
this  subject  in  a  passage  which  was  cited  to  Columbus  :  "  Can  any- 
thing be  more  absurd,"  Lactantius  writes,  "  than  to  believe  in  the 
existence  of  antipodes  having  their  feet  opposed  to  ours — men  who 
walk  with  their  feet  in  the  air  and  their  heads  down,  in  a  part  of  the 
world  where  everything  is  topsy-turvy — the  trees  growing  with  their 
roots  in  the  air  and  their  branches  in  the  earth?"  St.  Augustine 
had  gone  further,  branding  with  impiety  the  mere  belief  in  antipo- 
des :  "  For,"  he  said,  "  it  would  involve  the  supposition  of  nations 
not  descended  from  Adam.  Now,  the  Bible  says  that  all  men  are 
descended  from  one  and  the  same  father."  Other  doctors,  taking  a 
poetical  metaphor  for  a  system  of  cosmogony,  quoted  to  (he  geogra- 
pher the  verse  of  the  psalm  in  which  it  is  said  that  God  spread  the 
sky  above  the  earth  as  a  tent— from  which  it  followed,  they  said, 
that  the  earth  was  flat. 

In  vain  Columbus  replied  to  his  examiners  with  a  piety  which  did 
not  clash  with  nature  ;  in  vain,  following  them  respectfully  into  the 
province  of  theology,  he  proved  himself  more  religious  and  more  or- 
thodox than  they,  because  more  intelligent  and  more  reverent  of  the 
works  of  God.  His  eloquence,  enhanced  by  truth,  lost  all  its  power 
and  brilliancy  amid  the  wilful  darkness  of  their  obstinate  igno- 
rance. A  few  monks  only  appeared  either  doubtful  or  convinced 
that  Columbus  was  right,  Diego  de  Deza,  a  Dominican  friar— ft 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS.  17 

man  beyond  his  ago,  and  who  afterward  became  Archbishop  of 
Toledo — ventured  boldly  to  oppose  the  prejudices  of  Hie  coun- 
cil, and  to  give  the  weight  of  his  word  and  his  influence  to  Co- 
lumbus. Even  this  unexpected  assistance  could  not  oven •onii! 
the  indifference  or  obstinacy  of  the  examiners.  Tlic  confer- 
ences were  many,  without  coming  to  a  definite  conclusion.  They 
still  lingered,  and  avoided  truth  by  delay,  the  last  refuge  of  error. 
They  were  interrupted  by  a  fresh  contest  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella 
with  the  Moors  of  Granada.  Columbus — sorrowful,  despised,  put 
off  and  dismissed,  encouraged  only  by  the  favor  of  Isabella  and  the 
conversion  of  Diego  de  Deza  to  his  views — followed  in  miserable 
plight  the  court  and  the  army  from  camp  to  camp,  and  from  town 
to  town,  waiting  in  vain  for  an  hour's  attention,  which  the  din  of 
war  prevented  him  from  receiving.  The  queen,  however,  as  faithful 
to  him  in  her  secret  favor  as  fortune  was  cruel,  continued  to  hope 
well  of  and  to  protect  this  disowned  genius.  She  had  a  house  or  a 
tent  reserved  for  Columbus  wherever  the  court  stopped.  !!<"•  treas- 
urer was  instructed  to  provide  for  the  learned  foreigner — not  as  for 
an  undesired  guest  who  demands  hospitality,  but  as  a  distinguished 
stranger,  who  honors  the  kingdom  by  his  presence,  and  whom  the 
sovereigns  wish  to  retain  in  their  service. 

Thus  passed  several  years,  in  the  course  of  which  the  kings  of 
Portugal,  England,  and  France,  hearing  through  their  ambassadors 
of  this  strange  man,  who  promised  monarchs  a  new  world,  made 
overtures  to  Columbus  to  enter  into  their  service.  The  deep  grati- 
tude he  owed  to  Isabella,  and  his  love  for  Donna  Beatrice  Knriquey, 
of  Cordova,  already  the  mother  of  his  second  son,  Fernando,  made 
him  reject  these  offers,  and  remain  a  follower  of  the  court.  lie  re- 
served to  the  young  queen  an  empire  in  return  for  her  kindness  t:> 
bun.  He  was  present  at  the  siege  and  conquest  of  (}ranada.  He 
saw  Boabdil  giye  up  to  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  the  keys  of  his  capi 
tal,  the  palace  of  the  Abeneerragcs,  and  the  domes  of  the  Alhamhra. 
He  took  part  in  the  procession  which  escorted  the  Spanish  sover 
eigns  in  their  triumphal  entry  into  this  last  lefugc  of  Islam.  lie  was 
already  looking  beyond  the  ramparts  and  vales  of  Granada  to  fresh 
conquests,  and  other  triumphal  entries  into  vaster  territories.  Com- 
pared with  the  greatness  of  his  ideas,  everything  seemed  small. 

The  peace  which  followed  this  conquest,  in  1492,  caused  a  second 
assembly  of  examiners  of  his  plans  at  Seville  to  give  their  advice  tit 
the  crown.  This  advice,  long  opposed,  as  at  Salamanca,  by  Diego 
de  Deza,  was  to  reject  tlu!  offer  of  the.  Genoese  adventurer,  if  no!  as 
impious,  at  least  as  chimerical,  and  as  compromising  the  dignity  of 
the  Spanish  Crown,  which  could  not  undertake  an  enterprise  on  such 
slender  prospects.  Ferdinand,  however,  influenced  by  Isabella,  in 
communicating  this  decision  of  the  council,  softened  its  harshness, 
and  gave  him  to  understand  that  as  soon  as  lie  was  in  quiet  posses- 
sion of  Spain  by  the  complete  expulsion  of  the  Moors,  the  court 


IS  CSKISTOPHER  COLUMBUS. 

would  assist  him  with  money  and  ships  in  this  expedition  of  discov* 
fry  and  conquest  for  which  he  had  pressed  for  so  many  years. 

"While  waiting,  without  too  sanguine  hopes,  the  ever-delayed  ac- 
complishment of  the  king's  promises  and  the  sincere  wishes  of  Isa- 
bella, Columbus  tried  to  persuade  two  great  Spanish  nobles,  the 
Dukes  of  Medina  Sidonia  and  Medina  Celi  to  carry  out  this  enter- 
pri-eat  their  own  expense.  Each  possessed  ports  and  ships  on  the 
Spanish  coast.  They  first  smiled  at  these  prospects  of  glory  and 
maritime  possessions  for  their  own  families,  and  then  abandoned 
them  through  incredulity  or  indifference.  Envy  preyed  on  Columbus 
even  before  he  had  earned  it  by  success  :  it  persecuted  him  by  antici- 
pation and  by  instinct,  even  through  his  hopes  ;  it  contested  with 
him  even  what  it  termed  his  follies.  He  again,  with  tears,  gave  up 
his  endeavors.  The  unwillingness  of  the  ministers  to  listen  to  him, 
the  obstinacy  of  the  priests  in  opposing  his  ideas  as  a  scientific  im- 
piety, the  vain  promises  and  eternal  delays  of  the  court,  threw  him, 
after  six  years'  trial,  into  such  discouragement  that  he  finally  gave 
up  all  idea  of  again  soliciting  the  Government  of  Spain,  and  resolved 
to  go  and  offer  his  undiscovered  empire  to  the  King  of  France,  from 
whom  lie  had  already  received  overtures. 

Ruined  in  fortune,  disappointed  in  hope,  worn  out  by  delay,  and 
heart-broken  at  the  necessity  of  quitting  Donna  Beatrice,  he  again 
wt  out  on  foot  from  Cordova,  without  any  views  for  the  future,  ex- 
cept to  seek  out  his  faithful  friend,  the  prior  Juan  Perez,  in  the  con- 
vent of  Ilabida.  He  intended  to  fetch  his  son  Diego,  whom  he  had 
left  there,  to  bring  him  back  to  Cordova,  and  to  place  him,  before 
leaving  for  France,  under  the  care  of  Donna  Beatrice,  the  mother  of 
his  natural  son  Fernando.  The  brothers,  thus  brought  up  together 
by  the  care  of  one  woman,  would  love  each  other  with  a  fraternal 
affection,  the  only  inheritance  he  had  to  leave  them. 

Tears  flowed  from  the  eyes  of  the  prior  Juan  Perez,  at  seeing  his 
friend  come  on  foot,  more  miserably  clad  than  at  first,  to  knock  at 
the  gate  of  the  convent,  sufficiently  attesting,  by  the  shabbiness  of 
his  clothes  and  the  sadness  of  his  face,  the  incredulity  of  men  and 
the  ruin  of  his  hopes.  But  Providence  had  again  hidden  the  key  of 
Columbus's  fortune  in  the  bosom  of  friendship.  The  poor  friar's 
faith  in  the  truth  and  future  discoveries  of  his  prott'ge,  instead  of 
discouraging  made  him  bear  up  against  it,  with  a  kindly  indigna- 
tion at.  his  disappointment.  He  embraced  his  guest,  condoled  and 
\\ept  with  him;  hut  soon,  recalling  all  his  energy  and  resolution, 
sent  toPaloe  for  the  physician  Fernandez,  his  old  confidant  in  the 
mysterious  projects  of  Columbus,  Alonzo  Pinzon,  a  rich  seaman  of 
that,  port,  and  Sebastian  Rodriguez,  a  skilful  pilot  of  Lepi.  The 
ideas  of  Columbus,  again  unfolded  before  this  little  conclave  of 
Irien  Is.  raised  the  fanaticism  of  his  audience  still  higher  than  before. 
They  begged  of  him  to  stay  and  try  his  fortune  again,  and  to  re- 
serve for  Spain,  though  unbelieving  and  ungrateful,  the  glory  of  an 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS.  19 

enterprise  unrivalled  in  history.  Pinzon  promised  to  assist,  with  hifl 
wealth  and  his  vessels,  the  equipment  of  this  memorable  tl;,(i]la,  ;is 
soon  as  the  government  should  consent  to  sanction  it.  Juan  Perez 
wrote,  not  now  to  the  confessor,  but  to  the  queen  herself,  to  interest 
her  conscience  as  much  as  her  glory  in  an  enterprise  which  would 
convert  whole  nations  from  idolatry  to  religion.  lie  spoke  in  the 
name  of  heaven  and  of  earth  :  he  drew  warmth  and  persuasion  from 
his  desire  for  the  greatness  of  his  country  and  from  his  personal  friend- 
ship. Columbus,  thoroughly  discouraged,  refusing  to  take  this  let- 
ter to  a  court  of  which  he  had  so  long  experienced  the  delays  and 
neglect,  the  pilot  Rodriguez  undertook  to  carry  it  himself  to  (Jra- 
nada,  where  the  court  then  resided.  He  set  out,  followed  by  the  vows 
and  prayers  of  the  convent,  and  of  the  friends  of  Columbus  at  Palos. 
The  fourteenth  day  after  his  departure,  he  came  back  in  triumph  to 
th"  monastery.  The  queen  had  read  the  letter  of  Juan  PC  re/,  and 
while  reading  it  all  her  prepossessions  in  favor  of  the  Genoese  mari- 
ner had  returned.  She  sent  for  the  venerable  prior  to  come  instantly 
to  her  court,  and  desired  Columbus  to  await,  at  the  convent  of  lia 
Rabida,  the  return  of  the  monk  and  the  decision  of  the  council. 

Juan  Perez,  delighted  witli  his  friend's  good  fortune,  saddled  his 
mule  without  losing  an  hour,  and  set  out  by  night,  alone,  to  cross  a 
country  infested  with  Moors.  He  felt  that  in  him  Heaven  protected 
the  great  design  which  he  held  in  trust  for  his  friend.  He  arrived  : 
the  gates  of  the  palace  were  opened  to  him  ;  he  saw  the  queen,  and 
aroused  in  her,  by  the  strength  of  his  own  conviction,  the  faith  and 
zeal  which  she  herself  felt  for  this  great  work.  The  Marchioness  of 
Maya,  Isabella's  favorite,  interested  herself,  from  enthusiasm  and  pity, 
in  the  holy  friar's  protege.  The  hearts  of  two  women,  involved  by 
the  eloquence  of  a  monk  in  the  projects  of  an  adventurer,  tri- 
umphed over  the  opposition  of  the  court.  Isabella  sent  Columbus  a 
sum  of  money  from  her  private  treasury  to  purchase  a  mule  and 
clothes,  and  directed  him  to  come  at  once  to  court.  Juan  Perex  re- 
mained with  her,  to  support  his  friend  by  his  exertions  and  influ- 
ence, and  forwarded  the  news  and  the  pecuniary  succors  to  Kabida 
by  a  messenger,  who  gave  the  letter  and  the  money  to  the  physician, 
Fernandez  of  Palos,  to  be  handed  over  to  Columbus. 

Having  bought  a  mule  and  hired  a  servant,  Columbus  went  to 
Granada,  and  was  admitted  to  discuss  his  plans  and  requirement* 
with  the  ministers  of  Ferdinand.  "Then  was  seen,"  says  an  eye- 
witness, "  an  obscure  and  unknown  follower  of  the  court,  classed  bjr 
the  ministers  of  the  two  crowns  among  the  troublesome  apph 
cants,  feeding  his  imagination  in  the  corners  of  the  antechambers 
with  the  magnificent  project  of  discovering  a  new  world  ;  grave, 
melancholy,  and  depressed  amid  the  public  rejoicing,  he  seemed  to 
look  with  indifference  upon  the  completion  of  the  conquest  of  Gra- 
nada, which  filled  with  pride  a  nation  and  two  courts.  This  man  WM 
Christopher  Columbus  !" 


20 

Tins  time,  the  obstacles  were  raised  by  Columbus.  Certain  of  the 
continent  which  lie  oil'ered  Spain,  he  wished,  even  out  of  respect 
to  the  greatness  of  the  gift  he  was  about  to  make  to  the  world  and  to 
his  sovereigns,  to  obtain  for  himself  and  his  descendants  conditions 
worthy,  not  of  his  position,  but  of  his  work.  If  he  had  been  want- 
ing in  proper  pr'dc,  he  would  have  thought  himself  wanting  in  faith 
in  God  and  the  worthiness  of  his  mission.  Poor,  unsupported,  and 
dismissed,  he  treated  of  possessions  which  he  as  yet  only  saw  in 
thought,  as  if  he  had  been  a  monarch.  "A  beggar,"  said  Fenian 
dez  de  Talavera,  president  of  the  council,  "  stipulates  with  kings  for 
royal  conditions."  lie  demanded  the  title  and  privileges  of  admiral, 
the  rank  and  power  of  viceroy  over  all  the  lands,  which  his  discov- 
eries might  annex  to  Spain,  and  the  perpetuity  of  the  title,  for  him- 
self and  his  descendants,  with  all  the  revenues  of  these  possessions. 
"  Singular  demands  for  an  adventurer,1'  said  his  enemies  in  the 
council  :  "  they  secure  to  him  beforehand  the  command  of  a  fleet, 
and,  if  he  succeeds,  an  unlimited  viceroyalty,  while  he  undertakes 
nothing  in  case  of  failure,  because,  in  his  present  poverty,  he  has 
nothing  to  lose." 

These  requirements  at  first  excited  astonishment,  and  at  last  indig- 
nation :  he  was  offered  conditions  less  burdensome  to  the  crown. 
Notwithstanding  his  indigence  and  his  misery,  he  refused  all. 
Wearied  but  not  overcome  by  eighteen  years  of  expectation  from 
the  day  that  he  had  conceived  his  idea  and  offered  it  in  vain  to  the 
Christian  powers,  he  would  have  blushed  lo  abate  one  jot  of  his 
price  for  the  gift  that  God  had  given  him.  lie  respectfully  retired 
from  the  conference  with  Ferdinand's  commissioners,  and  mounting 
his  mule,  the  gift  of  the  queen,  alone  and  unprovided,  he  took  the 
road  to  Cor.lova,  to  proceed  from  thence  to  France. 

Isabella,  hearing  of  her  protege's  departure,  seemed  to  have  a  pre- 
sentiment that  these  great  prospects  were  deserting  her  with  this 
man  of  destiny.  She  was  indignant  at  the  commissioners,  who,  she 
said,  were  haggling  with  God  for  the  price  of  an  empire,  and  espe- 
cially of  millions  of  souls  whom  their  fault  would  leave  to  idolatry. 
The  Marchioness  of  Maya,  and  Quiutanilla,  Isabella's  treasurer, 
shared  and  encouraged  these  feelings.  The  king,  cooler  and  more 
calculating,  hesitated  ;  the  expense  of  the  undertaking  and  an  empty 
treasury  made  him  hold  back.  "Well!"  said  Isabella,  in  a  trans- 
port of  generous  enthusiasm,  "I  will  undertake  the  enterprise 
alone,  for  my  own  crown  of  Castile.  I  will  pawn  my  diamonds  and 
jewels  to  meet  the  expenses  of  the  expedition." 

This  womanly  burst  of  feeling  triumphed  over  the  king's  econ- 
omy, and,  by  a  nobler  estimate,  acquired  incalculable  treasures  in 
wealth  and  territory  to  the  two  kingdoms.  Disinterestedness,  in- 
spired by  enthusiasm,  is  the  true  economy  of  great  minds,  and  the 
true  wisdom  of  great  politician*. 

The  steps  of  the  fugitive  were  followed.     The  queen's  messenger 


CtiUlSTOPHER  COLtTMBtfS.  Jil 

overtook  him  a  few  leagues  from  Granada  on  the  bridge  of  Pinos,  in 
the  famous  defile  where  the  Moors  and  the  Christians  had  so  often 
mingled  their  blood  in  the  torrent  which  separates  the  two  races. 
Columbus,  much  moved,  returned  to  the  feet  of  Isabella.  Her  tears 
obtained  from  Ferdinand  the  ratification  of  his  conditions.  While 
serving  the  hopeless  cause  of  this  great  man,  she  thought  she  was  serv- 
ing the  cause  of  God  himself,  unknown  to  that  part  of  the  human 
race  which  he  was  to  bring  over  to  the  faith.  She  thought  of  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  in  the  possessions  which  her  favorite  was  to  ac- 
quire for  the  empire.  Ferdinand  only  saw  the  earthly  kingdom. 
The  champion  of  Christendom  in  Spain,  and  conqueror  of  the  Moors, 
as  many  of  the  faithful  as  he  brought  over  to  the  faith  of  Rome,  so 
many  subjects  had  the  pope  added  to  his  rule.  The  millions  of  men 
whom  he  was  to  rally  round  the  cross  by  the  discoveries  of  this 
stranger,  had  been  by  anticipation  given  over  to  his  exclusive  domin- 
ion by  the  court  of  Rome.  Every  one  who  was  not  a  Christian  was 
in  its  eyes  a  slave  as  of  right.  Every  portion  of  the  human  race  not 
stamped  with  the  seal  of  Christianity  stood  without  the  pale  of  hu- 
manity. It  gave  or  exchanged  them  away  in  the  name  of  its  spirit- 
ual supremacy  on  earth  and  in  heaven.  Ferdinand  was  sufficiently 
credulous,  and,  at  the  same  time,  sufficiently  cunning,  to  accept 
them. 

The  treaty  between  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  and  this  poor  Genoese 
adventurer  who  had  arrived  in  their  capital  on  foot  some  years  be- 
fore, and  had  no  other  refuge  than  the  hospitality  of  the  convent 
porch,  was  signed  in  the  plain  of  Granada,  on  the  17th  of  April, 
I  Jll'l  Isabella  took  upon  herself,  on  behalf  of  her  kingdom  of  ( 'as- 
tile,  all  the  expenses  of  the  expedition.  It  was  riglil  that  she  who 
had  first  believed  in  the  enterprise  should  encounter  the  greatest 
risk  ;  and  it,  was  also  right  that  the  glory  and  honor  of  success  should 
be  attached  to  her  name  rather  than  to  any  other.  The  little  haven 
of  Palos  in  Andalusia  was  assigned  to  Columbus  as  the  place  of 
equipment  for  his  expedition,  and  the  port  from  which  his  squadron 
was  to  sail.  The  idea  conceived  at  the  convent  of  La  Rabida,  near 
Palos,  by  Juan  Perez  and  his  friends,  in  their  first  interview  with 
Columbus,  thus  returned  to  the  place  of  its  birth.  The  prior  of  tho 
convent  was  to  take  charge  of  the  arrangements,  and  to  see  from  his 
retreat  the  first  sails  of  his  friend  spread  for  that  new  world  which 
they  had  both  beheld  with  the  eye  of  genius  and  of  faith. 

Numberless  unforeseen  impediments,  to  all  appearance  insur- 
mountable, now  crossed  the  favors  of  Isabella,  and  the  fulfilment  of 
Ferdinand'*  promises.  The  royal  treasury  was  short  of  money.  Ves- 
sels were  leaving  the  Spanish  ports  on  more  urgent  expeditions.  Tho 
seamen  refused  to  engage  for  so  long  aud  mysterious  a  voyage,  or  de- 
serted after  enlistment.'  The  towns  of  tho  sea-coast  ordered  l>y  the 
court  to  supply  the  vessels,  hesitated  to  obey,  and  unrigged  their 
gliips,  which  were  commonly  considered  as  devoted  to  certain  de 


22  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

struction.  Unbelief,  fear,  envy,  ridicule,  avarice,  and  even  mutiny, 
airain  and  again  rendered  useless  to  Columbus,  even  in  spite  of  the 
royal  officers,  the  means  of  equipment  which  the  favor  of  Isabella 
had  placed  at  his  disposal.  It  seemed  as  though  some  evil  genius,  ob- 
stinately struggling  against  the  genius  of  the  world's  unity,  tried  to 
keep  separate  forever  these  two  continents  which  the  mind  of  one 
man  wished  to  unite. 

Columbus  superintended  everything  from  the  monastery  of  La 
Rabida,  where  he  was  again  the  guest  of  his  friend  the  prior,  Juan 
IVre/.  Without  the  intervention  and  influence  of  the  poor  monk, 
the  expedition  would  again  have  failed.  The  orders  of  the  court 
were  powerless  and  disobeyed.  The  monk  had  recourse  to  his  friends 
at  Palos.  They  yielded  to  his  conviction,  his  entreaties,  and  his  ad- 
vice. Three  brothers,  wealthy  mariners  at  Palos,  the  Pinzons,  were 
at  last  imbued  with  the  faith  and  spirit  which  inspired  the  friend  of 
Columbus.  They  imagined  they  heard  the  voice  of  God  in  that  old 
man.  They  volunteered  to  join  in  the  undertaking  :  they  found  the 
money,  they  equipped  three  vessels  of  the  kind  then  called  caravel- 
las,  hired  seamen  in  the  little  harbors  of  Palos  and  Moguer,  and  in 
order  to  give  an  impluse  and  an  example  of  courage  to  their  sailors, 
two  of  the  three  brothers,  Martin  Alonzo  Pinzon  and  Vincent  Yanes 
Pin/on,  resolved  to  embark  and  to  take  command  in  person  of  their 
own  vessels.  Thanks  to  this  generous  assistance  from  the  Piuzons. 
three  ships,  or  rather  boats,  the  Santa  Maria,  the  Pinta,  and  the 
Nina,  were  ready  to  put  to  sea  on  Friday  the  3d  of  August,  1492. 

At  break  of  day,  Columbus,  escorted  down  to  the  shore  by  the 
prior  and  monks  of  the  convent  of  La  Rabida,  who  b\essed  the  sea 
and  his  vessels,  embraced  his  son,  whom  he  left  under  the  care  of 
Juan  1'ere/,,  and  embarked  in  the  largest  of  his  three  barks,  the  Santa 
Maria,  on  board  of  which  he  hoisted  his  flag  as  admiral  of  an  un- 
known sea,  and  viceroy  of  undiscovered  lands.  The  people  of  the 
two  harbors  and  of  the  coast  came  down  to  the  shore  in  crowds  to  be 
present  at  their  departure  on  a  voyage  from  which  it  was  commonly 
supposed  that  there  would  be  no  return.  It  was  a  mourning  proces- 
sion rather  than  an  augury  of  a  happy  result :  there  was  more  sorrow 
than  hope,  more  tears' than  hurrahs.  The  mothers,  wives,  and  sis- 
ters of  the  seamen  secretly  cursed  the  fatal  stranger,  whose  en- 
rhanted  words  had  seduced  the  mind  of  the  queen,  and  who  risked 
so  many  men's  lives  on  the  accomplishment  of  a  dream.  Columbus, 
unwillingly  followed,  like  all  men  who  lead  a'nation  beyond  the  pale 
of  its  prejudices,  launched  upon  the  unknown  expanse  amid  male 
dictions  and  complaints.  Such  is  the  law  of  human  nature.  All 
that  surpasses  humanity,  even  to  conquer  an  idea,  a  truth,  or  a 
world,  makes  it  complain.  Man  is  like  the  ocean,  with  a  restlessness 
trading  to  movement,  and  an  inertia  inclining  to  repose.  From 
these  two  opposite  tendencies  arises  the  equilibrium  of  his  nature. 
>\  ne  to  him  that  disturbs  it ! 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  23 

The  appearance  of  this  little  flotilla,  scarcely  equal  to  a  fishing  or 
coasting  squadron,  offered  a  strong  contrast  in  the  people's  eyes  to 
the  magnitude  of  the  dangers  it  was  so  rashly  going  to  brave.  Of 
the  three  vessels,  only  one  was  decked,  that  on  board  of  which  he 
himself  was  ;  a  crank  and  narrow  trading  craft,  already  very  old  and 
weather-beaten.  The  others  were  open  boats,  which  u  heavy  breaker 
might,  have  swamped.  But  the  poop  and  forecastle  of  these  vessels, 
raised  high  out  of  the  water  like  the  ancient  galleys,  had  two  half- 
decks,  under  which  the  sailors  could  find  shelter  in  bad  weather,  and 
would  prevent  the  caravella  from  foundering  if  she  shipped  a  sea. 
They  had  two  masts,  one  amidships  and  the  other  aft.  On  the  fore- 
in  ist  they  carried  one  great  square-sail,  and  on  the  other  a  triangular 
lateen-sail.  In  calm  weather,  long  sweeps,  used  but  seldom  and 
then  with  difficulty,  fixed  in  the  low  gunwale  of  the  caravella 's 
waist,  could,  in  case  of  need,  give  slow  motion  to  the  vessels.  These 
three  ships  of  unequal  size  contained  the  130  men  of  whom  the  crews 
were  composed.  He  alone  went  on  board  with  a  calm  face,  a  tirm 
countenance,  and  a  courageous  heart.  Ills  conjectures  had  assumed 
in  his  mind,  after  the  lapse  of  eighteen  years,  the  shape  of  certainty. 
Although  he  was  even  then  past  the  term  of  middle  life,  being  in  his 
fifty-seventh  year,  he  looked  upon  the  years  that  had  gone  by  as 
though  they  wero  nothing.  In  his  idea,  all  his  life  was  to  come.  lie 
felt  the  youthfulness  of  hope  and  his  future  immortality.  As  if  to 
take  possession  of  those  worlds  for  which  he  spread  his  sails,  he  wrote 
and  published  before  embarking  a  solemn  account  of  all  the  vicissi- 
tudes his  mind  and  fortunes  had  passed  through  up  to  that  period,  in 
the  conception  and  execution  of  his  design  ;  he  added  an  enumera- 
tion of  all  the  titles,  honors,  and  dignities,  with  which  he  had  been 
invested  by  his  sovereigns  in  respect  of  his  future  possessions  ;  and 
ho  invoked  Clod  and  mm  to  support  his  faith,  and  bear  witness  to 
his  constancy.  "  And  it  is  for  this  purpose."  lie  says,  in  concluding 
his  proclamation  to  the  Old  and  New  Worlds,  "that  I  have  deter- 
mined never  to  sleep  during  this  navigation,  and  until  these  thin-js 
shall  have  been  accomplished." 

A  favorable  wind  from  Europe  wafted  them  toward  the  Canaries, 
the  last  resting-place  of  those  who  sailed  into  the  Atlantic.  Although 
he  gave  thanks  to  God  for  these  auguries  which  calmed  the  minds  of 
his  crew,  he  would  have  preferred  that  a  gale  had  swept  him  in  full 
sail  out  of  the  beaten  track  of  vessels.  lie  feared,  with  reason,  that 
the  sight  of  land  so  far  from  Spain  might  recall  the  fond  idea  of 
home  to  the  minds-  and  hearts  of  his  sailors  who  had  hesitated  to 
embark.  In  momentous  enterprises,  no  time  must  be  given  to  men 
for  reflection,  and  no  opportunity  for  repentance.  Columbus  knew 
this,  and  he  burned  to  pass  the  limits  of  the  well  known  waters,  and 
to  lock  in  his  own  breast  the  possibility  of  returning,  and  the  secret 
of  the  track,  of  his  charts  and  his  compass.  His  impatience  to  lose 
sijjbt  of  the  coasts  of  the  old  world  was  but  too  well  founded.  One 


24  CHRISTOPHER    COLUMBUS. 

of  his  ships,  the  Pinta,  which  had  the  rudder  broken  find  leaked  in 
the  hold,  obliged  him,  much  against  his  inclination,  to  put  into  the 
Canaries  to  change  this  vessel  for  another.  He  lost  three  weeks  in 
these  ports,  without  being  able  to  find  any  craft  fit  for  his  long  voy- 
age. All  he  could  do  was  to  repair  the  Pinta's  damage,  and  procure 
a  new  sail  for  the  Nina,  his  third  vessel,  a  heavy  and  slow  sailer 
which  delayed  his  voyage.  He  took  in  fresh  provisions  and  water, 
for  the  small  stowage  in  his  open  vessels  only  allowed  him  to  carry 
victuals  for  his  crews,  of  120  men,  for  a  limited  number  of  days. 

On  quitting  the  Canaries,  the  appearance  of  the  Peak  of  Tencriffc, 
•whose  eruption  illumined  the  heavens,  and  was  reflected  in  the  sea, 
cast  tenor  into  the  minds  of  his  seamen.  They  thought  they  saw  in 
it.  (lie  limning  sword  of  the  angel  who  expelled  the  first  man  from 
Kden,  driving  back  the  children  of  Adam  from  the  entrance  to  the 
forbidden  seas  and  lands.  The  admiral  passed  from  ship  to  ship  to 
disperse  this  general  panic,  and  to  explain  scientifically  to  these;  sim- 
ple people  the  physical  laws  of  the  phenomenon.  But  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  volcano's  peak,  as  it  sank  below  the  horizon,  caused 
them  as  much  sadness  as  the  eruption  had  caused  them  fright.  It 
was  their  last  beacon,  the  farthest  sea-mark  of  the  old  world.  Losing 
sight  of  it  seemed  to  be  losing  the  last  traces  of  their  road  through  im- 
measurable space.  They  felt  as  if  they  were  detached  from  earth, 
and  sailing  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  new  planet.  They  were  seized 
with  a  general  prostration  of  mind  and  body,  like  spectres  who  have; 
lost  even  their  tombs.  The  admiral  again  called  them  around  him 
in  his  own  ship,  infusing  his  own  energy  into  their  minds  ;  and  giv- 
ing way,  like  the  prophet  of  the  future,  to  the  inspiring  eloqueiu  e  of 
his  hopes,  lie  described  to  them,  as  if  he  had  already  beheld  them, 
the  lauds,  the  islands,  the  seas,  the  kingdoms,  the  riches,  the  vegeta- 
tion, the  sunshine,  the  mines  of  gold,  the  sands  covered  with  pearls, 
the  mountains  shining  with  precious  stones,  the  plains  loaded  with 
spice,  that  to  his  mind's  eye  already  loomed  in  sight,  beyond  the  ex- 
panse of  which  each  wave  carried  them  nearer  to  these  wonders  and 
enjoyments.  These  images,  tinged  with  the  brilliant  colors  of  their 
leader's  rich  imagination,  infused  hope  and  spirit  into  their  discour- 
aged minds  ;  and  the  trade-winds,  blowing  constantly  and  gently 
from  the  east,  seemed  to  second  the  impatience  of  the  seamen.  The 
distance  alone  could  now  terrify  them.  To  deceive  them  as  to  the 
space  across  which  he  was  hurrying,  Columbus  used  to  subtract  n 
certain  number  of  leagues  from  his  reckoning,  and  made  his  pilots 
and  seamen  think  they  had  only  gone  half  the  distance  they  had  ac- 
tually traversed.  Privately,  and  for  himself  alone-,  he  noted  the  true 
ekonmg,  m  order  that  he  alone  might  know  the  number  of  waves 
3  had  crossed  and  the  track  of  his  path,  which  he  wished  to  keep 
unknown  to  his  rivals.  And,  indeed,  the  crews,  deceived  by  the 
liness  of  the  wind,  and  the  long  roll  of  the  waves  thought  they 
re  tlowly  crowing  the  farthest  seas  of  Europe. 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  25 

He  would  also  have  wished  to  conceal  from  them  a  new  phenome- 
non, which  began  to  disconcert  his  own  science,  at  about  two  hundred 
leagues  from  Teneriffe.  It  was  the  variation  of  the  magnetic  needle, 
his  last,  and,  as  he  thought,  his  infallible  guide,  but  which  now  be- 
gan to  vacillate  before  its  approach  to  an  untracked  hemisphere. 
For  several  days  he  kept  to  himself  this  terrible  doubt  ;  but  the 
pilots,  who  watched  the  binnacle  as  closely  as  he  did  liimself,  soon 
discovered  this  variation.  Seized  with  the  same  astonishment  as 
their  chief,  but  less  firm  in  their  resolution  to  brave  even  nature  it- 
self, they  imagined  that  the  very  elements  were  troubled,  or  changed 
the  laws  of  their  existence,  on  the  verge  of  infinite  space.  The  sup- 
posed giddiness  of  nature  affected  their  minds.  The  evil  tidings 
passed  from  one  pale  face  to  another,  and  they  left  their  vessels  to 
the  direction  of  the  winds  and  waves,  now  the  only  guides  that  re- 
mained. The  hesitation  of  the  pilots  paralyzed  all  the  sailors.  Co- 
lumbus, who  endeavored  in  vain  to  explain  to  himself  a  mystery  of 
which  science  still  seeks  the  cause,  had  again  recourse  to  his  fertile 
imagination,  the  internal  guide  with  which  nature  had  endowed  him. 
lie  invented  an  explanation,  false,  but  specious  enough  to  unedu- 
cated minds,  of  the  variation  of  the  magnetic  needle.  He  attributed 
it  to  new  stars  revolving  round  the  pole,  whose  alternating  motion  in 
the  sky  was  followed  by  the  compass.  This  explanation,  according 
with  the  astrological  notions  of  the  day,  satisfied  the  pilots,  and  their 
credulity  renewed  the  faith  of  the  sailors.  The  sight  of  a  heron,  and 
of  a  tropical  bird,  which  came  next  day,  and  flew  round  the  masts  of 
the  squadron,  acted  upon  their  senses,  as  the  admiral's  explanation 
had  swayed  their  minds.  They  appeared  two  witnesses  who  came 
to  confirm  by  ocular  demonstration  the  reasoning  of  Columbus. 
They  sailed  with  more  courage,  on  the  faith  of  these  birds,  the  mild, 
equable,  and  serene  climate  of  this  part  of  the  ocean,  the  clearness  of 
the  sky,  the  transparency  of  the  waves,  the  dolphins  playing  across 
their  bows,  the  warmth  of  the  air,  the  perfumes  which  the  waves 
brought  from  afar,  and  seemed  to  exhale  from  their  foam,  the  great 
er  brilliancy  of  the  stars  and  constellations  by  night — everything  in 
these  latitudes  seemed  to  breathe  a  feeling  of  serenity,  bringing  con 
viclion  to  their  minds.  They  felt  the  presentiment  of  the  still  invisi- 
ble world.  They  recalled  the  bright  days,  the  clear  stars,  and  tho 
shining  nights  of  an  Andalusian  spring.  "  It  only  wanted  the  night- 
ingale," says  Columbus. 

The  sea  also  began  to  bring  its  warnings.  Unknown  vegetations 
were  often  seen  floating  on  its  surface.  Some,  as  the  historians  of 
the  first  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  relate,  were  marine  substances, 
which  only  grow  on  the  shallows  near  the  coast  ;  some  were  rock 
plants,  that  had  been  swept  off  the  cliffs  by  the  waves  ;  some  were 
fresh-water  plants  ;  and  others,  recently  torn  from  their  rools, 
were  still  full  of  sap  ;  one  of  them  carried  a  live  crab — a  little  sailor 
afloat  on  a  tuft  of  grass.  These  plants  and  living  creatures  could 


26  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

not  have  passed  many  days  in  the  water  without  fading  and  dying. 
One;  of  those  birds  which  never  settle  on  the  waves,  or  sleep  on  the 
waters,  crossed  the  sky.  Whence  came  he ?  Where  was  he  going? 
And  could  the  place  "of  his  rest  be  far  off?  Farther  ou,  the  sea 
changed  its  temperature  and  its  color,  a  proof  of  an  uneven  bottom. 
Elsewhere  it  resembled  immense  meadows,  and  the  prow  cut  its  way 
but  slowly  among  its  weed-strewn  waves.  At  'eve  and  morning, 
the  distant,  waning  clouds,  like  those  which  gather  round  the  moun- 
tain-tops, took  the  form  of  cliffs  and  hills  skirting  the  horizon.  The 
cry  of  land  was  on  the  tip  of  every  tongue.  Columbus  was  unwill- 
ing either  to  confirm  or  entirely  to  extinguish  these  hopes,  which 
served  his  purpose  by  encouraging  his  companions.  But  he  thought 
himself  still  only  300  leagues  from  Teneriffe,  and  he  calculated  that 
he  had  700  or  800  more  to  go  before  he  should  reach  the  laud  he 
sought  for. 

Nevertheless,  he  kept  his  conjectures  to  himself  ;  finding  among 
his  companions  no  friend  whose  heart  was  firm  enough  to  support 
his  resolution,  or  sufficiently  safe  to  intrust  with  his  secret  fears. 
During  the  long  passage  he  conversed  only  with  his  own  thoughts, 
with  the  stars,  and  with  God,  whom  he  felt  to  be  bis  protector.  Al- 
most without  sleep,  as  he  undertook  to  be  in  his  farewell  proclama- 
tion to  the  Old  World,  he  occupied  the  days  in  his  after-cabin,  not- 
ing down,  in  characters  intelligible  to  none  but  himself,  the  degrees 
of  latitude  and  the 'space  which  he  thought  he  had  traversed.  The 
nights  he  passed  on  deck  with  his  pilots,  studying  the  stars  and 
watching  the  sea.  Alone,  like  Moses  conducting  the  people  of  (}od 
in  the  desert,  his  thoughtful  gravity  impressed  upon  his  companions 
sometimes  respect,  and  sometimes  a  mistrust  and  awe,  that  kept 
I  hem  aloof — an  insolation  or  distant  bearing  generally  observable  in 
men  superior  to  their  fellows  in  conception  and  determination, 
whether  it  be  that  the  inspired  genius  requires  more  solitude  and 
quiet  for  reflection,  or  whether  the  inferior  minds  whom  they  over- 
awe fear  to  approach  too  near  them,  lest  they  may  invite  a  compari- 
son and  be  made  to  feel  their  littleness,  as  contrasted  with  the  great 
men  of  the  earth. 

The  land,  so  often  pointed  out,  was  seen  to  be  only  a  mirage  de- 
ceiving the  sailors.  Each  morning  the  bows  of  the  vessels  plunged 
through  the  fantastic  horizon,  which  the  evening  mist  had  made  them 
mistake  for  a  shore.  They  kept  rolling  on  through  the  boundless 
and  bottomless  abyss.  The  very  regularity  and  steadiness  of  the  east 
wind  which  drove  them  on,  without  their  having  had  to  shift  their 
sails  once  in  so  many  days,  was  to  them  a  source  of  anxiety.  They 
fancied  that  this  wind  prevailed  eternally  in  this  region  of  the  great 
ocean  which  encircled  the  world,  and  that  after  carrying  them  on  so 
easily  to  the  westward,  it  would  be  an  insurmountable  obstacle  to 
their  return.  How  should  they  ever  get  back  against  this  current  of 
contrary  wind,  but  by  beating  across  the  immense  space  ?  And  if 


CHRISTOPHBK   COLUMBUS..  27 

they  had  to  make  endless  tacks  to  reach  the  shores  of  the  Old  World, 
how  would  their  provisions  and  water,  already  half  consumed,  hold 
out  through  the  long  months  of  their  return- voyage?  Who  could 
save  them  from  the  horrible  prospect,  of  dying  of  hunger  and  thirst 
in  this  long  contest  with  the  winds  which  drove  them  from  their 
ports  ?  Several  already  began  to  count  the  number  of  days,  and  the 
rations  fewer  than  the  days,  and  they  murmured  against  the  fruitless 
obstinacy  of  their  chief,  and  blamed  themselves  secretly  for  persever- 
ing in  an  obedience  which  sacrificed  the  lives  of  120  men  to  the  mad- 
ness of  one. 

But  each  time  that  the  murmurs  threatened  to  break  out  into 
mutiny,  Providence  seemed  to  send  them  more  convincing  and  more 
unexpected  signs,  which  changed  their  complaints  to  hope.  Thus, 
on  the  20th  of  September,  these  favorable  breezes,  whose  steadiness 
caused  such  alarm,  veered  round  to  the  south-west.  The  saiiors 
hailed  this  change,  though  opposed  to  their  course,  as  a  sign  of  lift; 
and  motion  in  tlio  elements,  which  made  them  feel  the  wind  stirring 
in  their  sails.  At  ereuiug,  little  birds,  of  the  most  delicate  species 
that  build  their  nests  in  the  shrubs  of  the  garden  and  orchard,  hovered 
warbling  about  their  masts.  Their  delicate  wings  and  joyous  nolos 
bore  no  marks  of  weariness  or  fright,  as  of  birds  swept  far  away  to 
sea  by  a  storm.  Their  song,  like  those  which  the  sailors  used  to  hear 
amid  the  groves  of  myrtles  and  orange-trees  of  their  Andalusian 
home,  reminded  them  of  their  country,  and  invited  them  to  the  now 
neighboring  shore.  They  recognized  sparrows,  which  always  dwell 
beneath  the  roof  of  man.  The  green  weed  on  the  surface  of  the 
waves  looked  like  the  waving  corn  before  the  ear  is  ripe.  The  vege- 
tation beneath  the  water  seemed  the  forerunner  of  land,  and  delighted 
the  eyes  of  the  sailors,  tired  of  the  endless  expanse  of  blue.  But  it 
soon  became  so  thick  that  they  were  afraid  of  entangling  their  rud- 
ders and  keels,  and  of  remaining  prisoners  in  the  forests  of  ocean,  as 
the  ships  of  the  northern  seas  are  shut  in  by  the  ice.  Thus  each  joy 
soon  turned  to  fear,  so  terrible  to  man  is  the  unknown.  Columbus, 
like  a  guide  seeking  his  way  amid  the  mysteries  of  the  ocean,  was 
obliged  to  appear  to  understand  what  surprised  himself,  and  to  in- 
vent an  explanation  for  every  cause  that  astonished  his  seamen. 

The  calms  of  the  tropics  alarmed  them.  If  all  things,  including 
even  the  wind,  perished  in  these  latitudes,  whence  should  spring  up 
the  breeze  to  fill  their  sails  and  move  their  vessels  ?  The  sea  suddenly 
rose  without  wind  :  they  ascribed  it  to  submarine  convulsions  at  the 
bottom.  An  immense  whale  was  seen  sleeping  on  the  waters  :  they 
fancied  there  were  monsters  which  would  devour  their  ships.  The 
roll  of  the  waves  drove  them  upon  currents  which  they  could  not 
stem  for  want  of  wind  :  they  imagined  t^hey  were  approaching  the 
cataracts  of  the  ocean,  and  that  they  were  being  hurried  toward  the 
abysses  into  which  the  deluge  had  poured  its  world  of  waters. 
Fierce  and  angry  faces  crowded  round  the  mast  •,  the  murmurs  rose 


28  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

Uider  and  louder  ;  they  talked  of  compelling  the  pilots  to  put  about, 
;md  «>f  throwing  the  admiral  into  the  sea,  as  a  madman  who  left  his 
companions  nc  choice  but  between  suicide  and  murder.  Columbus, 
to  whom  their  looks  and  threats  revealed  these  plans,  defied  them  by 
his  bold  bearing,  or  disconcerted  them  by  his  coolness. 

Nature  at  length  came  to  his  assistance,   by  giving  him   fresh 
luve/es  from  the  east,  and  a  calm  sea  under  his  bows.     Before  the 


of  safety,  life,  and  triumph,  fell  on  their  knees  on  the  decks,  and 
struck  up  the  hymn,  "  Glory  be  to  God  in  heaven  and  upon  earth." 

This  religious  chant,  the  first  hymn  that  ever  rose  to  the  Creator 
from  the  bosom  of  the  new  ocean,  rolled  slowly  over  the  waves. 
When  it  was  over,  all  climbed  as  high  as  they  could  up  the  masts, 
yards,  and  rigging,  to  see  with  their  own  eyes  the  shore  which  Pin- 
y.on  had  discovered  to  the  south  west.  Columbus  alone  doubted  ;  but 
he  was  too  willing  to  believe,  to  think  of  contradicting  the  fond 
hopes  of  his  crews.  Although  he  himself  only  expected  to  tiud  land 
to  the  westward,  he  allowed  them  to  steer  south  through  the  night, 
to  please  his  companions,  rather  than  lose  the  temporary  popularity 
caused  by  their  illusion.  The  sunrise  destroyed  it  but  too  quickly. 
The  imaginary  land  of  Pinzon  disappeared  with  the  morning  mist, 
and  the  admiral  resumed  his  course  to  the  westward. 

Again  the  surface  of  the  sea  was  still,  and  the  unclouded  sun  was 
shining  on  it  as  brightly  as  in  the  blue  sky  above.  The  rippling 
\\ave.s  were  foaming  round  the  bows.  Numberless  dolphins  were 
bounding  in  their  wake.  The  water  was  full  of  life  ;  the  flying- 
fish  leaped  from  their  element,  and  fell  on  the  decks  of  the  ships. 
Everything  in  nature  seemed  to  combine  with  the  efforts  of  Colum- 
bus in  raising  the  returning  hopes  of  his  sailors,  who  almost  forgot 
how  the  days  passed.  On  the  first  of  October,  they  thought  they 
wen;  only  (500  leagues  beyond  the  usual  track  of  ships  ;  but  the  se- 
cret reckoning  of  the  admiral  gave  more  than  800.  The  signs  of 
approaching  land  became  more  frequent  around  them,  yet  none 
loomed  in  the  horizon.  Terror  again  took  possession  of  the  crews. 
Columbus  himself,  notwithstanding  his  apparent  calmness,  felt  some 
anxiety.  He  feared  lest  he  might  have  passed  among  the  isles  of 
an  archipelago  without  seeing  them,  and  have  left  behind  him  the 
extremity  of  that  Asia  which  he  sought,  to  wander  in  another  ocean. 

The  lightest  vessel  of  his  squadron,  the  Nina,  which  led  the  way, 
at  length,  on  the  7th  of  October,  hoisted  the  signal  of  land  in  sight, 
and  fired  a  gun  to  announce  it  to  her  companions.  On  Hearing  it, 
they  found  that  the  Nina  Jiad  been  deceived  by  a  cloud.  The  wind, 
which  dispersed  it,  scattered  their  fond  hopes,  and  converted  them  to 
UK.  Nothing  wearies  the  heart  of  man  so  much  as  these  alterna- 
tions of  falso  hope  and  bitter  disappointment.  They  are  the  sar- 


CHRISTOPHER    COLUAfBUS.  2i.il 

fcasms  of  fortune.  Reproaches  against  the  admiral  were  hoard 
from  all  quarters.  It  was  now  no  longer  for  their  fatigues  and  dilli- 
culties  that  they  accused  him,  but  for  their  lives  hopelessly  sacrificed 
— their  bread  and  water  were  beginning  to  fail  ! 

Columbus,  disconcerted  by  the  immensity  of  this  space,  of  which 
he  had  hoped  already  to  have  reached  the  boundary,  abandoned  the 
ideal  route  he  had  traced  upon  the  map,  and  followed  for  two  days 
and  nights  the  flight  of  the  birds,  heavenly  pilots  seemingly  sent  to 
him  by  Providence"  when  human  science  was  beginning  to  fail.  The 
instinct  of  these  birds,  he  reasoned,  would  not  direct  them  all 
toward  one  point  in  the  horizon,  if  they  did  not  see  land  there.  But 
even  the  very  birds  seemed  to  the  sailors  to  join  with  the  expanse  of 
ocean,  and  the  treacherous  stars  to  sport  with  their  vessels  and  their 
lives.  At  the  end  of  the  third  day,  the  pilots  going  up  the  shrouds 
when  the  setting  sun  shows  the  most  distant  horizon,  beheld  him  sink 
into  the  same  waves  from  whence  lie  had  risen  in  vain  for  so  many 
mornings.  They  believed  in  the  infinite  expanse  of  waters.  The 
despair  which  depressed  them  changed  to  fury.  What  terms  had 
they  now  to  keep  with  a  chief  who  had  deceived  the  Court  of  Spain, 
and  whose  titles  and  authority,  fraudulently  obtained  from  lii.s  sover- 
eigns, were  about  to  perish  with  him  and  his  expectations?  Would 
not  following  him  farther  make  them  the  accomplices  of  his  guilt  V 
Did  the  duty  of  obedience  extend  beyond  tlie  limits  of  the  world? 
Was  there  any  other  hope,  if  even  that  now  remained,  but  to  turn 
the  heads  of  their  ships  to  Europe,  and  to  beat  back  against  the  winds 
that  had  favored  the  admiral,  whom  they  would  chain  to  the  mast- 
of  his  own  vessel  as  a  mark  for  their  dying  curses,  if  they  were  la 
die,  or  give  him  up  to  the  vengeance  of  Spain,  if  they  were  ever  per 
milted  to  see  again  the  ports  of  their  country  ? 

These  complaints  had  now  become  clamorous.  The  admiral  re 
strained  them  by  the  calmness  of  his  countenance,  lit*  reminded  tip! 
mutineers  of  the  authority,  sacred  to  a  subject,  with  which  their 
sovereigns  had  invested  him.  lie  called  upon  Heaven  itself  to  decide 
between  him  and  them.  He  flinched  not ;  he  offered  his  life  as  tin: 
pledge;  of  his  promises  ;  but  he  asked  them  with  the  spirit  of  a 
prophet  who  sees  himself  what  the  vulgar  only  see  through  him,  Jo 
suspend  for  three  days  their  unbelief,  and  their  determination  to  put 
back,  lie  swore  a  rash  but  necessary  oath,  that  if,  in  the  course  of 
the  third  day,  land  was  not  visible  on  the  horizon,  he  would  yield  to 
their  wishes  and  steer  for  Europe.  The  signs  of  the  neighborhood  of 
a  continent  or  islands  were  so  obvious  to  the  admiral,  Hint,  in  beg- 
ging these  three  days  from  his  mutinous  crew,  he  felt  certain  of 
being  able  to  attain  his  end.  He  tempted  God  by  fixing  a  limit,  to  his 
revelation  ;  but  he  bad  to  manage,  men.  These  men  reluctantly 
allowed  him  the  three  days,  an  1  (}o;I,  who  inspired  him.  did  not  puu- 
Ish  him  for  having  hoped  much. 

At  sunrise  on  the  second  day,  some  rutihes  recently  torn  up  wro 


30  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

seen  near  the  vessels.  A  plank  evidently  hewn  by  an  axe,  a  stick 
skilfully  carved  by  some  cutting  instrument,  a  bough  of  hawthorn  in 
blossom,  and,  lastly,  a  bird's-nest  built  on  a  branch  which  the  wind 
had  broken,  and  full  of  eggs,  on  which  the  parent  bird  was  sitting 
amid  the  gently  rolling  waves,  were  seen  floating  past  on  the  waters. 
The  sailors  brought  on  board  these  living  and  inanimate  witnesses  of 
their  approach  to  land.  They  were  a  voice  from  the  shore,  continu- 
ing the  assurances  of  Columbus.  Before  the  land  actually  appeared 
Insight,  its  neighborhood  was  inferred  from  these  marks  of  life. 
The  mutineers  fell  on  their  knees  to  the  admiral  whom  they  had  in- 
sulted but  the  day  before,  craved  pardon  for  their  mistrust,  and 
struck  up  a  hyrnn  of  thanksgiving  to  God  for  associating  them  with 
his  triumph. 

Night  fell  on  these  songs  of  the  Church  welcoming  a  new  world. 
The  admiral  gave  orders  that  the  sails  should  be  close  reefed  and 
the  lead  kept  going  ;  and  that  they  should  sail  slowly,  being  afraid  of 
breakers  and  shoals,  and  feeling  certain  that  the  first  gleam  of  day- 
break would  discover  laud  under  their  bows.  On  that  last  anxious 
night  none  slept.  Impatient  expectation  had  removed  all  heaviness 
from  their  eyes  ;  the  pilots  and  the  seamen,  clinging  about  the  masts, 
yards,  and  shrouds,  each  tried  to  keep  the  best  place  and  the  closest, 
watch  to  get  the  earliest  sight  of  the  new  hemisphere.  The  admiral 
had  offered  a  reward  to  the  first  who  should  cry  land,  provided  his 
announcement  was  verified  by  its  actual  discovery.  Providence, 
however,  reserved  to  Columbus  himself  this  first  glimpse,  which  he 
had  purchased  at  the  expense  of  twenty  years  of  his  life,  and  of  un- 
tiring perseverance  amid  such  dangers.  While  walking  the  quarter- 
dec  k  alone  at  midnight,  and  sweeping  the  dark  horizon  with  his  keen 
eye,  a  gleam  of  fire  passed  and  disappeared,  and  again  showed  itself 
on  the  level  of  the  waves.  "Fearful  of  being  deceived  by  the  phos- 
phorescence of  the  sea,  he  quietly  called  a  Spanish  gentleman  of  Isa- 
bella's Court,  named  Guttiercz,  in  whom  he  had  more  confidence  than 
in  the  pilots,  pointed  out  the  direction  in  which  he  had  seen  the  light, 
and  asked  him  whether  he  could  discern  anything  there.  Guttieie;: 
replied  that  he  did  indeed  see  a  flickering  light  in  that  quarter.  To 
make  still  more  sure,  Columbus  called  Rodrigo  Sanchez  of  Segovia, 
another  in  whom  he  had  confidence.  Sanchez 'had  no  more  hesita- 
tion than  Guttierez  in  pronouncing  that  there  was  a  light  on  the  hori- 
zon. But  the  blaze  was  hardly  seen  before  it  again  disappeared  in 
the  ocean,  to  show  itself  anew  the  next  moment— whether  it  was  the 
light  of  a  fire  on  a  low  shore  alternately  appearing  and  disappearing 
beyond  the  broken  horizon,  or  whether  it  was  the  floating  beacon  of 
a  fisherman's  boat  now  rising  on  the  waves  and  now  sinking  in  the 
trough  of  the  sea.  Thus  both  land  and  safety  appeared  together  in 
the  shape  of  fire  to  Columbus  and  his  two  friends,  on  the  night  be- 
tween the  llth  and  12th  of  October,  145)2.  The  admiral,  enjoining 
silence  to  H'Hlrigo  and  Gutlierez,  kept  his  observation  to  himself  for 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  31 

tear  of  again  raisin?  false  hopes  and  giving  a  bitter  disappointment 
to  his  ship's  companies.  He  lost  sight  of  the  light  and  remained  on 
deck  until  two  in  the  morning,  praying,  hoping,  and  despairing  alone, 
awaiting  the  triumph  or  the  return  on  which  the  morrow  was  to 
decide. 

He  was  seized  with  that  anguish  which  precedes  the  great  discov- 
eries of  truth,  like  the  struggle  which  anticipates  the  liberation  of  the 
soul  by  death,  when  a  cannon-shot,  sounding  over  the  sea  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  in  advance  of  him,  burst  upon  his  ear  ;  the  announcement 
of  a  new-born  world,  which  made  him  tremble  and  fall  upon  hi* 
knees.  It  was  the  signal  of  land  in  sight !  made  by  firing  a  shot,  as  had 
been  arranged  with  the  Pinta,  which  was  sailing  in  advance  of  UK; 
squadron,  to  guide  their  course  and  take  soundings.  At  this  sig- 
nal a  general  shout  of  "  Land  ho  !"  arose  from  all  the  yards  and  rig- 
ging of  the  ships.  The  sails  wert  furled  and  daybreak  was  anxiously 
awaited.  The  mystery  of  the  ocean  had  breathed  its  first  whisper  in 
the  bosom  of  niglit.  Daybreak  would  clear  it  up  openly  to  every 
eye.  Delicious  and  unknown  perfumes  reached  the  vessels  from  the. 
dim  outline  of  the  shore,  with  the  roar  of  the  waves  upon  the  reel's 
and  the  soft  land  breeze.  The  fire  seen  by  Columbus  indicated  the 
presence  of  man  and  of  the  first  element  of  civilization.  Never  did 
the  night  appear  so  long  in  clearing  away  from  the  horizon  ;  for  this 
horizon  was  to  Columbus  and  his  companions  a  second  creation  of 
God. 

The  dawn,  as  it  spread  over  the  sky,  gradually  raised  the  shores  of 
an  island  from  the  waves.  Its  distant  extremities  were  lost  in  the 
morning  mist.  It  ascended  gradually,  like  au  amphitheatre,  from 
the  low  beach  to  the  summit  of  the  hills,  whose  dark-green  covering 
contrasted  strongly  with  the  clear  blue  of  the  heavens.  Within  a  few 
paces  of  the  foam  of  the  waves  breaking  on  the  yellow  sand,  forests 
of  tall  and  unknown  trees  stretched  away,  one  above  another,  over 
the  successive  terraces  of  the  island.  Green  valleys  and  bright  clefts 
in  the  hollows  afforded  a  half  glimpse  into  these  mysterious  wilds. 
Here  and  there  could  be  discovered  a  few  scattered  huts,  which,  with 
their  outlines  and  roofs  of  dry  leaves,  looked  like  beehives,  and  thin 
columns  of  blue  smoke  rose  above  the  tops  of  the  trees.  Half  naked 
groups  of  men,  women,  and  children,  more  astonished  than  fright- 
ened, appeared  among  the  thickets  near  the  shore,  advancing 
timidly,  and  then  drawing  back,  exhibiting  by  their  gestures  and  de- 
meanor as  much  fear  as  curiosity  and  wonder  at  the  sight  of  these 
strange  vessels,  which  the  previous  night  had  brought  to  their  shores. 

Columbus,  after  gazing  in  silence  on  this  foremost  shore  of  the  land 
so  often  determined  by  his  calculations,  and  so  magnificently  colored 
by  his  imagination,  found  it  to  exceed  even  his  own  expectations. 
He  burned  with  impatience  to  l>e  the  'first  European  to  set  foot  on 
the  sand,  and  to  plant  the  cross  and  the  flag  of  Spain— the  standard 
of  the  conquest  of  God  and  of  his  sovereigns,  ell'ected  by  his  guiiiua. 


8$  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

But  he  restrained  the  eagerness  of  himself  and  his  crew  to  land, 
being  desirous  of  giving  to  the  act  of  taking  possessiou  of  a  new 
world  a  solemnity  worthy  of  the  greatest  deed,  perhaps,  ever  accom- 
plished by  a  seaman  ;  and,  in  default  of  men,  to  call  God  and  his 
angels,  sea,  earth,  and  sky,  as  witnesses  of  his  conquest  of  an  un- 
known hemisphere. 

He  put  on  all  the  insignia  of  his  dignities  as  Admiral  of  the  Ocean, 
an  1  viceroy  of  these  future  realms  ;  he  wrapped  himself  In  his  purple 
cloak,  and,  taking  in  his  hand  a  flag  embroidered  with  a  cross,  in 
which  the  initials  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  were  interlaced  like  their 
two  kingdoms,  and  surmounted  by  a  crown,  he  entered  his  boat,  and 
pulled  toward  the  shore,  followed  by  the  boats  of  Alonzo  and  Yones 
I 'in/on,  his  two  lieutenants.  On  landing,  he  fell  on  his  knees,  to 
acknowledge,  by  this  act  of  humility  and  worship,  the  goodness  and 
irrealness  of  God  in  this  new  spherft  of  his  works.  He  kissed  the 
ground,  and,  with  his  face  on  the  earth,  he  wept  tears  of  a  double 
import  and  of  a  double  meaning,  as  they  fell  on  the  dust  of  this  hem- 
Uphere  now  for  the  first  time  visited  by  Europeans — tears  of  joy  for 
Columbus  ;  the  overflowing  of  a  proud  spirit,  grateful  and  pious — 
tears  of  sadness  for  this  virgin  soil,  seeming  to  foreshadow  the  calam- 
ities and  devastation,  with  fire  and  sword,  and  blood  and  destruction, 
which  the  strangers  were  to  bring  with  their  pride,  their  knowledge, 
and  their  power.  It  was  the  man  that  shed  these  tears  ;  but  it  was 
I  lie  earth  that  was  destined  to  weep. 

"Almighty  and  eternal  God,"  said  Columbus,  as  he  raised  his 
forehead  from  the  dust,  with  a  Latin  prayer  which  his  companions 
have  handed  down  to  us,  "  who  by  the  energy  of  thy  creative  word 
hast  made  the  firmament,  the  earth  and  sea  ;  blessed  and  glorified  be 
thy  name  in  all  places  !  May  thy  majesty  and  dominion"  be  exalted 
loiwer  and  ever,  as  thou  hast  permitted  thy  holy  name  to  be 
made  known  and  spread  by  the  most  humble  of  thy  servants  in  this 
hitherto  unknown  portion  of  thy  empire." 

lie  then  baptized  tin's  land  in  the  name  of  Christ— the  island  of 
San  Salvador. 

His  lieutenants,  his  pilots,  and  his  seamen,  full  of  gladness,  and  im- 
'1  with  a  superstitious  respect  for  him  whose  glance  had  pierced 
beyond  the  visible  hori/.on,  and  whom  they  had  offended  by  their 
unbelief— overcome  by  the  evidence  of  their  eyes,  and  by  that  men- 
tal superiority  which  overawes  the  minds  of  men,  fell  at  the  feet  of 
the  admiral,  kissed  his  hands  and  his  clothes,  and  recognized  for  a 
moment  the  p<>\ver  and  the  almost  divine,  nature  of  genius  ;  yesterday 
the  victims  of  his  obstinacy— now  the  companions  of  his  success, 
and  sharers  in  the  glory  which  they  had  mocked.  Such  is  humanity, 
persecuting  discoverers,  yet  reaping  the  fruits  of  their  inventions. 

During  the  ceremony  of  taking  possession,  the  inhabitants  of  tho 
islands,  first  kept  at  a  distance  by  fear,  afterward  attracted  by  that 
liutiuotire  curuwity  which  forms  the  first  connection  between  man 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  33 

and  man,  had  drawn  near.  They  were  talking  with  each  other  about 
the  wonderful  events  of  the  night  and  morning.  These  vessels, 
working  their  sails,  yards,  and  masts,  like  huge  limbs  opening  and 
closing  at  will,  seemed  to  them  animated  and  supernatural  beings  de- 
scended during  the  night  from  the  crystal  firmament  whirl)  sur 
rounded  their  horizon,  inhabitants  of  heaven  floating  on  their  wings, 
and  settling  upon  the  shores  of  which  they  were  the  tutelar  deities. 
Struck  with  respect  at  the  sight  of  the  boats  landing  on  their  island, 
and  of  men  in  brilliant  clothing,  and  covered  with  armor  gleaming  in 
the  sun,  they  at  last  came  close,  as  if  fascinated  by  almighty  power. 
They  worshipped  and  adored  them  with  the  simplicity  of  children, 
unsuspicious  of  the  approach  of  evil  under  a  pleasing  appearance. 
The  Spaniards,  on  examining  them,  were  in  their  turn  astonished  at 
not  finding  in  these  islanders  any  of  the  physical  characteristics,  or 
even  the  color,  of  the  African,  Asiatic,  or  European  races  with  which 
they  usually  came  in  contact.  Their  copper  complexion,  their  lank 
hair  falling  loose  over  their  shoulders,  their  eyes  dark  as  their  seu, 
their  delicate  and  almost  feminine  features,  their  open  and  confiding 
countenances,  and,  lastly,  their  nakedness,  and  the  colored  patterns 
with  which  they  stained  their  skins,  marked  them  as  a  race  com- 
pletely distinct  from  any  of  the  human  families  spread  over  the  an- 
cient hemisphere  ;  a  race  still  preserving  the  simplicity  and  the  gen- 
tleness of  infancy,  lost  for  centuries  in  this  unknown  portion  of  the 
world,  and  retaining,  through  sheer  ignorance  of  wrong,  the  mildness, 
truthfulness,  and  innocence  of  the  world's  youth. 

Columbus,  satisfied  that  this  island  was  but  an  outpost  of  India, 
toward  which  he  still  thought  he  was  sailing,  gave  them  the  imagi- 
nary name  of  Indians,  which  they  retained  until  their  extermination  ; 
the  verbal  error  having  lasted  long  after  the  physical  mistake  was 
explained. 

The  Indians,  soon  becoming  accustomed  to  their  stranger-guests, 
showed  them  their  springs,  their  houses,  their  villages,  and  their 
canoes,  and  brought  the;n  as  offerings  their  eatable  fruit,  their  cassava 
bread,  which  replenished  the  provisions  of  the  Spaniards,  and  somu 
ornaments  of  pure  gold,  which  they  wore  in  their  ears  and  nostrils, 
or  as  bracelets,  necklaces,  or  anklets  among  the  women.  They 
were  ignorant  of  commerce  or  of  the  use  of  money,  that  mercenary 
but  indispensable  substitute  for  the  virtue  of  hospitality,  and  they 
were  delighted  to  receive  the  merest  trilles  from  the  Europeans  in  ex- 
change for  their  valuables.  In  their  eyes,  novelty  was  value.  Ibirc 
and  precious  are  equivalent  words  in  all  countries.  The  Spaniards, 
who  sought  the  country  of  gold  and  precious  stones,  asked  by  signa 
whence  this  metal  came.  The  Indians  pointed  to  the  south  ;  the  ad- 
miral and  his  companions  understood  them  to  mean  that  in  that  di- 
rection there  was  an  island  or  continent  of  India,  corresponding  by 
its  riches  and  its  arts  with  the  wonders  related  by  the  Venetian  Marco 
Polo.  The  land  which  they  now  thought  themselves  near  was,  they 


34  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

supposed,  the  fabulous  island  of  Zipangu,  or  ,I;ip;in,  the  sovereign  of 
whieh  walked  on  a  pavement  of  gold.  Their  impatience  to  resume 
their  course  toward  this  object  of  their  imagination  or  of  their 
covetousness,  made  them  return  quickly  to  their  ships.  They  had 
supplied  themselves  with  water  from  the  springs  of  the  is-land,  and 
their  decks  were  loaded  with  fruit,  cassava-cakes,  and  roots,  which 
the  poor  but  happy  Indians  had  given  them.  They  took  one  of  the 
aborigines  with  them  to  learn  their  language,  and  to  act  as  interpreter. 

On  getting  clear  of  the  island  of  San  Salvador,  they  found  them- 
selves as  it  were  lost  in  the  channels  of  an  archipelago,  composed  of 
more  than  a  hundred  isles  of  various  sizes,  but  all  with  an  appear- 
ance of  the  most  luxurious  freshness  and  fertility  of  vegetation. 
They  landed  on  the  largest  and  most  populous.  They  were  sur- 
rounded by  canoes,  hollowed  from  the  trunk  of  a  single  tree  ;  they 
traded  with  the  inhabitants,  exchanging  buttons  and  trinkets.  Their 
navigation  and  their  stoppages  amid  this  labyrinth  of  islands  were 
but  a  repetition  of  the  scene  at  their  landing  at  San  Salvador.  They 
were  everywhere  received  with  the  same  inoffensive  curiosity.  They 
were  enchanted  with  the  climate,  the  flowers,  the  perfumes,  the 
colors,  and  the  plumages  of  unknown  birds,  which  each  of  these 
oases  of  the  ocean  offered  to  their  senses  ;  but  their  minds,  impressed 
with  the  sole  idea  of  discovering  the  land  of  gold  at  what  they  sup- 
posed to  be  the  extremity  of  Asia,  rendered  them  less  attentive  to 
these  natural  treasures,  and  prevented  their  suspecting  the  existence 
of  tin1  new  and  immense  continent  of  which  these  isles  were  the  out- 
posts on  the  sea.  Guided  by  the  signs  and  looks  of  the  Indians,  who 
pointed  out  to  him  a  region  still  more  splendid  than  their  own  archi- 
pelago, Columbus  steered  for  the  coast  of  Cuba,  where  he  landed 
after  three  days'  pleasant  sailing,  without  losing  sight  of  the  beauti- 
ful Hahamas  which  enamelled  his  path. 

Cuba,  with  its  long  terraces  stretching  away  into  the  far  distance, 
and  hacked  by  cloud-piercing  mountains,  with  its  havens,  estuaries, 
gulfs,  bays,  forests,  and  villages,  reminded  him,  on  a  more  majestic 
scale,  of  Sicily.  He  was  uncertain  whether  it  was  a  continent  or  an 
island.  He  oast  anchor  in  the  shady  bosom  of  a  mighty  river,  and, 
going  ashore,  strolled  about  the  shores  and  forests,  the  grcves  of 
oranges  and  palm-trees,  and  the  Tillages  and  dwellings  of  the  inhab- 
itants. A  dumb  dog  was  the  only  living  thing  he  found  in  these  huts, 
which  had  been  abandoned  at  his  approach.  He  re-embarked,  and 
ascended  the  river,  shaded  by  broad-leaved  palms,  and  gigantic  trees 
bearing  both  fruit  and  flowers.  Nature  seemed  to  have  bestowed, 
of  her  own  accord,  and  without  labor,  the  necessities  of  life  and  hap- 
piness  without  work  on  these  fortunate  races.  Everything  reminded 
them  of  the  Eden  of  Holy  Writ.  Harmless  animals,  birds  with 
azure  and  purple  plumage,  parrots,  macaws,  and  birds  of  paradise, 
Bhrieked  and  sang,  or  Hew  in  colored  clouds  from  branch  to  branch  ; 
luminous  insects  lighted  the  air  by  night ;  the  sun,  softened  by  tii« 


CHRIS- OPHER   COLUMBUS.  35 

breeze  of  the  mountain,  the  shade  of  the  trees,  and  the  coolness  of 
the  water,  fertilized  everything  without  scorching  ;  the  moon  and 
stars  were  reflected  in  the  river  with  a  mild  light  which  took  away 
the  terror  of  darkness.  A  general  enthusiasm  had  seized  upon  the 
minds  and  senses  of  Columbus  and  his  companions  ;  they  felt  that 
they  had  reached  a  new  country,  more  fresh  and  yet  more  fruitful 
than  the  old  land  which  they  had  left  behind.  "  It  is  the  most 
beautiful  isle,"  says  Columbus,  in  his  notes,  "  that  ever  the  eye  of 
man  beheld.  One  would  wish  to  live  there' always.  It  is  impossible 
to  think  of  misery  or  death  in  such  a  place." 

The  scent  of  the  spices  which  reached  his  vessels  from  the  interior, 
and  his  meeting  with  pearl  oysters  on  the  coast,  satisfied  him  more 
and  more  that  Cuba  was  a  continuation  of  Asia.  He  fancied  that 
beyond  the  mountains  of  this  continent  or  island  (for  he  was  still 
uncertain  whether  Cuba  was  or  was  not  a  portion  of  the  mainland) 
he  should  find  the  empires,  the  civilization,  the  gold  mines,  and  tho 
wonders  which  enthusiastic  travellers  had  attributed  to  Cathay  and 
Japan.  Being  unable  to  seize  any  of  the  natives,  who  all  fled  the 
coast  on  the  approach  of  the  Spaniards,  he  sent  two  of  his  com- 
panions, one  of  whom  spoke  Hebrew  and  the  other  Arabic,  to  look 
for  the  fabulous  cities  in  which  he  supposed  the  sovereign  of  Cathay 
to  dwell.  Tuese  envoys  were  loaded  with  presents  for  the  inhab- 
itants. They  had  orders  to  exchange  them  for  nothing  but  gold,  of 
which  they  thought  there  were  inexhaustible  treasures  in  the  interior. 

The  messengers  returned  to  the  ships  without  having  discovered 
any  other  capital  than  huts  of  savages  and  an  immense  wilderness  of 
vegetation,  perfumes,  fruits,  and  flowers.  They  had  succeeded,  by 
means  of  presents,  in  encouraging  some  of  the  natives  to  come  baric 
witli  them  to  the  admiral.  Tobacco,  a  plant  of  slightly  intoxicating 
quality,  which  they  made  into  little  rolls,  lighting  them  at  one  end  to 
inhale  the  smoke  at  the  other  ;  the  potato,  a  farinaceous  root,  which 
heat  converted  at  once  into  bread  ;  maize,  cotton  spun  by  the 
women,  oranges,  lemons,  and  other  nameless  fruits,  were  the  only 
treasures  they  had  found  about  the  houses  scattered  in  the  glades  of 
the  forest. 

Disappointed  of  his  golden  dreams,  the  admiral,  on  some  mis- 
understood directions  of  the  natives,  unwillingly  quitted  this  enchant- 
ing country,  to  sail  on  to  the  east,  where  he  still  placed  his  imaginary 
Asia.  lie  took  on  board  some  men  and  women  from  Cuba,  bolder 
and  more  confident  than  the  rest,  to  serve  as  interpreters  for  the 
neighboring  countries  which  he  was  going  to  visit,  to  convert  them 
to  the  true  faith,  and  to  offer  to  Isabella  these  souls  which  his  gener- 
ous enterprise  had  saved.  Convinced  that  Cuba,  of  which  he  had 
not  ascertained  the  limits,  was  apart  of  the  mainland  of  Asia,  he 
s.i  ili-d  several  days  at  a  short  distance  from  the  coast  of  the  true' 
American  continent  without  seeing  it.  He  was  not  yet  to  discover 
the  truth  so  cl<  se  to  his  eyes.  Yet  envy,  which  was  to  be  the  poison 


30  CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS. 

of  his  life,  had  arisen  in  the  minds  of  his  companions  on  the  very 
day  that,  his  discoveries  had  crowned  the  hopes  of  his  whole  exist- 
< -i\i -c.  Amerigo  Vespucci,  an  obscure  Florentine,  embarked  in  one 
of  his  vcssels,"gave  his  name  to  this  new  world,  to  which  Columbus 
alone  had  been  the  guide.  Vespucci  owed  this  good  fortune  entirely 
to  chance,  and  to  his  subsequent  voyages  with  Columbus  in  the  same 
latitudes.  A  subaltern  officer,  devoted  to  the  admiral,  he  had  never 
sought  to  rob  him  of  his  glory.  The  caprice  of  fortune  gave  it  to 
him  without  his  having  sought  to  deceive  Europe,  and  custom  has 
retained  it.  The  chief  was  deprived  of  due  honor,  and  the  name  of 
the  inferior  prevailed.  Thus  is  human  glory  set  at  naught ;  but 
though  ( 'olumbus  was  the  victim,  Amerigo  was  not  guilty.  Posterity 
must  bear  the  blame  of  the  injustice  and  ingratitude,  but  a  wilful 
fraud  cannot  be  laid  lo  the  charge  of  the  fortunate  pilot  of  Florence. 

Envy,  which  arises  in  the  heart  of  man  in  the  very  hour  of  suc- 
cess, already  began  to  prey  upon  the  mind  of  Columbus's  lieutenant, 
Alon/.o  Pin/on,  lie  commanded  the  Pinta,  the  second  vessel  of  the 
squadron,  a  faster  sailer  than  either  of  the  others.  Pin/on  pretended 
to  lose  them  in  the  night,  and  got  away  from  his  commodore.  He 
had  resolved  to  take  advantage  of  Columbus's  discovery,  to  find  out 
other  lands  by  himself,  without  genius  and  without  trouble,  and  after 
giving  them  his  name,  to  be  foremost  to  return  to  Europe,  to  reap 
the  produce  of  the  glory  and  to  gather  the  rewards  due  to  his  master 
and  guide.  Columbus  had  for  some  days  past  noticed  the  envy  and 
Insubordination  of  his  second  in  command.  But  he  owed  much  to 
Alon/.o  Pi  117011  ;  for,  without  his  encouragement  and  assistance  at 
1'alos,  he  would  never  have  succeeded  in  equipping  his  vessels  or  in 
ing  seamen.  Gratitude  had  prevented  him  from  punishing  the 
lirst  acts  of  disobedience  of  a  man  to  whom  he  was  so  deeply  in- 
debted. The  modest,  magnanimous,  and  forgiving  character  of 
<  't'lmnlnis  made  him  avoid  all  harshness.  Full  of  justice  and  virtue 
himself,  he  expected  to  find  equal  justice  and  virtue  in  others.  This 
goodness,  which  Alon/o  Pinzon  took  for  weakness,  served  as  an  en-1 
eourageincnt  to  ingratitude.  He  boldly  dashed  between  Columbus 
and  the  new  discoveries  of  which  he  had  resolved  to  deprive  him. 

The  admiral  understood  and  regretted  the  fault,  but  pretended  to 
believe  that  the  Pinta's  separation  was  accidental,  and  steered  with 
Ins  two  vessels  to  the  south-east,  toward  a  dark  shade  that  he  per- 
ceived over  the  sea,  and  made  the  island  of  llispaniola,  since  called 
-an  Domingo.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  cloud  on  the  mountains  of 
mi  Domingo,  which  induced  him  to  put  about,  he  would  have 
reached  the  mainland.  The  American  archipelago,  by  enticing  him 
.0  wander  from  isle  to  isle,  seemed  to  keep  him,  as  if  purposely,  from 
goal  winch  he  almost  touched  without  seeing  it.  This  phantasm 
J  Asia,  which  had  led  him  lo  the  shores  of  America,  now  stood  be- 
tween America  and  him,  to  deprive  him  of  the  reality  by  the  substi- 
tution of  a  chimera. 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  37 

This  vast  new  country,  pleasant  and  fruitful,  surrounded  by  an 
atmosphere  as  clear  as  crystal,  and  bathed  by  a  sea  with  perfume  in 
its  waves,  appeared  to  him  to  be  the  marvellous  island,  detached 
from  the  continent  of  India,  that  he  had  sought  through  such  voyages 
and  dangers,  under  the  fabulous  name  of  Zipangu.  He  named  it 
Hispaniola,  to  mark  it  as  his  adopted  country.  The  natives,  simple, 
mild,  hospitable,  open-hearted  and  respectful,  crowded  round  them 
on  the  shore,  as  though  they  were  beings  of  a  superior  order,  whom 
a  celestial  miracle  had  sent  from  the  verge  of  the  horizon  or  tin-  hot 
torn  of  the  ocean  to  be  worshipped  and  adored  as  gods.  A  numer- 
ous and  happy  population  then  covered  the  plains  and  valleys  of 
Hispaniola.  The  men  and  women  were  models  of  strength  and 
beauty.  The  perpetual  peace  which  reigned  among  these  nations 
gave  their  countenances  an  expression  of  gentleness  and  benevolence. 
Their  laws  were  only  the  best  instincts  of  the  heart,  passed  into  tra- 
ditions and  customs.  They  might  have  been  supposed  to  lie  a  young 
race,  whose  vices  had  not  yet  had  time  to  develop  themselves,  and 
whom  the  natural  inspirations  of  innocence  sufficed  to  govern.  Of 
agriculture,gardening,  and  the  other  arts  of  life,  they  knew  enough  for 
their  government,  their  building,  and  the  first  necessities  of  existence. 
Their  fields  were  admirably  cultivated,  and  their  elegant  cottages  wcro 
grouped  in  villages  on  the  edges  of  forests  of  fruit-trees,  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  rivers  or  springs.  In  a  genial  climate,  without  either 
the  severity  of  winter  or  the  scorching  heat  of  a  tropical  summer, 
their  clothing  consisted  only  of  personal  ornaments,  or  of  belts  and 
aprons  of  cotton-cloth,  sufficient  to  protect  their  modesty.  Their  ' 
form  of  government  was  as  simple  and  natural  as  their  ideas.  It  was 
but  the  circle  of  the  family,  enlarged  in  the  course  of  generations,  but 
always  grouped  round  an  hereditary  chief,  called  the  cacique.  TheM; 
caciques  were  the  heads,  not  the  tyrants,  of  their  tribes.  Their  cus- 
toms, laws  unwritten,  yet  inviolable  as  divine  ordinances,  governed 
these  petty  princes  :  an  authority  paternal  oh  the  one  side,  and  filial 
on  the  other,  rebellion  against  which  seemed  out  of  the  question. 

The  Cuban  natives,  whom  Columbus  had  brought;  with  him  to 
serve  as  guides  and  interpreters  on  these  seas  and  islands,  already  be- 
gun to  comprehend  Spanish.  They  partly  understood  the  language 
of  the  inhabitants  of  llispaniola,  a  detached  branch  of  the  same  race 
They  thus  established  an  easy  and  ready  means  of  communication 
between  Columbus  and  the  people  whom  he  had  just  reached. 

The  supposed  Indians  fearlessly  conducted  the  Spaniards  into  theii 
houses,  and  presented  them  with  cassava  bread,  unknown  fruits,  fish, 
sweet  roots,  tame  birds  with  rich  plumage  and  melodious  notes,  (low- 
ers, palms,  bananas,  lemons,  all  the  gifts  of  their  sea,  sky,  earth,  and 
climate.  They  treated  them  as  guests,  as  brothers,  almost  even  as 
gods.  "  Nature, "  says  Columbus,  "is  there  so  prolific,  that  prop- 
erty has  not  produced  the  feeling  of  avarice  or  cupidity.  These 
people  seem  to  live  in  a  golden  age.  happy  and  quiet  amid  open  and 


38  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMl'US. 

endless  gardens,  neither  surrounded  by  ditches,  divided  by  fences, 
iior  protected  by  walls.  They  behave  honorably  toward  one  another, 
•without  laws,  without  books,  without  judges.  They  consider  him 
wicked  who  takes  delight  in  harming  another.  This  aversion  of  the 
good  to  the  bad  seems  to  be  all  their  legislation."  Their  religion 
also  was  but  the  sentiment  of  their  own  inferiority,  and  of  gratitude 
and  love  for  the  invisible  Being  who  had  granted  them  life  and  hap- 
piness. 

What  a  contrast  between  the  state  of  these  happy  races  when  the 
Europeans  first  discovered  them  and  brought  them  the  spirit  of  the 
Old  World,  and  the  condition  into  which  these  unfortunate  Indians 
fell  a  few  years  after  this  visit  from  those  who  assumed  to  civili/e 
them  !  What  a  rajstery  of  Providence  was  this  unexpected  arrival 
of  Columbus  in  a  new  world,  to  which  he  thought  he  'vas  bringing 
liberty  and  life,  but  in  which,  without  knowing  it,  he  was  sowing 
tyranny  and  death  ! 

As  Columbus  was  exploring  the  bays  and  havens  of  the  island,  the 
pilot  ran  the  vessel  aground  while  the  admiral  was  asVep.  The 
ship,  threatened  with  instant  destruction  by  the  heavy  breakers,  was 
abandoned  by  the  pilot  and  part  of  the  crew,  who,  under  pretence  of 
taking  an  anchor  ashore,  pulled  to  the  other  vessel,  thinking  Colum- 
bus doomed  to  inevitable  death.  The  admiral's  energy  again  saved, 
not  the  ship,  but  the  lives  of  his  companions.  He  faced  the  breakers 
as  long  as  a  plank  held,  and  having  placed  his  men  on  a  raft,  he 
landed  as  a  shipwrecked  mariner  on  the  same  shore  that  he  had  just 
visited  as  a  conqueror.  He  was  soon  joined  by  the  only  vessel  he 
had  remaining.  His  shipwreck  and  his  misfortunes  did  not  cool  ll»c 
hospitality  of  the  cacique  whose  guest  he  had  been  some  days  prev  - 
ously.  This  cacique,  named  Guacanagari,  the  first  friend  and  ultiv 
ward  the  first  victim  of  these  strangers,  shed  tears  of  compassion  over 
Columbus's  disaster.  He  offered  his  house,  his  provisions,  and 
assistance  of  every  kind  to  the  Spaniards.  The  riches  of  the  Euro- 
peans, rescued  from  the  waves  and  spread  out  upon  the  beach,  were 
preserved,  as  if  sacred,  from  all  pillage,  and  even  from  troublesome 
curiosity.  These  men,  who  knew  no  property  as  between  each  other, 
seemed  to  recognize  and  respect  it  in  their  unfortunate  guests. 
Columbus,  in  his  letters  to  the  king  and  queen,  is  loud  in  his  praise 
of  the  easy  generosity  of  this  race.  "  There  is  nowhere  in  the  uni- 
verse," he  exclaims,  "a  better  nation  or  a  better  country.  They 
Jove  their  neighbors  as  themselves  ;  their  language  is  always  soft  and 
gracious,  and  the  smile  of  kindness  is  ever  on  their  lips.  They  are 
naked,  it  is  true,  but  veiled  by  modesty  and  frankness." 

Columbus,  having  established  with  the  younger  cacique  relations 
of  the  closest  and  most  confiding  intimacy,  was  presented  by  him 
with  some  gold  ornaments.  At  the  sight  of  gold,  the  countenances  of 
the  Europeans  suddenly  expressed  such  passionate  avidity  and  fierce 
desire,  that  the  cacique  and  his  subjects  instinctively  took  alarm,  as 


CHIUSTOPHEB   COLUMBUS.  33 

if  their  new  friends  had,  on  the  instant,  changed  their  nature  and 
disposition  toward  them.  It  was  but  too  true.  The  companions  of 
Columbus  were  only  coveting  the  fancied  riches  of  the  East,  while  ho 
himself  was  seeking  the  mysterious  remnant  of  the  world.  The  sight 
of  gold  had  recalled  their  avarice  ;  their  faces  had  become  stern  and 
savage  as  their  thoughts.  The  cacique,  being  informed  that  this 
metal  was  the  god  of  the  Europeans,  explained  to  them,  by  pointing 
to  the  mountains  beyond  the  range  they  saw,  the  situation  of  a  coun- 
try from  which  he  received  this  gold  in  abundance.  Columbus  no 
longer  doubted  that  he  had  reached  the  source  of  Solomon's  wealth, 
and,  preparing  everything  for  his  speedy  return  to  Europe,  in  order 
t;>  announce  his  triumph,  he  built  a  fort  in  the  cacique's  village,  to 
afford  security  to  a  paity  whom  he  left  behind.  He  selected  from 
liis  officers  and  seamen  forty  men,  whom  he  placed  under  the  com- 
mand of  Pedro  de  Araua.  He  instructed  them  to  collect  information 
a  I)  >ut  the  gold  region,  and  to  keep  up  the  respect  and  friendship  of 
the  Indians  for  the  Spaniards.  He  then  set  out  on  his  return  to 
Europe,  loaded  with  the  gifts  of  the  cacique,  and  bringing  a\vay  all 
tho  ornaments  and  crowns  of  pure  gold  that  he  had  been  able  to  pro- 
euro  during  his  stay  from  the  natives,  either  by  gift  or  exchange. 

While  coasting  round  the  island,  he  met  his  faithless  companion, 
Alonzo  Pinzou.  Under  pretence  of  having  lost  sight  of  the  admiral, 
Pin/.on  had  taken  a  separate  course.  Concealed  in  a  deep  inlet  of  the 
island,  he  had  landed,  and  instead  of  imitating  the  mildness  and 
gentle  policy  of  Columbus,  had  marked  his  first  steps  wilh  blood. 
The  admiral  having  found  his  lieutenant,  appeared  satisfied  with  his 
excuses,  and  willing  to  attribute  his  desertion  to  the  night,  lie 
ordered  Pin/on  to  follow  him  to  Europe  with  his  vessel.  They  set 
sail  together,  impatient  to  announce  to  Spain  the  news  of  their  won- 
derful navigation.  But  tho  ocean  on  which  the  trade-winds  had 
wafted  them  gently  from  wave  to  wave  toward  the  shores  of 
America,  secin^l  with  a  iver.se  winds  and  waters  to  drive  them  reso- 
lutely back  from  the  land  to  which  they  were  so  anxious  to  return. 
Columbus  alone,  through  his  knowledge  of  navigation  and  his  reck- 
oning, tlu  secret  of  which  he  concealed  from  his  pilots,  knew  the 
course  and  the  true  distances.  His  companions  thought  they  were 
still  thousands  of  miles  from  Europe,  while  he  was  already  aware  of 
being  near  the  Azores.  He  soon  perceived  them.  Tremendous 
squalls  of  wind — cloud  heaped  on  cloud— and  lightning  such  as  he 
had  never  before  seen  flash  across  the  heavens  and  disappear  in  the 
sea — huge  and  foaming  waves  driving  his  vessels  helplessly  about 
without  aid  from  helm  or  sails,  seemed  alternate!}'  to  open  and  clos« 
the  gates  of  death  to  him  and  his  companions  even  on  the  very 
threshold  of  their  country.  The  signals  which  the  two  vessels  made 
reciprocal!1,'  at  night  disappeared.  Each,  while  driving  before  the 
unceasing  tempest,  between  the  A/ores  and  the  Spanish  coast,  be- 
lieved the  other  lost.  Columbus,  who  did  not  doubt  that  the  Pinla 


40  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

with  Pin/on  was  buried  beneath  the  waves,  and  whose  own  torn  sails 
and  damaged  rudder  would  uo  longer  steer  his  bark,  expected  every 
instant  to  founder  beneath  one  of  these  mountain  of  water  that  he 
hborcd  up  to  be  swept  down  again  from  their  foaming  crests.  He 
had  risked  his  life  freely,  but  he  could  not  bear  to  sacrifice  his  glory. 
To  feel  that  the  discovery,  which  he  was  bringing  to  the  Old  World, 
was  to  be  buried  for  ages  with  him  even  when  so  near  his  port, 
seemed  such  a  cruel  sport  of  Providence  that  he  could  not  make 
even  his  piety  bend  to  it.  His  soul  revolted  against  this  slight  of 
fortune.  To  die  when  he  had  but  touched  with  bis  foot  the  soil  of 
Europe,  and  after  having  placed  his  secret  and  his  treasure  upon  the 
records' of  his  couutiy,  was  a  destiny  that  he  could  joyfully  accept  ; 
but  to  allow  a  seconcl  world  to  perish  (so  to  speak)  with  him,  and  t-j 
carry  to  the  grave  the  solution,  at  last  found,  of  the  earth's  problem, 
which  his  brother  men  might  perhaps  be  seeking  for  us  many  a 
they  had  already  been  without  it,  was  a  thousand  deaths  in  one.  In 
his  vows  to  all  tbe  shrines  of  Spain,  he  only  asked  of  God  that  he. 
might  carry  to  the  shore,  even  with  his  wreck,  the  proof  of  his  return 
and  of  his  discovery.  Meanwhile  storm  followed  storm  ;  the  vessel 
became  water-logged,  and  the  savage  looks,  the  angry  murmurs,  or 
the  sullen  silence  of  his  companions  reproached  him  for  the  obsti- 
nacy which  had  driven  or  persuaded  them  to  this  fatal  cruise.  They 
considered  this  continued  wrath  of  the  elements  as  the  vengeance  of 
ocean,  angry  that  the  boldness  of  man  should  have  penetrated  its 
mystery.  They  talked  of  throwing  him  into  the  sea,  in  order,  by  a 
grand  expiation,  to  still  the  waves. 

Columbus,  heedless  of  their  anger,  but  completely  taken  up  with 
the  fate  of  his  discovery,  wrote  upon  parchment  several  short  ac- 
counts of  his  voyage,  and  closed  up  some  in  rolls  of  wax,  and  other* 
in  cellar  cases,  and  threw  them  into  the  sea,  in  hopes  that  perchance 
after  his  death  they  might  be  carried  upon  the  shore.  It  has  been 
said  that  one  of  these  cases,  thus  thrown  to  the  winds  and  waves, 
drifted  about  for  three  centuries  and  a  half  upon  or  beneath  the  sea, 
and  that  not  very  long  since  a  sailor  from  a  European  vessel,  while 
getting  ballast  for  a  "ship  on  the  African  coast,  opposite  Gibraltar, 
picked  np  a  petrified  cocoanut,  and  brought  it  to  his  captain  as  a 
mere  natural  curiosity.  The  captain,  on  opening  the  nut  to  sec 
whether  the  kernel  had  resisted  the  action  of  time,  found  that  the 
hollow  shell  concealed  a  parchment  which  contained,  in  a  Gothic, 
character,  deciphered  with  difficulty  by  a  scholar  at  Gibraltar,  these 
words  :  "  We  cannot  survive  the  storm  one  day  longer.  We  are 
between  Spain  and  the  newly  discovered  Eastern  Isles.  If  the  cara- 
vel founders,  may  some  one  pick  up  this  testimony  !— CHIUSTOFIIEB 

('••I.I  MUCS." 

Tho  ocean  kept  this  message  for  358  years,  and  did  not  give  it  to 
Europe,  until  America — colonized,  flourishing,  and  free — already 
rivalled  the  old  continent,  A  freak  of  fortune,  to  teach  men  what 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS.  41 

might  have  remained  concealed  so  long,  if  Providence  had  not  for- 
bidden the  waves  to  drown,  in  Columbus,  its  great  announcer  ! 

The  next  day,  "  Land  ho  !"  was  cried.  It  was  the  Portuguese  isle 
of  St.  Mary,  the  last  of  the  Azores.  Columbus  and  his  enir.panions 
were  driven  from  it  by  the  jealous  persecution  of  the  Portuguese. 
Again  given  up  to  the  sufferings  of  hunger  and  tempest  for  itmny 
long  days,  it  was  not  until  the  4th  of  March  that  they  entered  the 
Tagus,  where  they  at  length  anchored  off  a  European  shore,  though 
of  a  rival  kingdom.  Columbus,  on  being  presented  to  the  King  of 
Portugal,  related  his  discoveries,  without  explaining  his  course,  lest, 
tliis  prince  might  anticipate  the  fleets  of  Isabella.  The  nobles  of  the 
Court  of  John  the  Second  of  Portugal  advised  this  prince  to  have  the 
great  navigator  assassinated,  in  order  to  bury  with  him  his  secret,  as 
well  as  the  rights  of  the  Spanish  Crown  over  these  new  lauds.  .John 
was  indignant  at  this  cowardly  advice.  Columbus  was  treated  with 
honor,  and  permitted  to  send  a  courier  to  his  sovereigns,  to  announce 
his  success,  and  his  approaching  return  by  sea  to  Palos.  He  landed 
then:  on  the  IHth  of  March,  14i)l>,  at  sunrise,  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd 
frantic  with  joy  and  pride,  which  even  rushed  into  the  water  to  cany 
him  triumphantly  ashore.  lie  threw  liim.self  into  tlie  amis  of  his 
friend  and  protector,  the  poor  prior  of  the  convent  of  La  Rahida, 
Juan  Perez,  who  alone  had  believed  in  him,  and  whom  a  new  hemi- 
sphere rewarded  for  his  faith.  Columbus  walked  barefoot  at  the  head 
of  a  procession,  to  the  church  of  the  monastery,  to  return  thanks  for 
his  safety,  for  his  glory,  and  for  the  acquisition  to  Spain.  The 
whole  population  followed  him  with  blessings  to  tlie  door  of  this 
humble  convent,  at  which  he  had  some  years  l)efore,  alone  with  his 
Child,  and  on  foot,  craved  hospitality  as  a  beggar.  Never  lias  any 
among  men  brought  to  his  country  or  posterity  such  a  conquest, 
since  the  creation  of  the  globe,  except  those  who  have  given  to  earth 
the  revelation  of  a  new  idea  ;  and  this  conquest  of  Columbus  had 
until  then  cost  humanity  neither  a  crime,  a  single  life,  a  drop  of 
blood,  nor  a  tear.  Tlie  most  delightful  days  of  liis  existence  were 
those  which  he  passed  while  resting  from  his  hopes  and  his  glory  in 
tlie  monastery  of  La  llabida,  in  the  arms  of  liis  children,  and  in  the 
company  of  his  friend  and  host,  the  prior  »f  the  convent. 

And  as  if  Heaven  had  thought  fit  to  crown  his  happiness  and  to 
avenge  him  on  the  envy  which  was  pursuing  him,  Alonzo  Pin/on, 
the  commander  of  his  second  vessel,  brought  the  Pinta  next  day  into 
the  harbor  of  Palos,  where  he  hoped  to  arrive  before  his  commander, 
and  to  rob  him  of  the  first-fruits  of  his  triumph.  But  foiled  in  his  evil 
design,  and  fearing  lest  the  admiral  might  report  and  punish  his  de- 
sertion, Pinzon  died  of  vexation  and  disppointment  on  seeing  th« 
vessel  of  Columbus  at  anchor  in  the  port.  Columbus  was  too  gener- 
ous to  rejoice,  muck  more  to  have  punished  him  ;  and  tlie  malico 
tliat  pursues  tlie  steps  of  the  great  seemed  to  expire  at  his  feet. 

Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  having  been,  informed  of  the  return  and 


44  CHKISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

ho  carried  his  hardihood  to  the  verge  of  madness.  One  day,  when 
Isabella  had  ascended  the  lofty  tower  called  the  Giralda  of  Seville,  to 
enjoy  its  wonderful  height,  and  look  down  from  its  summit  on  the 
streets  and  houses  of  the  town,  appearing  like  an  open  ant-heap  at 
her  feet,  he  sprung  on  to  a  narrow  beam  which  projected  over  the 
cornice,  and  balancing  himself  on  one  foot  at  the  end  of  it,  executed 
the  most  extraordinary  feats  of  boldness  and  activity  to  amuse  his 
sovereign,  without  being  in  the  least  alarmed  or  dizzy  at  the  fear  of 
imminent  death. 

On  the  25th  of  September,  1493,  the  fleet  left  the  Bay  of  Cadiz. 
Shouts  of  joy  from  the  shore  accompanied  this  second  departure, 
which  seemed  destined  to  a  continued  triumph.  The  two  sons  of 
Columbus  accompanied  their  father  on  board  his  flag-ship.  1  k>  gave 
them  his  blessing  and  left  them  in  Spain,  that  at  least  the  better  half 
of  his  existence  might  remain  sheltered  from  the  perils  he  was  going 
to  encounter.  His  squadron  consisted  of  three  large  ships,  and  four- 
teen caravellas.  The  fleet  discovered  on  the  2d  of  November  the 
island  of  Guadaloupe,  and  cruised  among  the  Caribbee  islands,  to 
which  he  gave  names  derived  from  his  pious  recollections  ;  and  soon 
afterward  making  the  point  of  Hispauiola,  now  called  Hayti, 
Columbus  set  sail  for  the  gulf  where  he  had  built  the  fort  in  which 
lie  had  left  his  forty  companions.  Night  concealed  the  shore  from 
his  view,  when,  full  both  of  hope  and  of  anxiety,  he  cast  anchor  iu 
the  roadstead.  He  did  not  wait  for  dawn  to  announce  his  arrival  to 
the  colony.  A  salute  from  his  guns  boomed  over  the  waves  to  ac- 
quaint the  Spaniards  jvith  his  return  ;  but  the  cannon  of  the  fort  re- 
mained silent,  and  this  salute  to  the  New  World  was  only  answered 
by  the  echo  from  the  lonely  cliffs.  Next  morning,  with  daybreak, 
he  discovered  the  beach  deserted,  the  fort  destroyed,  the  guns  half 
buried  under  its  ruins,  the  bones  of  the  Spaniards  bleaching  on  the 
shore,  and  the  village  of  the  caciques  abandoned  "by  its  inhabitants. 
The  few  natives  who  appeared  in  the  distance,  at  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  seemed  afraid  to  come  near,  as  if  they  were  withheld  'by  a  feel- 
ing of  remorse,  or  by  the  dread  of  revenge.  The  cacique,  more  con- 
fident in  his  innocence  and  in  the  justice  of  Columbus,  whom  he  had 
learned  to  esteem,  at  length  advanced,  and  related  the  crimes  of  the 
Spaniards  who  had  abused  the  hospitality  of  his  subjects  by  oppress- 
ing the  natives,  carrying  off  their  wives  and  dauahtcrs,  reducing 
their  hosts  to  slavery,  and,  at  length,  rousing  the  hatred  of  the  tribe. 
After  having  slaughtered  a  great  number  of  Indians  and  burned  their 
huts,  they  had  themselves  been  killed.  The  ruined  fort  covering 
their  bones  was  the  first  monument  of  the  contact  of  these  two* 
human  races,  one  of  which  was  bringing  slavery  and  destruction  on 
the  other.  Columbus  wept  over  the  crimes  of  his  companions  and 
the  misfortunes  of  the  cacique.  He  resolved  to  seek  another  place 
to  disembark  and  colonize  the  island. 

The  most  beautiful  among  the  young  Indian  girls  captured  from 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  45 

the  neighboring  isles,  and  kept  prisoners  in  the  ships,  named  Catalina, 
had  attracted  the  attention  of  a  cacique,  who  visited  Columbus  ou 
board  his  ship.  A  plan  of  escape  was  arranged  between  the  cacique 
and  the  object  of  his  love,  by  signs  which  the  Europeans  did  not 
understand.  The  night  that  Columbus  set  sail,  Catalina  and  her  com- 
panions, foiling  the  watchfulness  of  their  guards,  sprang  iuto  the 
water.  They  swam,  pursued  in  vain  by  the  boats  of  the  Europeans, 
toward  the  shore,  where  the  young  cacique  had  lighted  a  fire  to 
guide  them.  The  lovers,  united  by  this  feat  of  skill  and  strength, 
took  shelter  in  the  forests,  and  concealed  themselves  from  the  ven- 
geance of  the  Europeans. 

Columbus  landed  again  on  virgin  soil,  at  some  distance  farther  on, 
and  founded  the  town  of  Isabella.  He  established  friendly  relations 
with  the  natives,  built,  cultivated,  and  governed  the  first  European 
colony,  the  nucleus  of  so  many  others,  and  sent  around  detachments 
to  scour  the  plains  and  mountains  of  Hispaniola.  lie  first  enticed, 
then  attracted,  and  finally  subjected,  by  mild  and  equitable  laws,  the 
various  tribes  of  this  vast  island.  He  built  forts,  and  marked  out 
roads  toward  the  different  parts  of  the  empire.  He  searched  for 
gold,  which  he  discovered  to  be  less  abundant  than  he  expected  in 
these  regions,  which  he  still  took  for  India  ;  but  he  only  found  the 
inexhaustible  fertility  of  a  rich  land,  and  a  people  as  easy  to  govern 
as  to  subdue.  He  scut  back  the  greater  part  of  his  vessels  to  Spain, 
to  ask  his  sovereign  for  fresh  supplies  of  men,  animals,  tools,  plants, 
and  seeds,  required  by  the  immensity  of  the  countries  which  he  was 
going  to  win  over  to  the  customs,  religion,  and  arts  of  Europe,  But 
the  disaffected,  the  jealous,  and  the  envious  were  the  first  to  rush 
on  board  his  fleet,  to  raise  murmurs,  accusations,  and  calumnies 
against  him.  lie  himself  remained  behind,  afflicted  with  the  gout, 
suffering  excruciating  pain;  condemned  to  inactivity  of  body  anil 
unceasing  mental  anxiety,  and  harassed,  in  his  rising  colony,  by  the 
rivalries,  the  seditions,  the  plots,  the  disgraceful  insubordination,  and 
the  famine  of  his  companions. 

Always  indulgent  and  noble-minded,  Columbus  triumphed,  turough 
sheer  force  of  character,  over  the  turbulence  of  his  countrymen  and 
the  disobedience  of  his  lieutenants,  and  was  satisfied  with  confining 
the  mutineers  on  board  the  vessels.  On  recovering  from  his  long  ill- 
ness, he  traversed  the  island  with  a  picked  body  of  men,  seeking  in 
vain  for  the  gold  mines  of  Solomon,  but  studying  the  natural  history 
and  peculiarities  of  the  soil,  and  spreading,  throughout  his  journey, 
respect  and  affection  for  his  name. 

Ho  found  on  his  return  to  the  colony,  the  same  disorder,  mutiny, 
and  vice.  The  Spaniards  made  a  bad  use  of  the  superstition  and  fear 
with  which  they  and  their  horses  inspired  the  natives.  The  Indians 
took  them  for  monstrous  beings — horse  and  rider  forming  but  ona 
creature — striking  down,  (-rushing,  and  blasting  with  fire  the  ene- 
mies of  the,  Europeans.  By  the  "illucnce  of  this  dread,  they  mil). 


44  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

he  carried  his  hardihood  to  the  verge  of  madness.  One  day,  when 
Isabella  had  ascended  the  lofty  tower  called  the  Giralda  of  Seville,  to 
enjoy  its  wonderful  height,  and  look  down  from  its  summit  on  the 
streets  and  houses  of  the  town,  appearing  like  an  open  ant-heap  at 
her  feet,  he  sprung  on  to  a  narrow  beam  which  projected  over  the 
cornice,  and  balancing  himself  on  one  foot  at  the  end  of  it,  executed 
the  most  extraordinary  feats  of  boldness  and  activity  to  amuse  his 
sovereign,  without  being  in  the  least  alarmed  or  dizzy  at  the  fear  of 
imminent  death. 

On  the  25th  of  September,  1493,  the  fleet  left  the  Bay  of  Cadiz. 
Shouts  of  joy  from  the  shore  accompanied  this  second  departure, 
which  seemed  destined  to  a  continued  triumph.  The  two  sons  of 
Columbus  accompanied  their  father  on  board  his  flag-ship,  lie  gave 
them  his  blessing  and  left  them  in  Spain,  that  at  least  the  better  half 
of  his  existence  might  remain  sheltered  from  the  perils  he  was  going 
to  encounter.  His  squadron  consisted  of  three  large  ships,  and  four- 
teen caravellas.  The  fleet  discovered  on  the  2d  of  November  the 
island  of  Guadaloupe,  and  cruised  among  the  Caribbee  islands,  to 
which  he  gave  names  derived  from  his  pious  recollections  ;  and  soon 
afterward  making  the  point  of  Hispauiola,  now  called  llayti, 
Columbus  set  sail  for  the  gulf  where  he  had  built  the  fort  in  which 
lie  had  left  his  forty  companions.  Night  concealed  the  shore  from 
his  view,  when,  full  both  of  hope  and  of  anxiety,  he  cast  anchor  in 
the  roadstead.  He  did  not  wait  for  dawn  to  announce  his  arrival  to 
the  colony.  A  salute  from  his  guns  boomed  over  the  waves  to  ac- 
quaint the  Spaniards  jvith  his  return  ;  but  the  cannon  of  the  fort  re- 
mained silent,  and  this  salute  to  the  New  World  was  only  answered 
by  the  echo  from  the  lonely  cliffs.  Next  morning,  with  daybreak, 
lie  discovered  the  beach  deserted,  the  fort  destroyed,  the  guns  half 
buried  under  its  ruins,  the  bones  of  the  Spaniards  bleaching  on  the 
shore,  and  the  village  of  the  caciques  abandonea~by  its  inhabitants. 
The  few  natives  who  appeared  in  the  distance,  at  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  seemed  afraid  to  come  near,  as  if  they  were  withheld  by  a  feel- 
ing of  remorse,  or  by  the  dread  of  revenge.  The  cacique,  more  con- 
fident in  his  innocence  and  in  the  justice  of  Columbus,  whom  he  had 
learned  to  esteem,  at  length  advanced,  and  related  the  crimes  of  the 
Spaniards  who  had  abused  the  hospitality  of  his  subjects  by  oppress- 
ing the  natives,  carrying  off  their  wives  and  daughters,  reducing 
their  hosts  to  slavery,  and,  at  length,  rousing  the  hatred  of  the  tribe. 
After  having  slaughtered  a  great  number  of  Indians  and  burned  their 
huts,  they  had  themselves  been  killed.  The  ruined  fort  covering 
their  bones  was  the  first  monument  of  the  contact  of  these  two' 
human  races,  one  of  which  was  bringing  slavery  and  destruction  on 
the  other.  Columbus  wept  over  the  crimes  of  his  companions  and 
the  misfortunes  of  the  canique.  He  resolved  to  seek  another  place 
to  disembark  and  colonize  the  island. 

The  most  beautiful  among  the  young  Indian  girls  captured  from 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  45 

the  neighboring  isles,  and  kept  prisoners  in  the  ships,  named  Catalina, 
had  attracted  the  attention  of  a  cacique,  who  visited  Columbus  oa 
board  his  ship.  A  plan  of  escape  was  arranged  between  the  cacique 
and  the  object  of  his  love,  by  signs  which  the  Europeans  did  not 
understand.  The  night  that  Columbus  set  sail,  Catalina  and  her  com- 
panions, foiling  the  watchfulness  of  their  guards,  sprang  iuto  ilie 
water.  They  swam,  pursued  in  vain  by  the  boats  of  the  Europeans, 
toward  the  shore,  where  the  young  cacique  had  lighted  a  tire  to 
guide  them.  The  lovers,  united  by  this  feat  of  skill  and  strength, 
took  shelter  in  the  forests,  and  concealed  themselves  from  the  ven- 
geance of  the  Europeans. 

Columbus  lauded  again  on  virgin  soil,  at  some  distance  farther  on, 
and  founded  the  town  of  Isabella.  He  established  friendly  relations 
with  the  natives,  built,  cultivated,  and  governed  the  first  European 
colony,  the  nucleus  of  so  many  others,  and  sent  around  detachments 
to  scour  the  plains  and  mountains  of  Hispaniola.  He  first  enticed, 
then  attracted,  and  finally  subjected,  by  mild  and  equitable  laws,  the. 
various  tribes  of  this  vast  island.  He  built  forts,  and  marked  out 
roads  toward  the  different  parts  of  the  empire.  He  searched  for 
gold,  which  he  discovered  to  be  less  abundant  than  he  expected  in 
these  regions,  which  he  still  took  for  India  ;  but  he  only  found  Hie 
inexhaustible  fertility  of  a  rich  laud,  and  a  people  as  easy  to  govern 
as  to  subdue.  He  sent  back  the  greater  part  of  his  vessels  to  Spain, 
to  ask  his  sovereign  for  fresh  supplies  of  men,  animals,  tools,  plants, 
and  seeds,  required  by  the  immensity  of  the  countries  which  he  was 
going  to  win  over  to  the  customs,  religion,  and  arts  of  Europe.  But 
the  disaffected,  the  jealous,  and  the  envious  were  the  first  to  rush 
on  board  his  fleet,  to  raise  murmurs,  accusations,  and  calumnies 
against  him.  He  himself  remained  behind,  afflicted  with  the  gout, 
suffering  excruciating  pain;  condemned  to  inactivity  of  body  and 
unceasing  mental  anxiety,  and  harassed,  in  his  rising  colony,  by  the 
rivalries,  the  seditions,  the  plots,  the  disgraceful  insubordination,  and 
the  famine  of  his  companions. 

Always  indulgent  and  noble-minded,  Columbus  triumphed,  tnrough 
sheer  force  of  character,  over  the  turbulence  of  his  countrymen  and 
the  disobedience  of  his  lieutenants,  and  was  satisfied  with  confining 
the  mutineers  on  board  the  vessels.  On  recovering  from  his  long  ill- 
ness, he  traversed  the  island  with  a  picked  body  of  men,  seeking  in 
vain  for  the  gold  mines  of  Solomon,  but  studying  the  natural  history 
and  peculiarities  of  the  soil,  and  spreading,  throughout  his  journey, 
respect  and  affection  for  his  name. 

He  found  on  his  return  to  the  colony,  the  same  disorder,  mutiny, 
and  vice.  The  Spaniards  made  a  bad  use  of  the  superstition  and  fear 
with  which  they  and  their  horses  inspired  the  natives.  The  Indians 
took  them  for  monstrous  beings— horse  and  rider  forming  but  on« 
creature — striking  down,  crushing,  and  blasting  with  fire  the  ene- 
mies of  the  Europeans.  By  the  influence  of  this  dread,  they 


46  CHRISTOPHER    COLUMBUS. 

dued,  enslaved,  violated,  abused,  and  tortured  this  gentle  and  obedi- 
ent race.  Columbus  again  interfered  to  punish  the  tyranny  of  his 
companions.  He  desired  to  bring  the  Indian  tribes  the  religion  and 
arts  of  Europe,  not  its  yoke,  its  vices,  and  its  sins.  After  re-establish- 
ing some  sort  of  order,  he  embarked  to  visit  the  scarcely  discovered 
island  of  Cuba.  He  reached  it,  and  sailed  for  a  long  time  past  its 
shores,  without  discovering  the  extremity  of  the  land,  which  he  took 
for  a  continent.  He  sailed  from  thence  toward  Jamaica,  another 
island  of  immense  extent,  whose  mountain  peaks  he  saw  among  the 
clouds.  Then,  crossing  an  archipelago,  which  he  called  the  Garden 
of  the  Queen,  from  the  richness  and  sweet  perfume  of  the  vegetation 
on  its  isles,  he  returned  to  Cuba,  and  succeeded  in  establishing  rela- 
tions with  the  natives.  The  Indians  looked  on  with  respect  at  the 
ceremonies  of  Christian  worship  which  the  Spaniards  celebrated  in  a 
recess  among  palm-trees  by  the  shore.  One  of  their  old  men  came 
up  to  Columbus,  after  the  ceremony,  and  said,  in  a  solemn  tone, 
"  What  thou  hast  done  is  well,  for  it  appears  to  be  thy  Avorship  of 
the  universal  God.  They  say  that  thou  comest  to  these  lands  with 
great  might  and  power  beyond  all  resistance.  If  that  be  so,  hear 
from  me  what  our  ancestors  have  told  our  fathers,  who  have  repeated 
it  to  ourselves.  "When  the  souls  of  men  are  separated  by  the  divine 
will  from  their  bodies,  they  go,  some  to  a  country  without  sun  and 
without  trees,  others  to  a  region  of  beauty  and  delight,  according  as 
they  have  acted  ill  or  Avell  here  below,  by  doing  evil  or  good  to  their 
fellows.  If,  therefore,  thou  art  to  die  like  us,  have  a  care  to  do  no 
wrong  to  those  who  have  never  injured  thee. " 

This  discourse  of  the  old  Indian,  related  by  Las  Casas,  sliOAvcd  that 
they  had  a  religion  rivalling  Christianity  in  the  simplicity  of  its  pre- 
cepts and  purity  of  its  morality — either  a  mysterious  emanation  of 
primitive  nature  untarnished  by  depravity  and  vice,  or  the  tradition 
of  an  ancient  civilization  long  since  worn  out  and  exhausted. 

After  a  long  and  fatiguing  voyage  of  discovery,  Columbus  re- 
turned in  a  dying  state  to  Ilispaniola.  His  fatigue  and  anxiety,  added  to 
suffering  and  to  the  approach  of  age,  unfelt  by  his  mind,  but  weigh- 
ing upon  his  body,  for  a  time  triumphed  over  his  genius.  His  sailors 
brought  him  back  to  Isabella  insensible  and  exhausted.  But  Provi- 
dence, which  had  never  abandoned  him,  watched  over  him  during 
the  abeyance  of  his  faculties.  On  recovering  from  his  long  uncon- 
teciousness,  be  found  his  beloved  brother,  Bartholomew  Columbus, 
sitting  by  his  bedside.  He  had  come  from  Europe  to  Ilispaniola,  aa 
though  he  had  felt  a  presentiment  of  his  brother's  danger  and  need. 
Bartholomew  was  endowed  with  the  strength  of  the  family,  as  Diego 
had  the  gentleness,  and. Christopher  the  genius.  The  vigor  of  hia 
body  equalled  the  energy  of  his  mind.  Of  athletic  frame  and  iron 
nerve,  with  robust  health,  a  commanding  aspect,  and  a  powerful 
voice,  that  could  be  heard  above  wind  and  AVUVCS  ;  a  sailor  from  his 
youth,  a  soldier  and  an  adventurer  all  his  life  ;  gifted  by  nature  and 


CHRISTOPHEK   COLUMBUS.  47 

by  habit  with  the  boldness  that  secures  obedience,  and  the  integrity 
which  insures  submission  ;  as  fit  for  command  as  for  contest ;  ho 
was  the  very  man  whom  Columbus  most  wanted  in  the  dangerous 
extremity  to  which  anarchy  had  reduced  his  kingdom  ;  and  more 
than  all  this,  he  was  a  brother  imbued  with  as  much  respect  as  at- 
tachment for  the  head  and  honor  of  his  house.  His  near  relationship 
made  Columbus  certain  of  the  fidelity  of  his  lieutenant.  The  attach- 
ment of  the  brothers  to  each  other  was  the  pledge  of  confidence  on 
one  side  and  submission  on  the  other.  Columbus,  during  the  long 
months  throughout  which  exhausted  nature  compelled  himself  to  in- 
action and  rest,  gave  up  the  government  and  authority  to  him,  under 
the  title  of  Adelantado,  or  superintendent  and  vice-governor  of  the 
lands  under  his  rule.  Bartholomew,  a  severer  administrator  than 
Christopher,  commanded  more  respect,  but  raised  more  opposition 
than  his  brother. 

The*rashness  and  treachery  of  the  young  Spanish  warrior,  Ojeda, 
raised  a  war  of  despair  between  the  Indians  and  the  colony.  That 
intrepid  adventurer,  having  advanced  with  some  horsemen  into  the 
most  distant  and  independent  portions  of  the  island,  persuaded  one 
of  the  caciques  to  return  with  him  to  Isabella,  with  a  great  number 
of  Indians,  to  sec  the  grandeur  and  wealth  of  the  Europeans.  The 
cacique  was  induced  to  follow  him.  After  some  days'  march,  when 
they  halted  on  the  bank  of  a  river,  Ojeda,  practising  on  the  simplicity 
of  the  Indian  chief,  showed  him  a  pair  of  handcuffs  of  polished  steel, 
whose  brilliancy  dazzled  him.  Ojeda  told  him  that  these  irons  were 
bracelets,  which  the  kings  of  Europe  wore  on  grand  days  when  they 
met  their  subjects.  His  host  was  induced  to  wear  them,  and  to  ride 
on  horseback  like  a  Spaniard,  that  his  subjects  might  see  him  in  this 
pretended  dress  of  the  sovereigns  of  the  Old  World.  The  cacique 
had  scarcely  put  on  the  handcuffs,  and  mounted  behind  the  cunning 
Ojeda,  when  the  Spanish  horsemen  galloped  off  with  their  prisoner, 
crossed  the  island,  and  brought  him  in  chains  to  the  colony,  where 
they  kept  him  in  the  irons  which  his  childish  vanity  had  induced  him 
to  put  on. 

A  vast  insurrection  roused  the  Indians  against  this  perfidy  of 
strangers,  whom  they  had  at  first  considered  as  guests,  friends,  bene- 
factors, and  gods.  This  insurrection  brought  down  upon  them  the 
vengeance  of  the  Spaniards.  They  reduced  the  Indians  to  a  state  of 
slavery,  and  sent  four  vessels  to  Spain,  loaded  with  these  victims  of 
their  avarice,  to  make  an  infamous  traffic  in  human  cattle  ;  thus, 
making  up,  by  the  price  of  slaves,  for  the  gold  which  they  expected 
to  pick  up  like  dust,  in  countries  where  they  found  nothing  but 
blood,  the  war  degenerated  into  a  man-hunt.  Dogs  brought  from 
Europe,  and  trained  to  this  chase  in  the  forests,  tracking  down, 
throttling,  and  worrying  the  natives,  assisted  the  Spaniards  in  thin- 
inhuman  devastation  of  the  country. 

Columbus,  at  length  recovered  from  his  long  illness,  on  re-assuming 


48  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

the  reins  of  government,  -was  himself  drawn  into  the  wars  which  had 
broken  out  during  his  illness.  He  became  a  warrior  and  then  a 
peacemaker,  after  his  sailor's  life.  He  gained  some  decisive  battles 
over  the  Indians,  obliged  them  to  submit  to  the  yoke  which  gentle- 
ness and  policy  made  easy,  and  merely  subjected  them  to  a  small 
tribute  of  gold  and  the  fruits  of  their  country,  rather  as  a  token  of 
alliance  than  of  slavery.  The  island  again  flourished  under  his 
moderation  ;  but  the  unhappy  and  confiding  cacique,  Guacanagari, 
who  had  been  the  first  to  receive  the  strangers,  ashamed  and  vexed 
even  to  despair  at  having  been  the  involuntary  accomplice  of  his 
country's  ruin,  fled  into  the  innaccessible  mountains  of  the  interior, 
anddied  there  a  freeman,  rather  than  live  a  slave  under  the  laws  of 
those  who  had  taken  a  shameful  advantage  of  his  kindness. 

During  the  sickness  of  Columbus  and  the  troubles  in  the  island, 
his  enemies  at  court  had  injured  him  in  the  favor  of  Ferdinand. 
Isabella,  more  firm  in  her  admiration  of  this  great  man,  tried  in  vain 
to  interpose  her  protection.  The  court  sent  to  Hispaniola  a  magis- 
trate invested  with  secret  powers,  authorizing  him  to  take  informa- 
tions concerning  alleged  crimes  of  the  viceroy,  and  to  dispossess  him 
of  his  authority  and  send  him  back  to  Europe,  if  the  accusations 
were  confirmed.  This  partial  judge,  named  Aguado,  arrived  at  His- 
paniola, while  the  viceroy  was  at  the  head  of  the  troops  in  the  in- 
terior of  the  island,  employed  in  pacifying  and  managing  the  coun- 
try. Forgetting  the  gratitude  which  he  owed  Columbus,  as  the  first 
cause  of  his  wealth,  Aguado,  even  before  collecting  information, 
declared  Columbus  guilty,  and  provisionally  deprived  him  of  his 
sovereign  authority.  Surrounded  and  applauded  on  landing  by  the 
malcontents  of  the  colony,  he  ordered  Columbus  to  come  to  Isabella, 
the  Spanish  capital,  and  to  acknowledge  his  authority.  Columbus, 
surrounded  by  his  friends  and  his  devoted  soldiery,  might  easily  have 
refused  obedience  to  the  insolent  commands  of  a  subordinate.  He, 
however,  bowed  before  the  mere  name  of  his  sovereign,  went  unarmed 
to  Aguado,  and  giving  up  all  his  authority,  allowed  him  to  carry  on 
the  infamous  trial  to  which  his  calumniators  had  subjected  him. 

But  at  the  very  moment  when  his  fortune  was  thus  waning  before 
persecution,  it  bestowed  on  him  the  favor  of  all  others  the  most  sure 
to  reconcile  him  with  the  court.  One  of  his  young  officers,  named 
Miguel  Dias,  having  killed  one  of  his  companions  in  a  duel,  fled 
away,  for  fear  of  chastisement,  into  one  of  the  back  parts  of  the 
island.  The  tribe  that  inhabited  that  district  was  governed  by  the  wid- 
ow of  a  cacique,  a  young  Indian  of  great  beauty."  She  became  deeply 
enamoured  of  the  Spanish  fugitive,  and  married  him.  But  Dias, 
though  loved  and  presented  with  a  crown  by  the  object  of  his  affec- 
tion, could  not  forget  his  country,  or  conceal  the  sadness  which  his 
exile  threw  over  him.  His  wife,  questioning  him  as  to  the  cause  of 
his  melancholy,  was  informed  that  gold  was  the  passion  of  tho 
hixuuards,  and  that  they  would  come  and  live  with  him  in  that  coun- 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  40 

try  if  they  could  hope  to  find  the  precious  metal.  The  young  Indian, 
overjoyed  at  having  the  means  of  retaining  the  man  she  loved,  ac- 
quainted him  with  the  existence  of  inexhaustible  mines  hidden 
among  the  mountains.  Having  learned  this  secret)  and  being  certain 
that  it  would  procure  his  pardon,  Dias  hastened  to  inform  Columbus 
of  the  discovery  of  this  treasure.  The  brother  of  the  viceroy,  I'.ai 
tholomew,  went  off  with  Dias  and  an  armed  escort  to  verify  flic  dis- 
covery. In  a  few  days  they  reached  a  valley  in  which  "a  si  ream 
rolled  down  gold-dust  among  its  sand,  and  where  the  rocks  in  the 
bed  of  the  river  were  covered  with  shining  particles  of  the  metal. 
Columbus  established  a  fort  in  the  neighborhood,  worked  and  en- 
larged mines  opened  long  before,  and  collected  immense  wealth  for 
his  sovereigns,  becoming  more  and  more  convinced  that  lie  had  dis- 
covered the  fabulous  land  of  Ophir.  Dias,  grateful  and  true  to  the 
young  Indian  to  whom  he  owed  his  pardon,  his  fortune,  and  his  hap- 
piness, had  his  marriage  with  her  blessed  by  the  priests  of  his  own 
faith,  and  governed  her  tribe  in  peace. 

After  this  discovery  Columbus  yielded  without  hesitation  to  the 
orders  of  Aguado,  and  embarked  with  his  judge  for  Spain.  He, 
arrived,  after  a  voyage  of  eight  mouths,  more  like  a  criminal  led  to 
execution  than  a  conqueror  returning  with  trophies.  Calumny, 
incredulity,  and  reproach  met  him  at  Cadi/.  Spain,  which  expected 
wonders,  saw  nothing  come  back  from  the  laud  of  its  dreams  imt 
broken  adventurers,  accusers,  and  naked  slaves.  The  unfortunate 
cacique,  still  confined  in  the  fetters  of  Ojeda,  and  taken  over  as  a 
living  trophy  for  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  died  at  sea,  cursing  his 
confidence  in  the  Europeans  and  their  treachery. 

Columbus,  adapting  his  dress  to  the  sadness  and  misery  of  his  situ- 
ation, went  to  Burgos,  where  the  court  then  was,  in  a  Franciscan's 
dress,  with  nothing  over  it  but  a  cord  for  a  girdle  ;  his  head  bowed 
down  with  years,  care,  and  affliction  ;  white-haired  and  barefooted. 
lie  represented  Genius  kneeling  to  Glory  for  pardon.  Isabella  alon .1 
received  him  with  kind  compassion,  and  persisted  in  giving  credit  to 
his  virtue  and  his  services.  This  constant  though  secret  favor  of  tin; 
queen  sustained  the  admiral  against  the  detractions  and  calumnies 
of  the  court.  He  proposed  new  voyages  and  vaster  discoveries. 
They  consented  to  trust  him  with  more  vessels,  but  they  made  him 
waste,  by  systematic  delays,  the  few  years  for  which  his  advanced 
age  left  him  strength.  The  pious  Isabella,  while  granting  Columbus 
fresh  titles  and  powers,  stipulated,  on  behalf  of  the  Indians,  for  con 
ditious  of  liberty  and  humanity  far  in  advance  of  the  ideas  of  her 
time.  The  instinct  of  a  woman's  heart  condemned  that  slavery 
which  religion  and  philosophy  could  not  abolish  until  four  hundred 
years  later.  At  length  Columbus  was  acquitted,  and  again  allowed 
to  embark  and  set  sail  for  his  new  country  ;  but  hatred  and  envy  fol- 
lowed him  even  on  board  the  vessel  on  which  he  hoisted  his  Hag  as 
Admiral  of  the  Ocean.  Breviesca,  the  treasurer  of  the  patriarch  of 


;,((  CHRlSTOPllKU    COLUAIiJl'b. 

the  Indies,  and  Fonseca,  tlie  enemy  of  Columbus,  outrageously 
aimscd  the  admiral  just  as  lie  was  hesving  anchor.  Columbus,  who 
until  then  had  been  restrained  by  his  own  strength  of  character,  his 
patience,  and  his  feeling  of  the  greatness  of  his  mission,  now,  for 
the  first  time,  gave  vent  to  his  wrath.  At  this  last  insult  of  his  ene- 
mies he  at  length  gave  way  to  human  passion,  and  striking  with  all 
the  vigor  of  his  spirit  and  all  the  strength  of  his  arm,  redoubled  by 
anger,  at  his  vile  persecutor,  he  felled  him  to  the  deck,  and  trampled 
him  under  foot  in  his  scorn.  Such  was  the  farewell  to  the  jealousy 
of  Europe  of  him  who  seemed  too  great  or  too  fortunate  for  a  mor- 
tal. This  sudden  vengeance  of  the  admiral  raised  a  new  cause  of 
hatred  in  the  heart  of  Fonseca,  and  gave  his  enemies  a  new  point  of 
attack.  The  wind  which  sprung  up  carried  him  out  of  the  reach  of 
the  insults,  and  out  of  sight  of  the  shore,  of  his  country. 

In  this  voyairc  he  changed  his  course,  and  reached  the  island  of 
Trinidad,  which  he  named.  He  rounded  this  island,  and  coasted  the 
true  shore  of  the  American  continent,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Orinoco. 
The  freshness  of  the  sea- water  which  he  tasted  in  this  neighborhood 
ought,  to  have  convinced  him  that  a  river  which  poured  a  sufficient 
flood  upon  the  ocean  to  freshen  its  waves  could  only  come  from  the 
bosom  of  a  continent.  He  landed,  however,  on  this  coast  without  sus- 
pecting that  it  was  the  shore  of  the  unknown  world.  He  found  it 
deserted  and  silent  as  a  laud  waiting  for  inhabitants.  A  distant 
column  of  smoke  rising  over  its  vast  forests,  an  abandoned  hut,  and 
some  traces  of  bare  feet  on  the  sand,  were  all  that  he  beheld  of 
America.  He  did  but  plant  his  footstep  there,  and  pass  a  single  night 
under  the  sail  which  served  him  for  a  tent  ;  but  even  this  short  land- 
ing ought  to  have  been  sufficient  to  bequeath  his  name  to  the  new 
hemisphere. 

He  quitted  the  Gulf  of  Paria,  and  after  a  laborious  survey  of  these 
seas,  revisited  the  coasts  of  Hispaniola.  His  afflictions  of  mind  and 
body,  his  long  delay  in  Spain,  the  ingratitude  of  his  fellow-country* 
men,  the  coldness  of  Ferdinand,  the  hatred  of  his  ministers,  his  want 
uf  sleep  during  his  voyages,  and  the  infirmities  of  age,  hail  affected 
him  more  than  fatigue.  His  eyes  were  inflamed  from  want  of  rest 
and  from  ga/ing  upon  maps  and  stars  ;  his  limbs,  stiffened  and 
achintr  with  the  gout,  could  scarcely  support  him.  His  mind  alone 
was  vigorous  ;  and  his  genius,  piercing  into  the  future,  carried  him 
in  thought  beyond  his  sufferings  and  beyond  his  time.  Bartholomew 
Columbus,  his  brother,  who  had  continued  to  govern  the  colony  dur- 
ing his  absence,  was  again  his  consolation  and  succor.  He  came  to 
meet  the  admiral  as  soon  as  his  scouts  signalled  a  sail  in  sight. 

Harlholomcw  related  to  his  brother  the  vicissitudes  of  the  colony  dur- 
ing his  absence.  lie  had  scarcely  finished  the  exploration  and  subjuga- 
tion of  the  country,  when  the  disorders  of  the  Spaniards  and  the 
conspiracies  of  his  own  lieutenants  undid  the  effects  of  his  wisdom 
and  energy.  A  superintendent  of  the  colony,  named  Roldan,  popu- 


CHKISTOPIIER   COLUMBUS.  51 

lar  and  cunning,  got  together  a  party  among;  the  sa.lors  and  adven- 
turers, the  refuse  of  Spain,  thrown  off  by  the  mother  country  upon  flu; 
colony.  He  established  himself  with  them  on  the  opposite  shore  of 
San  Domingo,  and  leagued  against  Bartholomew,  with  the  caciques 
of  the  neighboring  tribes.  He  built  or  captured  forts,  in  which  he 
defied  the  authority  of  his  legitimate  chief.  The  Indians,  seeing 
these  divisions  among  their  tyrants,  took  advantage  of  them  to  rise 
in  insurrection,  and  to  refuse  the  tribute.  The  new  settlement  was 
in  complete  anarchy.  The  heroism  of  Bartholomew  alone  retained 
some  fragments  of  power  in  his  hands.  Ojrda  freighted  vessels  on 
his  own  account  for  Spain  ;  he  cruised  an  1  made  a  descent  on  the 
southern  shore  of  the  island,  and  leagued  himself  with  Roldan.  Then 
Roldan  betrayed  Ojeda,  and  ranged  himself  again  under  the  authority 
of  the  governor.  During  these  disturbances  of  the  colony,  a  young 
Spaniard,  of  remarkable  beauty,  Don  Fernando  de  Guerara,  won  the 
love  of  the  daughter  of  Anacoana,  the  widow  of  the  cacique  whom 
Ojeda  had  sent  to  Spain,  but  who  died  on  the  voyage.  Anacoana 
herself  was  still  young,  and  celebrated  among  the  tribes  of  tho 
island  for  her  incomparable  beauty,  her  natural  genius,  and  her  poet- 
ical talent,  which  made  her  the  adored  Sibyl  of  her  countrymen. 
Notwithstanding  the  misfortunes  of  her  husband,  she  entertained 
a  great  admiration  and  an  unconquerable  predilection  for  tin* 
Spaniards.  The  numerous  tribes  which  she  and  her  brother 
erned  afforded  a  safe  asylum  to  these  strangers.  She  extended  {</ 
them  hospitality,  money,  and  protection  in  their  disgrace.  Her  sub- 
jects, more  civilized  than  the  other  Indian  tribes,  lived  in  peace,  rich 
and  happy  under  her  government. 

Roldaii,  who  ruled  over  that  part  of  the  island  which  was  under 
the  beautiful  Auacoana,  became  jealous  of  the  sojourn  and  influence 
of  Fernando  de  Guerara  at  the  court  of  this  princess,  lie  forbadu 
him  to  marry  her  daughter,  and  ordered  him  to  embark.  Fernando, 
influenced  by  love,  refused  to  obey,  and  conspired  against  Koldan, 
but  was  surprised  and  taken  prisoner  by  Hold, in 's  soldiery  in  the 
house  of  Anacoana,  and  sent  to  Isabella  to  be  tried.  An  expedition 
left  the  capital  of  the  colony  under  pretence  of  surveying  the  island, 
and  was  received  with  great  kindness  in  Anacoana 's  capital.  Tho 
perfidious  chief  of  this  expedition,  abusing  the  confidence  and  hos- 
pitality of  this  queen,  had  induced  her  to  invite  thirty  caciques  from 
the  south  of  the  island  to  see  the  festivities  she  was  preparing  for  the 
Spaniards.  The  Spaniards,  during  the  dances  and  feasts  that  they 
attended,  arranged  to  fire  the  house,  and  kill  their  generous  In 
with  her  family,  her  guests,  and  her  people.  They  persuaded  Ana- 
poana,  her  daughter,  and  the  thirty  caciques,  to  see  from  their  bal- 
cony the  evolutions  of  their  horse,  anil  a  sham  fight  among  the  cav- 
Aliers  of  their  escort.  The  cavalry  suddenly  fell  upon  the  unarmed 
populace  that  curiosity  had  collected  in  the  square  •  they  sabred 
Ihem,  and  rode  them  down  under  the  horses'  feet  /  then,  throwing  a 


52  CURISTOFHER   COLUMBUS. 

body  of  infantry  round  the  palace,  to  prevent  the  escape  of  the 
quern  and  her  guests,  they  fired  the  building,  still  containing  the  re- 
mains of  the  feast  at  which  they  had  themselves  been  seated  ;  and 
U'held,  with  a  cruelty  only  equalled  by  their  ingratitude,  the  beauti- 
ful and  unhappy  Anacoana,  forced  back  into  her  palace,  expire 
among  the  flames,  imprecating  upon  her  murderers  the  vengeance 
of  her  gods. 

This  crime  against  hospitality,  innocence,  royalty,  beauty,  and 
genius,  of  which  Anacoana  was  the  type  among  the  Indians,  threw 
the  island  into  a  horror  and  commotion,  which  Columbus,  with  all 
his  policy  and  all  his  virtue,  was  for  a  long  while  unable  to  subdue. 
The  flames  of  the  palace,  and  the  blood  of  this  queen,  whose  dazzling 
beauty  and  national  poetry  filled  her  people  with  affection  and  en- 
thusiasm, roused  the  oppressed  against  the  oppressors  :  the  island 
became  a  field  of  carnage,  a  prison,  and  a  grave,  to  the  unhappy  In- 
dians. The  Spaniards,  as  fanatical  in  their  proselytism  as  they  were 
barbarous  in  their  avarice,  now  entered  in  Hispaniola  upon  the  eareer 
of  crime  and  cruelty  which  was  shortly  afterward  to  depopulate 
.Mexico.  The  embrace  of  the  two  races  was  fatal  to  the  weakest. 

While  Columbus  was  trying  to  separate  and  pacify  these  different 
portions  of  the  population,  King  Ferdinand,  informed  by  his  enemies 
of  the  misfortunes  of  the  island,  imputed  them  to  the  governor. 
Columbus  had  asked  the  court  to  send  him  a  magistrate  of  high 
rank,  whose  decision  might  command  the  respect  of  his  undisci- 
plined companions.  The  court  sent  him  Bobadilla,  a  man  of  unim 
peachable  morality,  but  fanatical,  and  of  excessive  pride.  The  ill- 
defined  power  with  which  the  royal  decree  had  invested  him,  while  it 
made  him  a  subordinate  officer,  raised  him  at  the  same  time  above  all 
authority.  On  arriving  at  Hispauiola.  prejudiced  against  the  admi- 
ral,pie  summoned  him  to  appear  before  him  as  a  prisoner,  and,  having 
had  chains  brought,  ordered  the  soldiers  to  confine  their  general. 
The  soldiers,  accustomed  to  respect  and  love  their  chief  whom  age 
and  glory  had  made  more  venerable  in  their  eyes,  refused,  and  re- 
mained still,  as  if  they  had  been  desired  to  commit  a  saciilege.  But 
CoKunbus  himself,  holding  out  his  hands  to  receive  the  chains  his 
king  had  sent  him,  allowed  himself  to  be  fettered  by  one  of  his  own 
domestics — a  volunteer  executioner,  a  vile  ruffian  in  his  own  pay 
ami  household  service — called  Espinosa,  and  whose  name  Las  Casas 
has  preserved  as  the  type  of  servile  insolence  and  ingratitude. 

Columbus  himself  ordered  his  two  brothers,  Bartholomew  and 
Diego,  who  still  commanded  the  army  in  the  interior,  to  submit  with- 
out resistance  and  without  a  murmur  to  his  judge.  lie  was  shut 
up  in  the  dungeon  of  Fort  Isabella  for  several  months,  while  the  in- 
formations were  being  taken  for  his  trial,  in  which  his  rebellious  sub- 
jects and  all  his  enemies,  now  his  accusers  and  jury,  vied  with  each 
other  in  charging  him  with  the  most  absurd  and  most  hateful  impu- 
tation*. JLn  obiect  of  public  scorn  and  detestation,  he  heard  tr-np 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  53 

his  prison  the  savage  jests  and  boasts  of  his  persecutors,  who  assem 
bled  round  him  every  evening  to  insult  his  misfortunes.  He  ex. 
pected  hourly  to  see  the  order  for  his  execution.  But  Bobadilla  did 
not  venture  upon  this  last  crime.  He  ordered  the  admiral  to  be 
banished  the  colony  and  sent  to  Spain,  there  to  meet  the  justice  or 
mercy  of  the  king.  Alonzo  de  Villejo  was  appointed  to  guard  him 
during  the  passage — a  man  of  honor,  obedient  from  a  sense  of  mili- 
tary duty  ;  but,  though  obedient,  disgusted  at  his  orders  and  merci-. 
ful  to  his  prisoner.  Columbus,  seeing  him  enter  his  dungeon,  did 
not  doubt  that  his  last  hour  had  come.  His  innocence  and  prayer 
had  prepared  him  to  meet  death.  Human  nature,  however,  nuide 
him  feel  some  anxiety.  "  Where  are  you  going  to  take  me  ?"  said  he 
to  the  officer,  with  an  inquiring  look  as  well  as  tone.  "  To  the  ves- 
sel in  which  you  are  to  embark,  my  lord,"  said  Villejo.  "  To  em. 
bark?"  said  Columbus,  hesitating  to  believe  in  this  message,  which 
implied  that  his  life  was  safe  ;  "do  not  deceive  me,  Villejo  !"  "  No, 
my  lord,"  replied  the  officer,  "  I  swear,  before  God,  that  nothing  is 
more  true."  He  assisted  the  tottering  steps  of  the  admiral,  and 
placed  him  on  board,  loaded  with  irons,  and  pursued  by  the  hooting 
of  a  vile  populace. 

The  vessel  had  hardly  set  sail,  when  Villejo  and  Andreas  Martin, 
commanders  of  the  ship  which  had  become  the  floating  dungeon  of 
their  chief,  respectfully  addressed  him,  at  the  head  of  the  crew,  and 
desired  to  take  off  his  irons.  Columbus,  to  whom  these  fetters  were 
both  a  sign  of  obedience  to  Isabella  and  a  symbol  of  the  wickedness 
of  men,  from  which  he  suffered  in  body,  but  at  which  ho  rejoiced  in 
mind,  thanked  them,  but  obstinately  refused  to  take  off  his  gyves. 
"No,"  said  he,  "my  sovereigns  have  written  to  me  to  submit  to 
Bobadilla.  It  is  in  their  names  that  I  have  been  put  in  these  irons, 
which  I  will  wear  until  they  themselves  order  them  to  be  removed  ; 
and  I  will  afterward  preserve  them,"  he  added,  with  an  allusion  l<» 
his  services  and  innocence,  "  as  a  reminiscence  of  the  reward  bestowed 
by  men  upon  my  labors." 

His  son  and  Las  Casas  both  relate  that  Columbus  faithfully  kept  thw 
promise  ;  that  lie  always  had  his  chains  hung  up  in  his  sight  wher- 
ever he  lived  ;  and  that  in  his  will  he  ordered  them  to  lie  placed  with 
him  in  his  coffin  ;  as  if  he  had  desired  to  appeal  to  God  against  the 
injustice  and  ingratitude  of  his  contemporaries,  anil  to  take  with  him 
to  heaven  a  material  proof  of  the  wickedness  and  cruelty  with  which 
he  had  been  treated  on  earth. 

But  party  hatred  did  not  cross  the  ocean.  The  spoliation,  the  im. 
prisonmeut,  and  the  fetters  of  Columbus  roused  the  pity  and  the  in 
dignatiou  of  the  people  of  Cadiz.  When  they  saw  the  old  man  wh<\ 
had  presented  a  new  empire  to  their  country — himself  brought  back 
from  that  empire  as  a  vile  miscreant,  and  repaid  for  his  services  will) 
disgrace—all  exclaimed  against  Bobadilla.  Isabella,  who  was  then 
at  Granada,  shed  tear*  over  this  indignity  ;  and  commanded  that  his 


.,4  CHRISTOPHER    COLI.'MIU  3. 

fetters  should  be  changed  for  rich  robes  and  his  jailers  for  an  escort 
of  honor.  She  sent  for  him  to  Granada  :  he  fell  at  her  feet,  and  sobs 
of  thankfulness  for  some  time  interrupted  his  speech.  The  king  and 
queen  did  not  even  deign  to  examine  the  accusations  which  were  laid 
to  his  cliai-^c.  lie  was  acquitted  as  much  in  consequence  of  their  re- 
spect as  of  his  own  merits.  They  kept  the  admiral  some  time  at  their 
court,  and  sent  out  another  governor,  named  Ovaudo,  to  replace 
Bobadilla.  Ovanjo  had  the  principles  which  make  a  man  honest, 
rather  than  the  virtues  which  produce  generosity  of  character.  He 
was  one  of  those  with  whom  everything  is  narrow,  even  to  their 
sense  of  duty,  and  in,  whom  honesty  seems  rather  to  have  arisen  from 
contracted  scruples  than  from  a  feeling  of  honor.  Least^f  all  was  he 
fitted  to  understand  and  replace  a  great  man.  He  was  ordered  by 
Isabella  to  protect  the  Indians,  and  was  forbidden  to  sell  them  as 
slaves.  The  share  in  the  revenue,  guaranteed  by  treaty  to  Columbus, 
was  to  be  remitted  to  him  in  Spain,  as  well  as  the  treasures  of  which 
lie  had  been  deprived  by  Bobadilla.  A  fleet  of  thirty  sail  escorted  the 
new  governor  to  Hispaniola. 

Columbus,  unaffected  by  old  age,  and  recruited  from  his  sufferings, 
was  impatient  of  rest  and  even  of  the  honors  of  the  whole  country. 
Vasco  de  Gama  had  just  discovered  the  road  to  India  by  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope.  The  world  was  full  of  admiration  at  this  discovery  of 
the  Portuguese  mariner.  A  noble  spirit  of  rivalry  occupied  the  mind 
of  the  Genoese  navigator.  Convinced  of  the  circularity  of  the  earth, 
he  thought  to  reach  the  prolongation  of  the  eastern  continent  by 
sailing  on  a  straight  course  westward,  and  he  solicited  of  the  Spanish 
Court,  the  command  of  a  fourth  expedition.  He  embarked  at  Cadi/,  on 
the  19th  of  May,  1502,  for  the  last  time,  accompanied  by  his  brother 
Bartholomew  Columbus,  and  his  son  Fernando,  then  fourteen  years  of 
age.  His  squadron  consisted  of  four  small  vessels  adapted  for  cruis- 
ing on  the  coast,  and  exploring  without  danger  the  gulf  sand  estuaries 
which  he  wished  to  examine.  His  crews  only  mustered  150  strong. 
Although  nearly  seventy,  his  vigorous  old  age  had,  from  his.  mental 
energy,  resisted  the  waste  of  years  :  neither  his  severe  illnesses  nor 
the  approach  of  death  could  turn  him  aside  from  his  purpose. 

Man,"  he  would  say,  "is  an  instrument  that  must  W7ork  until  it 
breaks  in  the  hands  of  Providence,  which  uses  it  for  its  own  pur- 
poses. As  long  as  the  body  is  able,  the  spirit  must  be  willing." 

He  had  intended  to  touch  at  Hispaniola  to  refit,  and  had  authority 
from  the  court  to  do  so.  He  crossed  the  ocean  in  stormy  weather, 
and  arrived  off  Hispaniola  with  broken  masts  and  torn  sails,  short  of 
water  and  provisions.  His  nautical  experience  made  him  foresee  a 
hurricane  more  terrible  than  he  had  yet  encountered.  He  sent  a  boat 
to  ask  Ovando's  leave  to  take  shelter  in  the  roads  of  Isabella.  Aware 
of  the  impending  danger,  Columbus,  in  his  letter,  warned  Ovando  to 
delay  the  departuie  of  a  numerous  convoy  ready  to  start  from  Hi s- 
pauiola  for  Spain,  laden  with  all  the  treasures  of  the  New  World. 


CHKISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  55 

Ovando  mercilessly  refused  Columbus  a  brief  refuge  in  the  very  port 
that  he  himself  had  discovered.  He  bore  away  indignantly,  and  seek- 
ing a  shelter  under  the  remotest  cliffs  of  the  island  beyond  the  iuris- 
diction  of  Ovando,  waited  for  the  tempest  that  he  had  foretold.  It 
destroj'ed  the  governor's  whole  fleet,  with  all  its  treasures,  and  cost 
the  lives  of  1000  Spaniards.  Columbus  felt  its  effects  even  in  this 
distant  roadstead,  in  which  he  had  taken  shelter.  He  sighed  over 
the  misfortunes  of  his  countrymen,  and,  leaving  this  inhospitable* 
island,  revisited  Jamaica,  and  at  length  landed  on  the  continent  in 
the  Bay  of  Honduras.  He  encountered  sixty  days  of  continued  tem- 
pest, buffeted  about  from  cape  to  cape  and  isle  to  isle,  on  the  un- 
known shore  of  that  America  whose  conquest  the,  elements  seemed 
to  dispute  with  him.  He  lost  one  of  his  vessels,  and  the  fifty  men 
who  composed  its  crew,  at  the  mouth  of  a  river  which  he  named 
Desastro. 

As  the  sea  seemed  resolutely  to  obstruct  the  road  to  the  Indies, 
which  he  always  had  in  his  mind,  he  cast  anchor  between  the  con- 
tinent and  a  charming  island.  He  was  visited  by  the  Indians,  and 
kept  seven  of  them  on  board  with  him,  in  order  that  he  might  learn 
their  language  and  obtain  intelligence.  He  cruised  with  them  along 
a  shore  where  the  natives  had  gold  and  pearls  in  abundance.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  year  1504,  he  ascended  the  river  Veragua,  and  sent, 
his  brother  Bartholomew,  at  the  head  of  sixty  Spaniards,  to  visit  thu 
villages  on  its  banks,  and  search  for  gold  mines.  He  found  nothing 
but  forests  and  naked  savages.  The  admiral  quitted  this  river,  and 
sailed  up  another  of  which  the  banks  were  peopled  by  Indians,  who 
exchanged  gold  with  his  crews  for  the  commonest  triilcs  of  Europe. 
He  thought  he  had  attained  the  object  of  his  hopes.  He  had  reached 
the  climax  of  his  misfortunes.  War  broke  out  between  this  handful 
of  Europeans  and  the  numerous  population  of  these  shores.  Bartho- 
lomew Columbus  struck  down  with  his  own  hand  the  most  powerful 
and  most  dreaded  cacique  of  fhe  Indians,  and  made  him  prisoner. 
A  village  which  the  companions  of  Columbus  had  built  on  tie 
to  establish  a  trade  with  the  interior, was  surprised  and  burned  by  the 
natives.  Eight  Spaniards,  pierced  by  arrows,  perished  under  the 
ruins  of  their  cabins.  Bartholomew  rallied  the  boldest  of  his  com- 
pany, and  drove  back  the  savages  into  their  forest  ;  but  the  blood 
that  had  been  shed  increased  the  mutual  hatred  of  the  races,  and  tlio 
Indian  canoes  in  great  force  attacked  a  boat  from  the  squadron,  which 
was  trying  to  pull  farther  up  the  river.  All  the  Europeans  on  board 
were  massacred.  During  this  sanguinary  struggle,  Columbus,  who 
was  confined  to  his  ship  by  his  bodily  infirmities  and  sickness,  kept 
the  cacique  and  the  Indian  chiefs  prisoners  on  board  the  vessel. 
These  chiefs,  being  made  acquainted  with  the  wasting  of  their  ter- 
ritories and  the  capture  of  their  wives,  tried  to  escape  during  a  dark 
night  by  lifting  up  the  hatch  that  covered  their  floating  dungeon. 
The  crew,  aroused  by  the  noise,  drove  them  down  be-low,  and  fast- 


66  CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS. 

«ned  the  scuttle  with  an  iron  bar.  The  next  day,  when  the  scuttle 
•was  opened  to  give  them  food,  they  were  all  found  dead.  They  had 
all  killed  one  another  in  despair,  to  escape  slavery. 

Columhus  was  shortly  afterward  separated  by  the  breakers  frorr 
his  brother  Bartholomew,  who  had  remained  ashore  with  the  remain- 
der of  the  expedition,  and  his  only  means  of  communication  was 
owing  to  the  courage  of  one  of  the  officers,  who  swam  to  and  fro 
across  the  surf,  with  news  that  became  worse  and  worse  every  day. 
He  could  not  leave  his  companions,  or  abandon  them  in  their  mis- 
fortunes.    Anxiety,  sickness,  hunger — the  prospect  of  a  shipwreck 
without  relief,  and  unwitnessed,  on  the  much-desired  but  fatal  c<;n 
tinent — were  warring  in  his  breast  with  his  heroic  constancy  and 
pious  submission  to  the  commands  of  God,  of  whom  he  felt  that  he 
was  at  once  the  messenger  and  the  victim.     He  thus  described  the 
state  of  his  mind  during  his  vigils  :  "  I  was  tired,  and  had  fallen 
asleep,   when  a  sad  and  piteous  voice  spoke  these  words  to    me, 
'  Weak  man,  slow  to  believe  and  to  serve  thy  God,  the  God  of  the 
universe  !     How  otherwise  did  God  unto  Moses  and  David  his  ser- 
vants?   From  the  time  of  thy  birth,  he  has  had  great  care  of  tlicc. 
As  soon  as  thou  reachedst  man's  estate,  he  made  thy  obscure  name 
wonderfully  known  throughout  the  world  ;  he  gave  thee  possession 
of  the  Indies,  the  favored  part  of  his  creation  ;  he  let  thee  find  the 
key  of  the  gates  of  the  unmeasured  ocean,  until  then  an  impassable 
barrier.     Turn  thee  toward  him  and  bless  his  mercies  to  thee  ;  and 
if  there  is  yet  a  great  enterprise  to  be  accomplished,  thy  age  will  be 
no  obstacle  to  his  designs.     Was  not  Abraham  more  than  a  hundred 
years  of  age  when  he  begat  Isaac,  or  was    Sarah  young?    Who 
caused  thy  present  afflictions,  God  or  the  world  ?    The  promises  he 
made  thee  he  hath  never  broken.     He  never  told  thee,  after  thou 
hadst  done  his  bidding,  that  thou  hadst  not  understood  his  orders. 
He  renders  all  that  he  owes,  yea,, and  more  besides.     What  thou 
suffercst  to-day  is  thy  payment  for  the  labor  and  danger  thou  hast 
undergone  for  other  masters.     Fear  nothing,  therefore  ;  take  courago 
even  in  thy  despair.     All  thy  tribulations  are  engraven  on  marble, 
and  not  without  reason,  for  surely  will  they  be  accomplished  ; '  and 
the  voice  which  had  spoken  to  me  left  me  full  of  consolation  and  of 
courage." 

A  change  of  season  at  length  brought  about  a  change  of  weather, 
and  the  two  brothers,  so  long  separated,  again  met  on  board.  They 
Kailci I  slowly  toward  Hispaniola.  One  of  the  three  remaining  car- 
avels foundered  from  utter  decay  as  they  neared  the  shore.  He  had 
now  only  two  crazy  old  vessels  for  himself  and  his  three  crews.  His 
companions,  depressed  in  spirits,  without  provisions  and  without 
strength,  his  anchors  lost,  his  vessels  leaky,  and  all  their  planks 
worm-eaten  and  completely  honeycombed,  the  pitiless  storms  driv- 
ing him  back  from  Hispaniola  toward  Jamaica,  he  had  just  time  to 
run  his  water-logged  vessels  aground  upon  the  sand  of  an  unknown 


CHRISTOPHER   COT, I ' M  r.i  s.  57 

bay.  He  tied  them  together  into  oue  muss  -\\  ith  cables,  and,  joining 
their  deeks  by  a  platform  of  planks,  over  which  he  spread  an  awning 
for  his  crew,  he  waited,  in  this  dreadful  situation  of  a  shipwrecked 
company,  for  the  help  of  Providence. 

The  Indians,  attracted  by  the  shipwreck  and  the  singular  fortress 
built  by  the  strangers  upon  their  beach,  exchanged  provisions  for 
worthless  objects,  to  which  novelty  gave  value  in  their  eyes.  But 
months  passed  away,  provisions  were  getting  scarce,  and  fear  for  the 
future  and  the  seditious  murmurs  of  the  crews  gave  rise  to  great 
anxiety  in  the  mind  of  the  admiral.  The  only  hope  of  safety  left 
was  in  making  Ovando,  the  Governor  of  Ilispaniola,  acquainted  with 
his  position.  But  fifty  leagues  of  sea  rolled  between  Ilispaniola  and 
Jamaica.  An  Indian  canoe  was  the  only  craft  he  could  set  atloat  ; 
and  who  would  be  sufficiently  generous  to  risk  his  life  for  hi.s  com- 
panions vipon  such  a  long  and  perilous  voyage  in  a  hollow  tree,  and 
without  any  guidance  but  a  paddle  ?  Diego  Mendcz,  a  young  officer 
of  the  squadron,  who  had  already  shown,  on  other  occasions,  that 
disregard  of  self  which  makes  heroes  and  accomplishes  wonders, 
presented  himself  to  the  admiral's  mind.  He  had  him  secretly  called 
to  his  bed,  to  which  ho  was  confined  by  the  gout,  and  said  to  him, 
"  My  son,  of  all  that  are  here,  you  and  I  alone  understand  the  pres- 
ent danger,  in  which  our  only  prospect  is  death.  There  still  re- 
mains an  experiment  to  be  tried — for  one  of  us  to  expose  himself  to 
death  in  the  endeavor  to  save  all.  "Will  you  be  that  one  ?"  Mendr/. 
answered,  "My  lord,  I  have  several  times  risked  my  life  for  my 
companions  ;  but  some  of  them  murmur,  and  say  that  your  favor 
always  singles  me  out  when  there  is  any  daring  exploit  to  be  at- 
tempted. Call  upon  the  whole  crew  to-morrow  morning  for  one  of 
them  to  undertake  the  duty  you  offer  me.  If  no  one  volunteers,  I 
will  accept  it."  The  admiral  did  as  Mcndez  desired.  All  the  crew 
said  it  was  unreasonable  to  require  them  to  make  such  a  long  passage 
in  a  mere  morsel  of  wood,  the  sport  of  the  winds  and  waves.  Mrn- 
dez  then  stepped  forward  modestly,  and  said,  "  I  have  but  a  sinirln 
life  to  lose;  but  I  am  ready  to  risk  it  in  your  service,  and  in  the 
hope  of  saving  all.  I  confide  myself  to  the  protection  of  God."  JIc 
set  off,  and  soon  disappeared  in  the  dimness  of  the  horizon,  from  tliu 
Spaniards  whose  lives  depended  upon  his. 

But  hopeless  expectation,  absolute  isolation  from  the  known 
world,  and  excess  of  misery,  excited  his  companions  against  tho 
admiral,  to  whom  they  attributed  their  misfortunes.  Two  of  his 
favorite  officers,  Diego  and  Francesco  de  Porras,  whom  he  had 
treated  as  his  own  sous,  and  intrusted  with  the  principal  command 
•under  himself,  were  the  first  to  raise  against  him  murmurs  and 
abuse,  and  at  last  open  sedition.  They  took  advantage  of  a  crisis  of 
his  complaint  which  confined  their  benefactor  to  his  bed,  and,  draw- 
ing after  them  half  the  sailors  and  soldiers,  they  seized  on  a  portion 
of  the  provisions  and  arms,  assembled  their  accomplices  to  the  cry 


r>8  CHRISTOPHER    COLUMBUS. 

of  "  Castile  !  Castile  !"  and  abused  and  insulted  the  admiral.  Co- 
lumbus, whose  illness  made  him  helpless,  and  who  could  scarcely 
raise  his  hands  to  heaven  to  pray,  in  vain  begged  of  them  to  return 
to  their  duty.  They  despised  alike  his  entreaties  and  his  orders. 
They  reproached  him  with  his  age,  his  white  hairs,  his  personal 
sufferings,  and  even  raised  their  weapons  against  him.  Bartholo- 
mew Columbus  seized  his  lance  and  rushed  between  the  mutineers 
and  the  admiral,  who  was  supported  in  the  arms  of  his  servants. 
Assisted  by  a  part  of  the  crew,  he  succeeded  in  saving  the  life  and 
maintaining  the  authority  of  his  brother  on  board  the  vessels.  The 
two  Porras  and  fifty  of  their  accomplices  quitted  the  ships,  ravaged 
the  country,  raised  the  enmity  of  the  natives  by  their  excesses,  and 
tried  unsuccessfully  to  build  vessels  to  enable  them  to  reach  Hispa- 
niola — an  attempt  in  which  part  of  them  perished.  They  then  came 
back  and  attacked  Columbus  and  their  fellow-countrymen  on  board 
the  ships,  but  were  repulsed  by  the  stalwait  arm  of  Bartholomew, 
•who  killed  their  chief,  Francesco  Porras  ;  and  the  remainder  at 
length  submitted  to  their  duty,  begging  Columbus  to  forgive  their 
ingratitude  and  their  rebellion. 

Meanwhile  the  messenger  of  Columbus  in  his  frail  bark,  guided  by 
Providence  across  the  waste  of  waters,  had  at  length  been  thrown,  a 
remnant  of  a  distant  wreck,  upon  the  rocks  of  Ilispaniola.  Guided 
across  the  island  by  the  natives,  he  had  succeeded,  after  endless 
fatigue  and  dangers,  in  reaching  the  governor  Ovando.  He  gave 
him  the  admiral's  message,  and  added  to  the  interest  of  his  mission 
by  the  pity  which  his  account  of  the  desperate  situation  of  Columbus 
and  his  companions  ought  to  have  inspired  in  his  countrymen.  But, 
whether  from  incredulity,  or  indolence,  or  a  secret  hope  of  effecting 
the  ruin  of  a  rival  too  great  for  his  presence  not  to  be  embarrassing, 
the  Spanish  authorities  of  Ilispaniola  allowed, -under  various  preten- 
ces, days,  and  even  months,  to  pass.  Then  they  sent,  as  it  were  un- 
willingly, a  small  vessel,  commanded  by  Escobar,  merely  to  recon- 
noitre the  position  of  the  shipwrecked  vessels  without  landing  on 
the  coast  or  speaking  witli  the  crews.  This  vessel  had  appeared  at  a 
distance  one  night  to  Columbus  and  his  sailors,  and  again  disap- 
peared from  their  eyes  so  mysteriously,  that  their  superstition  had 
made  them  take  it  for  a  phantom-ship,  which  came  to  mock  their 
hopes  or  to  announce  their  death. 

Ovando  at  length  made  up  hia  mind  to  send  ships  to  the  admiral, 
to  rescue  him  from  sedition,  famine,  and  death.  After  a  sixteen 
months'  shipwreck,  the  admiral,  overcome  with  age  and  infirmities, 
incn used  by  his  misfortunes,  revisited,  for  a  short  season,  the  island 
•which  he  had  made  an  empire,  and  from  which  jealousy  and  ingrati- 
tude had  driven  him.  He  remained  for  some  months  in  the  house  of 
the  governor,  well  received  in  appearance,  but  deprived  of  all  influ- 
ence in  the  government,  seeing  his  enemies  in  favor,  and  his  friends 
banished  or  persecuted  for  their  fidelity  to  him  •  grieving  over  tho 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  59 

ruin  anil  slavery  of  the  land  which  he  had  found  a  garden,  and  now 
left  a  grave  to  his  beloved  Indians.  His  own  property  confiscated, 
his  revenues  plundered,  his  estates  depopulated  or  wasted,  exposed 
him  in  his  old  age  to  poverty,  want,  and  sickness.  lie,  and  his  son 
and  brother,  with  a  few  servants,  were  at  length  put  on  board  a  ves- 
sel bound  for  Europe,  and  a  continued  tempest  swept  him  on 
through  storm  after  storm  to  San  Lucar,'  where  he  disembarked  on 
the  7th  of  November,  lie;  was  thence  removed  to  Seville,  where  he 
arrived  broken  down  in  health,  in  a  dying  state,  but  unsubdued  in 
spirit,  unconquerable  in  will,  and  still  full  of  hope  for  the  future. 

The  possessor  of  so  many  islands  and  continents  had  not  where  to 
lay  his  head.  "  If  I  want  to  cat  or  I  o  sleep,"  he  writes  to  his  son,  "  I 
must  knock  at  the  door  of  an  inn,  and  oftentimes  I  have  not  the  money 
to  pay  for  a  meal  or  a  bed."  His  misfortunes  and  his  poverty  were 
less  burdensome  to  him  than  the  misery  of  his  companions  and  ser- 
vants, whom  his  expectations  had  induced  to  follow  his  fortunes, 
and  who  reproached  him  v/ith  their  want.  He  wrote  to  the  king 
and  queen  on  their  behalf.  But,  the  ungrateful  Forms,  a  defeated 
rebel,  who  owed  his  life  to  the  magnanimity  of  Columbus,  had  pre- 
ceded him  at  court,  and  prejudiced  Ferdinand  against  his  benefac- 
tor. "I  have  served  your  Majesty,"  Columbus  wrote  to  the  king 
and  queen,  "with  as  much  /eal  and  constancy  as  1  would  have 
worked  for  the  liDpe  of  heaven,  and  if  1  have  failed  in  anything,  it 
is  because  my  skill  or  power  could  not  reach  it." 

He  relied  with  reason  on  the  justice  and  favftr  of  his  protectress 
Isabella,  but  this  support  of  his  cause  was  also  about  to  fail  him. 
Domestic  misfortune  had  reached  her  also  ;  she  was  languishing,  in- 
consolable for  her  favorite  daughter's  death.  AVhile  dying,  she 
wrote  in  her  will  this  evidence  of  her  humility  in  her  exalted  station, 
and  of  constant  love  for  the  husband  to  whom  she  wished  to  remain 
united  even  in  death  :  "  I  desire  that  my  body  be  buried  in  the  Al- 
hambra  of  Granada,  in  a  grave  level  with  the  ground  and  trodden 
down,  and  that  my  name  be  engraved  on  a  Hat  tombstone.  Hut  if 
my  lord  the  king  chooses  a  burial-place  in  some  other  temple,  or  in 
some  other  part  of  our  dominions,  then  I  desire  that  my  body  be  ex, 
humed,  and  removed,  and  buried  by  the  side  of  his,  in  order  that  the 
union  of  our  bodies  in  the  grave  may  signify  and  attest  the  union  of 
our  hearts  during  our  lives,  and  I  hope,  by  the  mercy  of  God,  tho 
union  of  our  souls  in  heaven." 

On  hearing  of  the  death  of  his  benefactress,  Columbus  wrote  to 
Diego  in  these  words  :  "  O  my  son,  let  this  serve  to  teach  you  whal 
is  now  your  duty.  The  first  thing  is  to  recommend  the  soul  of  out 
sovereign  lady  piously  and  affectionately  to  God.  She  was  so  good 
and  so  holy,  that  we  may  feel  sure  of  her  eternal  glory,  and  of  her 
being  now  sheltered  in  the  bosom  of  God  from  the  cares  and  tribula- 
tions of  this  world.  The  second  thing  that  I  have  to  desire  is,  that 
you  will  watch  and  labor  with  all  your  might  for  the  king's  service. 


60  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

he  is  the  chief  of  Christendom.  Remember,  with  regard  to  him,, 
that  when  the  head  suffers,  all  the  limbs  feel  it.  All  the  world  ought 
to  pray  for  the  peace  and  preservation  of  his  life,  but  especially  we 
who  are  his  servants." 

Such  were  Columbus's  feelings  of  gratitude  and  fidelity,  even  at 
the  height  of  his  disappointments.  But  the  death  of  Isabella  affected 
not  only  his  fortunes,  but  his  life.  Obliged  to  stop  at  Seville,  for 
want  of  means  and  by  increasing  infirmities,  his  only  comforters  wera 
his  brother  Bartholomew  and  his  second  son  Fernando.  This  son, 
now  sixteen  years  of  age,  exhibited  all  the  serious  qualities  of  middle 
life,  with  all  the  graces  of  youth.  "Love  him  as  a  brother,"  Co- 
lumbus writes  to  his  eldest  son  Diego,  then  at  court ;  "  you  have  no 
other.  Ten  brothers  would  not  be  too  many  for  you.  I  never  had 
better  friends  than  my  brothers."  He  desired  Bartholomew  to  take 
the  youth  to  court,  and  commend  him  to  the  care  of  his  legitimate 
son,  Diego.  Bartholomew  started  with  Fernando  for  Segovia,  where 
the  court  then  resided.  He  in  vain  solicited  attention  and  justice  for 
Columbus.  When  the  approach  of  spring  made  the  air  more  genial, 
Columbus,  accompanied  by  his  brother  and  his  sons,  set  out  himself 
for  Segovia.  His  presence  was  troublesome  to  the  king,  and  his 
poverty  was  felt  as  a  reproach.  The  judgment  on  his  conduct,  and 
the  question  of  restoring  his  property,  were  referred  to  courts  of  con- 
science, which,  without  venturing  to  deny  his  rights,  wore  out  his 
patience  by  delay.  They  were  at  the  same  time  wearing  put  his  life. 
His  mental  anxiety, *md  his  sense  of  the  poverty  in  which  he  was 
likely  to  leave  his  brothers  and  sons,  added  to  his  bodily  sufferings. 
From  his  sick-bed  he  wrote  to  the  !;ing  :  "Your  Majesty  does  not 
think  fit  to  keep  the  promises  which  I  have  received  from  you,  and 
from  the  queen,  who  is  now  in  glory.  To  struggle  with  your  will 
would  be  wrestling  with  the  wind.  I  have  .done  my  duty.  "May 
Cod,  who  has  always  been  good  to  me,  accomplish  what  remains,  ac- 
cording to  his  divine  justice  !" 

He  felt  that  life,  and  not  his  firmness,  was  about  to  fail  him.  His 
brother  Bartholomew  and  his  son  Diego  had  gone  by  his  order  to 
petition  the  Queen  Juana,  Isabella's  daughter,  who  was  returning 
from  Flanders  to  Castile.  Physical  sufferings  and  mental  anguish  ; 
the  feeling  that  his  days,  of  which  too  few  remained  to  leave  him  a 
hope  of  seeing  justice  done,  were  drawing  to  a  close  ;  the  triumpl^ 
of  his  enemies  at  court,  the  contempt  of  the  courtiers,  the  coldness 
of  the  prince,  the  approach  of  death,  the  loneliness  in  which  he  was 
left  in  a  forgetful  or  ungrateful  town  by  the  absence  of  his  brother 
and  sons  ;  the  remembrance  of  a  life  of  which  one  half  was  spent  in 
waiting  for  the  advent  of  a  great  destiny,  and  the  other  half  in  brood- 
ing over  the  uselessness  of  genius  ;  doubtless,  also,  pity  for  the  inno- 
cent and  happy  race  of  Indians,  whom  he  had  found  free  and  infan- 
tile in  their  garden  of  dcliirht,  and  whom  he  left  slaves,  despoiled  and 
outraged,  in  the  hands  of  their  oppressors;  his  brothers  without  sup- 


CHRISTOPHER   COLtJMBtS.  61 

port,  and  his  sons  without  inheritance  ;  doubts  as  to  the  judgment  of 
posterity  on  his  fame  ;  the  agony  of  genius  misunderstood— all 
these  afflictions  of  his  limbs,  body,  soul,  and  mind — of  the  past,  the 
present,  and  the  future — united  in  weighing  upon  the  spirit  of  the 
old  man  in  his  lone  chamber  in  Segovia,  during  the  absence  of  his 
brothers  and  his  sons.  He  asked  one  of  his  servants — the  old  and  last 
remaining  companion  of  his  voyages,  his  glory,  and  his  misfor- 
tunes— to  bring  to  his  bedside  a  little  breviary,  a  gift  made  him  by 
Pope  Alexander  the  Sixth,  at  the  time  when  sovereigns  treated  him 
as  a  sovereign.  He  wrote  his  will,  with  a  weak  hand,  on  a  page  of 
this  book,  to  which  he  attributed  the  virtue  of  divine  consecration. 

Strange  sight  for  his  poor  servant !  An  old  man  abandoned  by  tho 
world,  and  dying  on  a  pauper's  bed  in  a  hired  chamber  at  Segovia, 
distributing,  in  his  will,  seas,  hemispheres,  islands,  continents,  na- 
tions, and  empires  !  He  appointed,  as  his  principal  heir,  his  legiti 
mat  is  son  Diego  ;  in  case  of  his  dying  without  issue,  his  rights  were 
to  pass  to  his  natural  brother,  the  young  Fernando  ;  and  lastly,  if 
Fernando  also  died  without  leaving  children,  the  inheritance  passed 
to  his  uncle,  Don  Bartholomew,  and  his  descendants.  "  I  pray  niy 
sovereigns  and  their  successors,"  lie  continued,  "  to  maintain  forever 
my  wishes  in  the  distribution  of  my  rights,  my  goods,  and  my 
charges — for  I,  a  native  of  Genoa,  came  to  Castile  to  serve  them,  and 
have  discovered  in  the  far  West  the  continent  and  the  isles  of  In- 
dia !  .  .  .  My  son  is  to  inherit  my  oltice  of  admiral  of  the  seas 
to  the  westward  of  a  line  drawn  from  one  pole  to  the  other  !  .  .  ." 
Passing  from  this  to  the  distribution  of  the  revenue  guaranteed  to  him 
by  his  treaty  with  Isabella  and  Ferdinand,  the  old  man  divided, 
with  liberality  and  wisdom,  the  millions  which  were  to  accrue  to  his 
family,  between  his  sons  and  his  brother  Bartholomew.  He  assigned 
one  fourth  to  this  brother,  and  two  millions  a  year  to  Fernando,  his 
second  son.  He  remembered  the  mother  of  this  child,  Donna  Bea- 
trice Enriquez,  whom  he  had  never  married,  and  with  whose  aban- 
donment during  his  long  wanderings  on  the  ocean  his  conscience  re- 
proached him.  lie  charged  his  heir  to  make  a  liberal  pension  to  her 
who  had  been  the  companion  of  his  days  of  obscurity,  when  lie  was 
struggling  at  Toledo,  against  the  hardships  of  his  former  lot.  lie 
even  seemed  to  accuse  himself  of  some  ingratitude  or  neglect  toward 
this  his  second  love,  for  he  appends  to  the  legacy  on  her  behalf  these 
words,  which  must  have  hung  heavy  on  his  dying  hand— "  and  let. 
this  be  done  for  the  relief  of  my  conscience,  for  her  name  and  recol- 
lection are  a  heavy  load  upon  my  soul." 

Then,  reverting  to  that  first  country  which  the  adoption  of  another 
can  never  efface  from  remembrance,  he  called  to  mind  the  city  of 
Cenoa,  in  which  time  had  swept  away  all  his  father's  house,  but 
where  he  still  had  SOUK;  distant  relatives,  like  the  roots  which  re- 
main in  the  ground  when  the  trunk  is  hewn  down.  "  1  command 
Diego,  my  son,"  he  writes,  "  always  to  maintain  in  the  city  of  G«UOH 


62  CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 

a  member  of  our  family,  who  may  reside  there  with  his  wife,  and  to 
s-erure  him  an  honorable  sustenance,  such  as  befits  a  relative  of 
ours.  I  desire  that  this  relative  may  retain  his  domicile,  and  the  cit- 
i/.rnship  of  that  city  ;  for  there  was  1  born,  and  thence  did  I  come." 

"Let  my  son,"  he  adds,  with  that  chivalrous  sentiment  of  his 
own  vassalage  and  allegiance  to  the  sovereign,  which  at  that  time 
constituted  almost  a  second  religion — "  let  my  son  serve,  in  remem- 
bianre  of  me,  the  king  and  queen  and  their  successors,  even  to  the 
i;>ss  of  the  goods  of  this  life,  since,  after  God,  it  was  they  who  fur- 
iiNhcd  me  with  the  means  of  making  my  discoveries." 

"  It  is  very  true,"  he  goes  on  to  say,  with  an  involuntary  bitter- 
ness of  expression,  like  an  ill  repressed  feeling  of  injury,  "that  I 
came  from  afar  to  make  the  offer,  and  that  much  time  elapsed  before 
any  one  would  believe  in  the  gift  I  brought  their  Majesties  ;  but  this 
was  natural  ;  for  it  was  for  all  the  world  a  mystery  which  could  not 
fail  to  excite  unbelief  !  Wherefore  I  must  share  the  glory  with  these 
sovereigns  who  were  the  first  to  put  faith  in  me." 

Columbus's  thoughts  next  reverted  to  God,  whom  he  had  always 
looked  upon  as  his  only  true  suzerain,  as  if  he  had  been  the  immedi- 
ate vassal  of  that  Providence,  whose  instrument  and  minister  above 
all  others  he  felt  himself  to  be.  Resignation  and  enthusiasm,  the 
two  mainsprings  of  his  life,  did  not  fail  him  in  the  hour  of  death. 
lie  humbled  himself  beneath  the  hand  of  nature,  and  was  exalted  by 
the  hand  of  God,  whom  he  had  always  held  in  sight  through  all  his 
triumphs  and  reverses,  and  of  whom  he  had  a  nearer  view  at  the 
moment  of  his  departure  from  earth.  He  was  full  of  repentance  for 
his  faults,  and  of  hope  in  his  double  immortality.  A  poet  in  his 
heart,  as  may  be  seen  in  his  discourses  and  writings,  he  took  from 
the  sacred  poetry  of  the  psalms  the  last  yearnings  of  his  soul,  and  the 
last  utterance  of  his  lips.  He  pronounced  in  Latin  his  last  farewell 
to  this  world,  and  yielded  up  aloud  his  soul  to  the  Creator.  A  ser- 
vant satisfied  with  his  work,  and  dismissed  from  the  visible  world, 
which  his  labors  had  extended,  he  departed  for  the  invisible  world, 
to  take  possession  of  the  immeasurable  expanse  of  the  infinite  uni- 
verse. 

The  envy  and  ingratitude  of  his  age  and  of  his  king  vanished  with 
the  last  breath  of  the  great  man  whom  they  had  made  their  victim. 
His  contemporaries  seemed  anxious  to  make  amends  to  the  dead  for 
the  persecutions  they  had  infiicted  on  the  living.  They  gave  Colum- 
bus a  royal  funeral.  His  body,  and  afterward  that  of  his  son,  after 
having  successively  occupied  several  monuments  in  various  Spanish 
cathedrals,  were  removed  and  buried,  according  to  their  wishes,  in 
Hiapaniola,  as  conquerors  in  the  laud  they  had  won.  They  now  rest 
in  Cuba.  But,  by  a  singular  decision  of  Providence  or  an  ungrateful 
Caprice  of  man,  of  all  the  lands  of  America  which  disputed  the  honor 
of  retaining  his  ashes,  not  one  retained  his  name. 

All  the  characteristics  of  the  truly  great  man  are  united  in  Colum- 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.  «!;.} 

bus.  Genius,  labor,  patience,  obscurity  of  origin,  overcome  by  en- 
ergy of  will  ;  mild  but  persisting  firmness,  resignation  toward  Hea- 
ven, struggle  against  the  world  ;  long  conception  of  the  idea  in  soli- 
tude, heroic  execution  of  it  in  action  ;  intrepidity  and  coolness  in 
storms,  fearlessness  of  death  in  civil  strife  ;  confidence  in  the  des- 
tiny— not  of  an  individual,  but  of  the  human  race — a  life  risked  with- 
out hesitation  or  retrospect  in  venturing  into  the  unknown  and  phan- 
tom-peopled ocean,  1500  leagues  across,  and  on  which  the  first  step 
no  more  allowed  of  second  thoughts  than  Caesar's  passage  of  the 
Rubicon  ! — untiring  study,  knowledge  as  extensive  as  the  science  of 
his  day,  skilful  but  honorable  management  of  courts  to  persuade 
them  to  truth  ;  propriety  of  demeanor,  nobleness  and  dignity  in  out- 
ward bearing,  which  affords  proof  of  greatness  of  mind,  and  attracts 
eyes-  and  hearts  ;  language  adapted  to  the  grandeur  of  his  thoughts  ; 
eloquence  which  could  convince  kings,  and  quell  the  mutiny  of  his 
crews  ;  a  natural  poetry  of  style,  which  placed  his  narrative  on  a  par 
with  the  wonders  of  his  discoveries  and  the  marvels  of  nature  ;  an 
immense,  ardent,  and  enduring  love  for  the  human  race,  piercing 
even  into  that  distant  future  in  which  humanity  forgets  those  that 
do  it  service  ;  legislative  wisdom  and  philosophic  mildness  in  the 
government  of  his  colonies  ;  paternal  compassion  for  those  Indians, 
infants  of  humanity,  whom  he  wished  to  give  over  to  the  guardian- 
ship— not  to  the  tyranny  and  oppression — of  the  Old  World  ;  forget- 
fulness  of  injury,  and  magnanimous  forgiveness  of  his  enemies  ; 
and,  lastly,  piety,  that  virtue  which  includes  and  exalts  all  other  vir- 
tues, when  it  exists  as  it  did  in  the  mind  of  Columbus— the  constant 
presence  of  God  in  the  soul,  of  justice  in  the  conscience,  of  mercy  in 
the  heart,  of  gratitude  in  success,  of  resignation  in  reverses,  of  worship 
always  and  everywhere. 

Such  was  the  man.  We  know  of  none  more  perfect.  He  con- 
tained several  impersonations  within  himself.  He  was  worthy  to  rep 
resent  the  ancient  world  before  that  unknown  continent  on  whick 
he  was  the  first  to  set  foot,  and  to  carry  to  these  men  of  a  new  nice 
all  the  virtues,  without  any  of  the  vices,  of  the  elder  hemisphere. 
His  influence  on  civilization  was  immeasurable.  He  completed  the 
world  ;  he  realized  the  physical  unity  of  the  globe.  He  advanced, 
far  beyond  all  that  had  been  done  before  his  time,  the  work  of  (Jod— 
the  SPIRITUAL  UNITY  OP  THE  HUMAN  RACE.  This  work,  in  which 
Columbus  had  so  largely  assisted,  was  indeed  too  great  to  be  wor- 
thily rewarded  even  "by  affixing  his  name  to  the  fourth  continent. 
America  bears  not  that  name  ;  but  the  human  race,  drawn  together 
and  cemented  by  him,  will  spread  his  renown  over  the  face  of  tlir> 
whole  earth. 


THE   END. 


VITTORIA    COLONNA. 

(1490-1547.) 


CHAPTER  I. 

Changes  in  the  Condition  of  Italy.— Dark  Days.— Circumstances  which  led  to  the 
Invasion  of  the  French.— State  of  things  in  Naples. — Fall  of  the  Arragoneso 
Dynasty.— Birth  of  Vittoria.— The  Colonna.— Marino.— Vittoria's  Betrothal. —The 
Duchess  di  Francavilla.— Literary  Culture  at  Naples.— Education  of  Vittoria  in 
Ischia. 

THE  signs  of  change,  "which  were  perplexing  monarchs  at  the 
period  of  Vittoria  Colonna's  entry  on  the  scene,  belonged  simply  to  the 
material  order  of  things  ;  and  such  broad  outline  of  them  as  is  nec- 
essary to  give  some  idea  of  the  general  position  of  Italy  at  that  day 
may  be  drawn  in  few  words. 

Certain  more  important  symptoms  of  changes  in  the  world  of 
thought  and  speculation  did  not  rise  to  the  surface  of  society  till  a 
few  years  later,  and  these  will  have  to  be  spoken  of  in  a  subsequent 
page. 

When  Galeazzo  Maria  Sforza,  Duke  of  Milan,  was  murdered  in 
1476,  his  son,  Gian  Galeazzo,  a  minor,  succeeded  to  the  dukedom. 
But  liis  uncle  Ludovico,  known  in  history  as  "  Ludovico  il  Moro," 
under  pretence  of  protecting  his  nephew,  usurped  the  whole  power 
and  property  of  the  crown,  which  he  continued  wrongfully  to  keep 
in  his  own  hands,  even  after  the  majority  of  his  nephew.  The  latter, 
however,  having  married  a  grand-daughter  of  Ferdinand  of  Arragon, 
King  of  Naples,  her  father,  Alphonso,  heir  apparent  of  that  crown, 
became  exceedingly  discontented  at  the  state  of  tutelage  in  which  his 
son-in-law  was  thus  held.  And  his  remonstrance's  and  threats  lie-i 
came  so  urgent  that  "  Black  Ludovick"  perceived  that  he  should  he. 
unable  to  retain  his  usurped  position  unless  he  could  find  means  of 
disabling  Ferdinand  and  his  son  Alphonso  from  exerting  their 
strength  against  him.  With  this  view  he  persuaded  Charles  VlII.  of 
France  to  undertake  with  his  aid  the  conquest  of  the  kingdom  of 
Naples,  to  which  the  French  monarch  asserted  a  claim,  derived  from 
the  house  of  Anjou,  which  had  reigned  in  Naples  till  they  were 
ousted  by  the  house  of  Arragon.  This  invitation,  which  the  Italian 
historians  consider  the  first  fountain-head  of  all  their  calamities,  was 


4  VITTORIA    COLONNA. 

given  in  1492.  On  the  23d  of  August,  1494,  Charles  left  France  on 
bis  march  to  Italy,  and  arrived  in  Koine  on  the  31st  of  December  of 
that  year. 

On  the  previous  25th  of  January,  Ferdinand,  the  old  King  of  Na- 
ples, died,  and  his  son  Alphonso  succeeded  him.  But  the  new 
monarch,  who  during  the  latter  years  of  his  father's  life  had  wielded 
the  whole  power  of  the  kingdom,  was  so  much  hated  by  his  subjects 
that,  on  the  news  of  the  French  king's  approach,  they  rose  iii  rebel- 
lion and  declared  in  favor  of  the  invader.  Alphonso  made  no  at- 
tempt to  face  the  storm,  but  forthwith  abdicated  in  favor  of  his  sou 
Ferdinanfl,  fled  to  Sicily,  and  "  set  about  serving  God,"  as  the  chroni- 
clers phrase  it,  in  a  monastery,  where  he  died  a  few  months  later,  on 
the  19th  of  November,  1495. 

Ferdinand  II.,  his  son,  was  not  disliked  by  the  nation  ;  and  Guic- 
ciardini  gives  it  as  his  opinion  that  if  the  abdication  of  his  father  in 
his  favor  had  been  executed  earlier  it  might  have  had  the  effect  of 
saving  the  kingdom  from  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  French  mon- 
arch. But  it  was  now  too  late.  A  large  portion  of  it  had  already 
declared  itself  in  favor  of  the  invaders.  Ferdinand  found  the  contest 
hopeless,  and  early  in  1495  retired  to  Ischia.  Charles  entered  Naples 
the  21st  of  February,  1495,  and  the  whole  kingdom  hastened  to  ac- 
cept him  as  its  sovereign. 

Meantime,  however,  Ludovico,  Duke  of  Milan,  whose  oppressed 
nephew  had  died  on  the  22d  of  October,  1494,  began  to  be  alarmed 
at  the  too  complete  success  of  his  own  policy,  and  entered  into  a 
league  with  the  Venetians,  the  King  of  the  Romans,  and  Ferdinand 
of  Castile,  against  diaries,  who  seems  to  have  immediately  become 
as  much  panic-stricken  at  the  news  of  it  as  Alphonso  had  been  at  his 
approach.  The  French,  moreover,  both  the  monarch  and  his  fol- 
lowers, had  lost  no  time  in  making  themselves  so  odious  to  the  Nca- 
po'ilans  that  the  nation  had  already  repented  of  having  abandoned 
Ferdinand  so  readily,  and  were  anxious  to  get  rid  of  the  French  and 
receive  him  back  again.  Towards  the  end  of  May,  149."),  Charles 
hastily  left  Naples  on  his  return  to  France,  leaving  Gilbert  dc  Mont- 
peiiMer  as  Viceroy  ;  and  on  the  7th  of  July  Ferdinand  returned  to 
.Naples,  and  was  gladly  welcomed  by  the  people. 

And  now,  having  thus  the  good-will  of  his  subjects,  already  dis- 
gusted with  their  French  rulers,  Ferdinand  might  m  all  probability 
have  succeeded  without  any  foreign  assistance  in  ridding  his  country 
of  the  remaining  French  troops  left  behind  him  by  Charles,  and  in 
re-establishing  the  dynasty  of  Arragon  on  the  throne  of  Naples,  had 
he  not,  at  the  time  when  things  looked  worst  with  him,  on  the  first 
coming  of  Charles,  committed  the  fatal  error  of  asking  assistance 
from  Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  of  Castile. 

Ferdinand  the  Catholic  and  the  crafty,  did  not  wait  to  be  asked  a 
•econd  time  ;  but  instantly  dispatched  to  his  aid  Con:-alvo  Kniandc/, 
d'Aguilar,  known  thereafter  iu  Neapolitan  history  as  "  11  gran 


VICTORIA   COLOKNA.  5 

Capitano,"  both  on  account  of  his  rank  as  Generalissimo  of  the  Span- 
ish forces,  and  of  his  high  military  merit  and  success.  Ferdinand  of 
^rragon,  with  the  help  of  Consalvo  and  the  troops  he  brought  with 
bim,  soon  succeeded  in  driving  the  French  out  of  his  kingdom  ;  and 
appeared  to  be  on  the  eve  of  a  more  prosperous  period,  when  a  sud- 
den illness  put  an  end  to  his  life,  in  October,  1496.  He  died  without 
offspring,  and  was  succeeded  by  his  uncle  Frederick. 

Thus,  as  the  Neapolitan  historians  remark,  Naples  had  passed  un- 
der the  sway  of  no  less  than  five  monarchs  in  the  space  of  three 
years,  to  wit: 

Ferdinand  of  Arragon,  the  first,  who  died  the  25th  of  January, 
1494. 

Alphouso,  his  son,  who  abdicated  on  the  3d  of  February,  1495. 

Charles  of  France,  crowned  at  Naples  on  the  20th  of  May,  1493, 
and  driven  out  of  the  kingdom  immediately  afterwards. 

Ferdinand  of  Arragon,  II.,  son  of  Alphonso,  who  entered  Naples 
in  triumph  on  the  7t ,l\  of  July,  1-105,  and  died  in  October,  1496. 

Frederick  of  Arragon,  his  uncle,  who  succeeded  him. 

But  these  so  rapid  changes  had  not  exhausted  the  slides  of  For- 
tune's magic  lantern.  She  had  other  harlequinade  transformations 
in  hand,  sufficient  to  make  even  Naples  tirccl  of  change  and  desirous 
of  repose.  Frederick,  the  last,  and  perhaps  the  best,  and  best-loved 
of  the  Neapolitan  sovereigns  of  the  dynasty  of  Arragon,  resigned  but 
to  witness  the  linal  discomfiture  and  downfall  of  his  house. 

Charles  VIII.  died  in  April,  1438;  but  his  successor,  Louis  XII.. 
was  equally  anxious  to  possess  himself  of  the  crown  of  Naples,  ;m;l 
more  able  to  carry  his  views  into  effect.  The  principal  obstacle  t> 
his  doing  so  was  the  power  of  Ferdinand  of  Spain,  and  the  presence 
of  the  Spanish  troops  under  Consalvo  of  Naples.  Ferdinand  the 
Catholic  could  by  no  means  permit  the  .spoliation  of  bis  kinsman  an  1 
ally,  Frederick,  who  loyally  relied  on  his  protection  fur  the  profit  of 
the  King  of  Fiance.  Louis  knew  that  it  was  impossible  he  should  d  > 
BO.  But  the  Most  Christian  King  thought  that  the  Most  Catholic 
King  might  very  probably  find  it  consistent  with  kingly  honor  !•> 
take  a  different  view  of  the  case,  if  it  were  proposed  to  him  to  u> 
shares  in  the  plunder.  And  the  Most  Christian  King's  estimate  of 
royal  nature  was  so  just  that  the  Most  Catholic  King  acceded  in  the 
frankest  manner  to  his  royal  brother's  proposal. 

Louis  accordingly  sent  an  army  to  invade  Naples  in  the  year  1500. 
The  unfortunate  Frederick  was  beguiled  the  while  into  thinking  that 
his  full  trust  might  be  placed  on  the  assistance  of  Spain.  I'.ut  when, 
on  the  25th  of  June,  1501,  the  Borgia  Pope,  Alexander  VII.,  pub- 
lished a  bull  graciously  dividing  his  dominions  between  the  two  eld- 
est sons  of  the  church,  he  perceived  at  once  that  his  position  \\.is 
hopeless.  Resolving,  however,  not  to  abandon  his  kingdom  without 
making  an  attempt  to  preserve  it,  ho  determined  to  defend  himself  in 
Capua,  That  city  was,  however,  taken  by  the  French  on  the  24th  of 


6  VITTOKIA 

July,  1501,  and  Frederick  fled  to  Ischia  ;  whence  he  subsequently  re- 
tired to  France,  and  died  at  Tours  on  the  9th  of  November,  1504. 

Meanwhile  the  royal  accomplices,  having  duly  shared  their  booty, 
instantly  begun  to  quarrel,  as  thieves  are  wont  to  do,  over  the»divis- 
ion  of  it.  Each  in  fact  had  from  the  first  determined  eventually  to 
18  himself  of  the  whole  ;  proving,  that  if  indeed  there  be  honor 
among  thieves,  the  proverb  must  not  be  understood  to  apply  to  such 
us  are  "  Most  Christian"  and  "  Most  Catholic." 

Naples  thus  became  the  battle-field,  us  well  as  thepri/e,  of  the  con- 
tending parties  ;  and  was  torn  to  pieces  in  the  struggle  while  waiting 
to  see  which  invader  was  to  be  her  master.  At  length  the  Spaniard 
proved  the  stronger,  as  he  was  also  the  more  iniquitous  of  the  two  -T 
nnd  on  the  1st  of  January,  1504,  the  French  finally  quitted  the  king- 
dom of  "Naples,  leaving  it  in  the  entire  and  peaceful  possession  of 
Ferdinand  of  Spain.  Under  him,  and  his  successors  on  the  Spanish 
throne,  the  unhappy  province  was  governed  by  a  series  of  viceroys, 
of  whom,  says  Colletta,*  "  one  here  and  there  was  good,  many  bad 
enough,  and  several  execrable,"  for  a  period  of  230yeais,  with  results 
still  visible. 

Such  was  the  scene  on  which  our  heroine  had  to  enter  in  the  year 
l-t'.K).  She  was  the  daughter  of  Fabrizio,  brother  of  that  protonotary 
Colonna  whose  miserable  death  at  the  hands  of  the  hereditary  ene- 
mies of  his  family,  the  Orsini,  allied  with  the  liiarii,  then  in  power 
for  the  nonce  during  the  popedom  of  Sixtus  IV.,  has  been  related  in 
the  life  of  Caterina  Sforza.  Her  mother  was  Agnes  of  Montefeltre  ; 
find  all  the  biographers  and  historians  tell  us  that  she  was  the  young- 
est of  six  children  born  to  her  parents.  The  statement  is  a  curious 
insiaiicc  of  the  extreme  and  very  easily  detected  inaccuracy  which 
may  often  be  found  handed  on  unchallenged  from  one  generation  to 
another  of  Italian  writers  of  biography  and  history. 

The  Cavalierc  Pietro  Visconti,  the  latest  Italian,  and  by  far  the 
most  complete  of  Vittoria's  biographers,  who  edited  a  handsome 
edition  of  her  works  not  published,  but  printed  in  1840  at  the  expense 
.if  the  prince-banker,  Torlonia,  on  the  occasion  of  his  marriage  with 
the  Princess  Donna  Teresa  Colonna,  writes  thus  at  page  55  of  the  lifo 
prefixed  to  this  votive  volume  :  "  The  child  (Vittoria)  increased  and 
Completed  the  number  of  children  whom  Agues  of  MontefeHre, 
daughter  of  Frederick,  Duke  of  Urbino,  had  presented  to  her  hus- 
band." He  adds  in  anote,  "  this  princess  had  already  had  five  sons, 
Frederick,  Ascanio,  Fcrdinando,  Camillo,  Sciarra." 

<  'oppj,  In  his  "  Memorie  Colonnesi,"  makes  no  mention  f  of  the  last 
three— giving  as  the  offspring  of  Fabrizio  and  Agnes,  only  Freder- 
ick, Ascanio,  and  Vittoria.  Led  by  this  discrepancy  to  examine  far- 


*  Storia  di  N:ij..,  lib.  i.  cap.  1. 

t  H«  speaks,  indeed  (p.  380),  of  Sciarra  as  a  brother  of  A»canio  ;  adding  that  h« 
wo*  illegitimate. 


VICTORIA   GOLOHNA.  7 

thcr  the  accuracy  of  Viscouti's  statement,  I  found  that  Agnes  di 
Montefeltre  was  born  in  1472  ;  and  was,  consequently,  eighteen  years 
old  at  the  time  of  Vittoria's  birth.  It  became  clear,  therefore,  that 
it  was  exceedingly  improbable,  not  to  say  impossible,  that  he  should 
have  had  five  children  previously.  But  I  found  farther,  that  Freder- 
ick, the  eldest  son,  and  always  hitherto  said  to  have  been  the  el<le>t, 
child  of  Agnes,  died,  according  to  the  testimony  of  his  tombstone,* 
still  existing  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  di  Pallazzola,  in  the  year 
1516,  being  then  in  his  nineteenth  year.  He  was,  therefore,  born  in 
1497  or  1498,  and  must  have  been  seven  or  eight  years  younger  than 
Vittoria  ;  who  must,  it  should  seem,  have  been  the  eldest,  and  not 
the  youngest,  of  her  parents'  children. 

It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  tell  even  the  most  exclusively  Eng- 
lish reader  how  ancient,  how  noble,  how  magnificent,  was  the 
princely  house  of  Colonna.  They  were  so  noble  that  their  lawless 
violence,  freebooting  habits,  private  wars,  and  clan  enmities,  rendered 
them  a  scourge  to  their  country  ;  and  for  several  centuries  contrib- 
uted largely  to  the  mass  of  anarchy  and  barbarism,  that  rendered 
Rome  one  of  the  most  insecure  places  of  abode  in  Europe,  and  still 
taints  the  instincts  of  its  populace  with  characteristics  which  make 
it  one  of  the  least  civilizable  races  of  Italy.  The  Orsini  being  equally 
noble,  and  equally  poweiful  and  lawless,  the  high-bied  mastiffs  of 
either  princely  house  for  more  than  two  hundred  years,  with  short 
respites  of  ill-kept  truce,  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  flying  at  each 
other's  throats,  to  the  infinite  annoyance  and  injury  of  their  less  no- 
ble and  more  peaceably -disposed  fellow -citizens. 

Though  the  possessions  of  the  Colonna  clan  had  before  been  wide- 
spread and  extensive,  they  received  considerable  additions  during  tho 
Papacy  of  the  Colouna  pope,  Martin  V.,  great  uncle  of  Fabrizio, 
Vittoria's  father,  who  occupied  the  Papal  chair  from  1417  to  l-l:;l. 
At  the  period  of  our  heroine's  birth  the  family  property  was  im- 
mense. 

Very  many  were  the  fiefs  held  by  the  Colonna  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood  of  the  city,  and  especially  among  the  hills  to  the  east 
and  south-east  of  the  Campagna.  There  several  of  the  strongest 
positions,  and  most  delightfully  situated  towns  and  castles,  be- 
longed to  them. 

Among  the  more  important  of  these  was  Marino,  admirably 
placed  among  the  hills  that  surround  the  lovely  lake  of  Albano. 

Few  excursionists  among  the  storied  sites  in  the  environs  of  Rome 
make  Marino  the  object  of  a  pilgrimage.  The  town  haa  a  bad  name 
in  these  days.  The  Colonna  vassals  who  inhabit  it,  and  still  pay  to 
the  feudal  lord  a  tribute,  recently  ruled  by  the  Roman  tribunals  to 
be  due  (a  suit  having  been  instituted  by  the  inhabitant*  wilh  a  view 
of  shaking  off  this  old  mark  of  vassalage),  are  said  to  be  eminent 


Coppi,  Mem.  Col.,  p.  2G9, 


8  VITTOltIA   COLONtfA. 

among  the  inhabitants  of  the  Campagna  for  violence,  lawlessness, 
and  dishonesty.  The  bitterest  hatred,  the  legacy  of  old  wrong  and 
oppression,  is  felt  by  them  against  their  feudal  lords  ;  and  this  senti- 
ment, which,  inherited,  as  it  seems  to  be,  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, speaks  but  little  in  favor  of  the  old  feudal  rule,  does  not  tend  to 
make  the  men  of  Marino  good  or  safe  subjects.  Many  a  stranger  has, 
however,  probably  looked  down  from  the  beautifully  wooded  heights 
of  Castle  Gandolfo  on  the  picturesquely  gloomy  little  walled  town 
creeping  up  the  steep  side  of  its  hill,  and  crowned  by  the  ancient 
seignorial  residence  it  so  much  detests.  And  any  one  of  these  would 
be  able  to  assure  a  recent  intensely  French  biographer  of  Vittoria 
that  he  is  in  error  in  supposing  that  the  town  and  castle  of  Marino 
have  so  entirely  perished  and  been  forgotten  that  the  site  of  them 
even  is  now  unknown  !  * 

On  the  contrary,  the  old  castle  has  recently  been  repaired  and  mod 
ernized  into  a  very  handsome  nineteenth-century  residence,  to  the 
no  small  injury  of  its  outward  appearance  in  a  picturesque  and  his- 
toric-al  point  of  view.  The  interior  still  contains  unchanged  several 
of  the  nobly  proportioned  old  halls,  which  were  planned  at  a  time 
when  mighty  revels  in  the  rare  times  of  peace,  and  defence  in  the 
more  normal  condition  of  clan  warfare,  were  the  object  held  in  view 
by  the  builder.  Many  memorials  of  interest,  moreover,  pictures, 
and  other  records  of  the  old  times,  were  brought  to  Marino  from  Pa- 
liano,  when  the  Colouna  family  were,  in  the  time  of  the  last  pope, 
most  unjustly  compelled  to  sell  the  latter  possession  to  the  Roman 
government.  Paliauo,  which  from  its  mountain  position  is  extremely 
strong  and  easily  defended,  seemed  to  the  government  of  the  Holy 
Father  to  be  admirably  adapted  to  that  prime  want  of  a  papal  des- 
potism, a  prison  for  political  offenders.  The  Colonnas,  therefore, 
were  invited  to  sell  it  to  the  state  ;  and  on  their  declining  to  do  so, 
received  an  intimation  that  the  paternal  government  having  deter, 
mined  on  possessing  it,  and  having  also  fixed  the  price  they  in- 
tended to  give  for  it,  no  option  in  the  matter  could  be  permitted 
them.  So  Marino  was  enriched  by  all  that  was  transferable  of  the 
ancient  memorials  that  had  gathered  around  the  stronger  mountain 
fortress  in  the  course  of  centuries. 

It  was  at  Marino  that  Vittoria  was  born,  in  a  rare  period  of  most 
unusually  prolonged  peace.  Her  parents  had  selected,  we  are  told, 
from  among  their  numerous  castles,  that  beautiful  spot,  for  the  en- 
joyment of  the  short  interval  of  tranquillity  which  smiled  on  their 
first  years  f  of  marriage.  A  very  successful  raid,  in  which  Fabrizio 
and  his  cousin  Prospero  Colonna  had  harried  the  fiefs  of  the  Orsini, 

*  Which  is  the  truly  wonderful  assertion  of  M.  le  Fevre  Deumier,  in  his  little 
Yolunic  entitled  "  Vittoria  Colonna."  Paris,  1856,  p.  7. 

t  As  it  would  appear,  they  must  have  been,  from  the  datea  given  above,  to  show 
that  Yittoria  must  have  been  tUeir  first  child. 


VITTOKIA   COLONNA.  9 

and  driven  off  a  great  quantity  of  cattle,*  had  been  followed  by  a 
peace  made  under  the  auspices  of  Innocent  VIII.  on  the  llth  of  Au- 
gust, 1486,  which  seems  absolutely  to  have  lasted  till  1494,  when  we 
find  the  two  cousins  at  open  war  with  the  new  Pope  Alexander  VI. 

Far  more  important  contests,  however,  were  at  hand,  the  progress 
of  which  led  to  the  youthful  daughter  of  the  house  being  treated, 
while  yet  in  her  fifth  year,  as  part  of  the  family  capital,  to  be  madu 
use  of  for  the  advancement  of  the  family  interests,  and  thus  lixed 
the  destiny  of  her  life. 

When  Charles  VIII.  passed  through  Rome  on  his  march  against 
Naples,  at  the  end  of  141)4,  the  Colonna  cousins  sided  with  him  ; 
placed  themselves  under  his  banners,  and  contributed  materially  to 
aid  his  successful  invasion.  But  on  his  flight  from  Naples,  in  14!);">, 
they  suddenly  changed  sides,  and  took  service  under  Ferdinand  II. 
The  fact  of  this  change  of  party,  which  to  our  ideas  seems  to  require 
so  much  explanation,  probably  appeared  to  their  contemporaries  a 
perfectly  simple  mutter  ;  for  it  is  mentioned  as  such  without  any 
word  of  the  motives  or  causes  of  it.  Perhaps  they  merely  sought  to 
sever  themselves  from  a  losing  game.  Possibly,  as  we  find  them  re- 
warded for  their  adherence  to  the  King  of  Naples  by  the  grant  of  a 
great  number  of  net's  previously  possessed  by  the  Orsiui,  who  were 
on  the  other  side,  they  were  induced  to  change  their  allegiance  by 
the  hope  of  obtaining  those  possessions,  and  by  the  Colonna  instinct 
of  enmity  to  the  Orsini  race.  Ferdinand,  however,  was  naturally 
anxious  to  have  some  better  hold  over  his  new  friends  than  that 
furnished  by  their  own  oaths  of  fealty  ;  and  with  this  view  caused 
the  infant  Vittoria  to  be  betrothed  to  his  subject,  Ferdinand 
d'Avalos,  son  of  Alphonso,  Marquis  of  Pescara,  a  child  of  about  the 
same  age  as  the  little  bride. 

Little,  as  it  must  appear  to  our  modern  notions,  as  f^  child's 
future  happiness  could  have  been  cared  for  in  the  stipulMou  of  a 
contract  entered  into  from  such  motives,  it  so  turned  out  Urn  noth- 
ing could  have  more  effectually  secured  it.  To  Vittoria's  parents,  if 
any  doubts  on  such  a  point  had  presented  themselves  to  their 
minds,  it  would  doubtless  have  appeared  abundantly  sufficient  to 
know  that  the  rank  and  position  of  the  affianced  bridegroom  were 
such  as  to  secure  their  daughter  one  of  the  highest  places  among  the 
nobility  of  the  court  of  Naples,  and  the  enjoyment  of  vast  and  wide- 
spread possessions.  But  to  Vittoria  herself  all  this  would  not  have 
been  enough.  And  the  earliest  and  most  important  advantage  arising 
to  her  from  her  betrothal  was  the  bringing  her  under  the  influence 
of  that  training,  which  made  her  such  a  woman  as  could  not  find 
her  happiness  in  such  matters. 

We  are  told  that  henceforth— that  is,  after  the  betrothal— she  was 
educated,  together  with  her  future  husband,  in  the  island  of  Ischia, 

*  Coppi.  Mem.  Col.,  p.  238, 


10  VITTOKIA    COLONNA. 

under  the  care  of  the  widowed  Duchessa  di  Francavilla,  the  young 
Pescara's  elder  sister.  Costanza  d'Avalos,  Duchessa  di  Francavilla, 
appears  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  remarkable  women  of  her 
time.  When  her  father  Alphonso,  Marchessa  di  Pescara,  lost  his 
life  by  the  treason  of  a  black  slave,  on  the  7th  of  September,  1495, 
leaving  Ferdinand  his  son  the  heir  to  his  titles  and  estates,  an  infant 
five  years  old,  then  quite  recently  betrothed  to  Vittoria,  the  Duchessa 
di  Francavilla  assumed  the  entire  direction  and  governance  of  the 
family.  So  high  was  her  reputation  for  prudence,  energy,  and 
trustworthiness  in  every  way,  that  on  the  death  of  her  husband, 
King  Ferdinand  made  her  governor  and  "  chatelaine"  of  Ischia,  one 
of  the  most  important  keys  of  the  kingdom.  Nor  were  her  gifts  ;md 
qualities  only  such  as  were  calculated  to  fit  her  for  holding  such  a 
post.  Her  contemporary,  Caterina  Sforza,  would  have  made  a 
"  chatelaine"  as  vigilant,  as  prudent,  as  brave,  and  energetic  as  Cos- 
tanza. But  the  Neapolitan  lady  was  something  more  than  this. 

Intellectual  culture  had  been  held  in  honor  at  Naples  during  the 
entire  period  of  the  Arragonese  dynasty.  All  the  princes  of  that 
house,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  Alphonso,  the  father  of  Fer- 
dinand II.,  had  been  lovers  of  literature  and  patrons  of  learning. 
Of  this  Ferdinand  II.,  under  whose  auspices  the  young  Pescara  was 
betrothed  to  Vittoria,  and  who  chose  the  Duchessa  di  Francavilla 
as  his  governor  in  Ischia,  it  is  recorded  that  when  returning  hi  tri- 
umph to  his  kingdom  after  the  retreat  of  the  French  he  rode  into 
Naples  with  the  Marchese  de  Pescara  on  his  right  hand,  and  the 
poet  Cariteo  on  his  left.  Poets  and  their  art  especially  were  wel- 
comed in  that  literary  court ;  and  the  tastes  and  habits  of  the  Nea- 
politan nobles  were  at  that  period  probably  more  tempered  by  those 
studies,  which  humanize  the  mind  and  manners,  than  the  chivalry 
of  any  other  part  of  Italy. 

Among  this  cultured  society  Costanza  d'Avalos  was  eminent  for 
culture,,  and  admirably  qualified  in  every  respect  to  make  an  invalua- 
ble protectress  and  friend  to  her  youthful  sister-in-law.  The  trans- 
plantation, indeed,  of  the  infant  Colonna  from  her  native  feudal  cas- 
tle to  the  Duchessa  di  Francavilla's  home  in  Ischia  was  a  change  so 
complete  and  so  favorable  that  it  may  be  fairly  supposed  that  with- 
out it  the  young  Koman  girl  would  not  have  grown  into  the  woman 
she  did. 

For  in  truth,  Marino,  little  calculated,  as  it  will  be  supposed  such 
a  stronghold  of  the  ever  turbulent  Colonna  was  at  any  time  fo  afford 
the  means  and  opportunity  for  intellectual  culture,  became,  shortly 
after  the  period  of  Vittoria's  betrothal  to  the  heir  of  the  D'Avalos, 
wholly  unfit  to  offer  her  even  a  safe  home.  Whether  it  continued  to 
be  the  residence  of  Agnes,  while  her  husband  Fabrizio  was  fighting 
in  Naples,  and  her  daughter  was  under  the  care  of  the  Duchessa  (fi 
Francavilla  in  Ischia,  has  not  been  recorded.  But  we  find  that  when 
Fabrizio  had  deserted  the  French  king,  aud.  ranged  himself  on  the 


VITTORIA   COLONNA.  11 

side  of  Ferdinand  of  "Naples,  he  was  fully  aware  of  the  danger  to 
which  his  castles  would  be  exposed  at  the  hands  of  the  French  troops 
as  they  passed  through  Rome  on  their  way  to  or  from  Naples.  To 
provide  against  this,  he  had  essayed  to  place  them  in  safety  by  con- 
signing them  as  a  deposit  in  trust  to  the  Sacred  College.*  But  Pope 
Borgia,  deeming,  probably,  that  he  might  find  the  means  of  possess- 
ing himself  of  some  of  the  estates  in  question,  refused  to  permit 
this,  ordering  that  they  should,  instead,  be  delivered  into  his  keeping. 
On  this  being  refused,  he  ordered  Marino  to  be  levelled  to  UK-  ground. 
And  Guicciardiui  Avrites,f  that  the  Colonna,  having  placed  garri- 
sons in  Amelici  and  Rocca  di  Papa,  two  other  of  the  family  strong- 
holds, abandoned  all  the  rest  of  the  possessions  in  the  Roman  States. 
It  seems  probable,  therefore,  that  Agnes  accompanied  her  husband 
and  daughter  to  Naples.  Subsequently  the  same  historian  relates,! 
that  Marino  was  burned  by  order  of  Clement  VII.  in  1520.  So  that 
it  must  be  supposed  that  the  order  of  Alexander  for  its  utter  de- 
struction in  1501  was  not  wholly  carried  into  execution. 

The  kingdom  and  city  of  Naples  was  during  this  time  by  no 
means  without  a  large  share  of  the  turmoil  and  warfare  that  was 
vexing  every  part  of  Italy.  Yet  whosoever  had  his  lot  cast  during 
those  years  elsewhere  than  in  Rome  was  in  some  degree  fortunate. 
And  considering  the  general  state  of  the  peninsula,  and  her  own  so- 
cial position  and  connections,  Vittoria  may  be  deemed  very  particu- 
larly so,  to  have  found  a  safe  retreat  and  an  admirably  governed 
home  on  the  rock  of  Ischia.  In  after-life  we  find  her  clinging  to  it 
with  tenacious  affection,  and  dedicating  more  than  one  sonnet  to 
the  remembrances  which  made  it  sacred  to  her.  And  though  in  her 
widowhood  her  memory  naturally  most  frequently  recurs  to  the 
happy  years  of  her  married  life  there,  the  remote  little  island  had  at 
least  a  strong  claim  upon  her  allections  as  the  home  of  her  childhood. 
For  to  the  years  there  passed  under  the  care  of  her  noble  sister-in- 
law,  Costanza  d'Avulos,  she  owed  the  possibility  that  the  daughter 
of  a  Roman  chieftain  who  passed  his  life  in  harrying  others  and  being 
harried  himself,  and  in  acquiring  as  a  "  condottiere"  captain  the  rep- 
utation of  one  of  the  first  soldiers  of  his  day,  could  become  eitner 
morally  or  intellectually  the  woman  Vittoria  Colonna  became. 

*  Coppi.  Mem.  Col.,  p.  243.  t  Book  v.  chap.  ii. 

$  Book  ivii.  chips,  iii.  and  IT. 


12  VITTOKIA  COLON1U. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Vittoria's  Personal  Appearance.— First  Love.— A  Noble  Soldier  of  Fortune.— Italian 
Wars  of  the  fifteenth  and  Sixteenth  Centuries.— The  Colonna  Fortunes.— IK-uUt 
of  Ferdinand  II.— The  Neapolitans  carry  Coals  to  Newcastle.— Events  in  Ischia. 
—Ferdinand  of  Spain  in  Naples.— Life  in  Naples  in  the  Sixteenth  Century.— Mar- 
riage of  Pescara  with  Vittoria.— Marriage  Presents. 

FROM  the  time  of  her  betrothal  in  1495  to  that  of  her  marriage  in 
1509,  history  altogether  loses  sight  of  Vittoria.  We  must  suppose 
her  to  be  quietly  and  happily  growing  from  infancy  to  adolescence 
under  the  roof  of  Costanza  d'Avalos,  the  chatelaine  of  Ischia,  sharing 
the  studies  of  her  future  husband  and  present  playmate,  and  increas- 
ing, as  in  stature,  so  in  every  grace  both  of  mind  and  body.  The 
young  Pescara  seems  also  to  have  profited  by  the  golden  opportuni- 
ties offered  him  of  becoming  something  better  than  a  mere  prcux 
chevalier.  A  taste  for  literature,  and  especially  for  poesy,  was  then 
a  ruling  fashion  among  the  nobles  of  the  court  of  Naples.  And  the 
young  Ferdinand,  of  whose  personal  beauty  and  knightly  accom- 
plishments we  hear  much,  manifested  also  excellent  qualities  of  dis- 
position and  intelligence.  His  biographer  Giovio*  tells  us  that  his 
beard  was  auburn,  his  nose  aquiline,  his  eyes  large  and  fiery  when 
excited,  but  mild  and  gentle  at  other  times.  He  was,  however,  con- 
sidered proud,  adds  Bishop  Giovio,  on  account  of  his  haughty  car- 
riage, the  little  familiarity  of  his  manners,  and  his  grave  and  brief 
fashion  of  speech. 

To  his  playmate  Vittoria,  the  companion  of  his  studies  and  hours 
of  recreation,  this  sterner  mood  was  doubtless  modified  ;  and  with 
all  the  good  gifts  attributed  to  him,  it  was  natural  enough  that  be- 
fore the  time  had  come  for  consummating  the  infant  betrothal,  the 
union  planned  for  political  purposes  had  changed  itself  into  a  verila- 
ble  love-match.  The  affection  seems  to  have  been  equal  on  either 
side  ;  and  Vittoria,  if  we  are  to  believe  the  concurrent  testimony  of 
nearly  all  the  poets  and  literateurs  of  her  day,  must  have  been  beau- 
tiful and  fascinating  in  no  ordinary  degree.  The  most  authentic. 
portrait  t  of  her  is  one  preserved  in  the  Colonna  gallery  at  Koine, 
supposed  to  be  a  copy  by  Girolamo  Muziano,  from  an  original  pic- 
ture by  some  artist  of  higher  note.  It  is  a  beautiful  face  of  the  true 
Roman  type,  perfectly  regular,  of  exceeding  purity  of  outline,  and 
perhaps  a  little  heavy  about  the  lower  part  of  the  face.  But  the 
calm,  large,  thoughtful  eye,  and  the  superbly  developed  forehead, 
secure  it  from  any  approach  towards  an  expression  of  sensualism. 
The  fulness  of  the  lip  is  only  sufficient  to  indicate  that  sensitiveness 
to  and  appreciation  of  beauty,  whick  constitutes  an  essential  ele- 


*  Olovio,  Vita  del  Mar.  di  Pescara,  Venice,  1557,  p.  14. 
t  Viiconti,  Himi  di  Vit.  Col.,  p.  39. 


VITTORIA   COLutfNA.  13 

ment  In  the  poetical  temperament.  The  hair  is  of  that  bright  golden 
tint  that  Titian  loved  so  well  to  paint ;  and  its  beauty  has  been"  espe- 
cially recorded  by  more  than  one  of  her  contemporaries.  The  poet 
Galeazzo  da  Tarsia,  who  professed  himself,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
time,  her  most  fervent  admirer  and  devoted  slave,  recurs  in  many 
passages  of  his  poems  to  those  fascinating  "  chiome  d'oro  ;"  as 
here  he  sings,  with  more  enthusiasm  than  taste,  of  the 

"Trecce  tl'or,  che  in  gli  alti  giri, 
Kon  e  che'  unqua  pareggi  o  sole  o  Stella  ;" 

or  again  where  he  tells  us  that  the  sun  and  his  lady-love  appeared 
"  Ambi  con  chiome  d'or  lucide  e  terse."       * 

But  the  testimony  of  graver  writers,  lay  and  clerical,  is  not  want- 
ing to  induce  us  to  believe  that  Vittoria,  in  her  prime,  really  misrht 
be  considered  "  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  her  day,"  with  more 
truth  than  that  hackneyed  phrase  often  conveys.  So  when  at  length 
the  Colonna  seniors,  and  the  Uuchessa  di  Francavilla  thought  that 
the  fitting  moment  had  arrived  for  carrying  into  effect  the  long- 
standing engagement — which  was  not  till  1509,  when  the  promessi 
sposi  were  both  in  their  nineteenth  year — the  young  couple  were 
thoroughly  in  love  with  each  other,  and  went  to  the  altar  with  every 
prospect  of  wedded  happiness. 

But  during  these  quiet  years  of  study  and  development  in  little 
rock-bound  Ischia,  the  world  without  was  anything  but  quiet,  as  the 
outline  of  Neapolitan  history  in  the  last  chapter  sufficiently  indi- 
cates ;  and  Fabrizio  Colonna  was  ever  in  the  thick  of  the  confusion. 
As  long  as  the  Aragouese  monarchs  kept  up  the  struggle,  he  fought 
for  them  upon  the  losing  side  ;  but  when,  after  the  retreat  of  Fred- 
erick, the  last  ef  them,  the  contest  was  between  the  French  and  the 
Spaniards,  he  chose  the  latter,  which  proved  to  be  the  winning  side. 
Frederick,  on  abandoning  Naples,  threw  himself  on  the  hospitality 
of  the  King  of  France,  an  enemy  much  less  hated  by  him  than  was 
Ferdinand  of  Spain,  who  had  so  shamefully  deceived  and  betrayed 
him.  But  his  high  constable,  Fabrizio  Colonna,  not  sharing,  as  it 
should  seem,  his  sovereign's  feelings  on  the  subject,  transferred  bis 
allegiance  to  the  King  of  Spain.  And  again,  this  change  of  fealty 
and  service  seems  to  have  been  considered  so  much  in  the  usual 
course  of  things  that  it  elicits  no  remark  from  the  contemporary 
writers. 

In  fact,  the  noble  Fabrizio,  the  bearer  of  a  grand  old  Italian  name, 
the  lord  of  many  a  powerful  barony  and  owner  of  many  a  mile  of 
fair  domain,  a  Roman  patrician  of  pure  Italian  race,  to  whom,  if  to 
any,  the  honor,  the  independence,  the  interests,  and  the  name  of 
Ita'ly  should  have  been  dear,  was  a  mere  captain  of  free  lan< 
Soldier  of  fortune,  ready  to  sell  his  blood  and  great  military  talents 
in  the  best  market.  The  best  of  his  fellow  nobles  in  all  parts  of 

A.B.— «4 


14  VITTORIA   COLONKA. 

Italy  were  the  same.  Their  profession  was  fighting.  And  mere 
fighting,  in  whatever  cause,  so  it  were  bravely  and  knightly  done, 
was  the  most  honored  and  noblest  profession  of  that  day.  So  much 
of  real  greatness  as  could  be  imparted  to  the  profession  of  war,  by 
devotion  to  a  iwson,  might  occasionally — though  not  very  frequently 
in  Italy— have  been  met  with  among  the  soldiers  of  that  period.  But 
all  those  elements  of  genuine  heroism,  which  are  generated  by  devotion 
to  a  cause,  and  all  those  ideas  of  patriotism,  of  resistance  to  wrong, 
and  assertion  of  human  rights,  which  compel  the  philosoplirr  and 
philanthropist  to  admit  that  war  may  sometimes  be  rightcoun,  noble, 
elevating,  to  those  engaged  in  it,  and"  prolific  of  high  thoughts  and 
great  deeds,  were  wholly  unknown  to  the  chivalry  of  Italy  at  the  time 
in  question.  * 

And.  indeed,  as  far  as  the  feeling  of  nationality  is  concerned,  the 
institution  of  knighthood  itself,  as  it  then  existed,  was  calculated  to 
prevent  the  growth  of  patriotic  sentiment.  For  the  commonwealth 
of  chivalry  was  of  European  extent.  The  knights  of  England, 
France,  Italy,  Spain,  and  Germany,  were  brothers  in  arms,  linked 
together  by  a  community  of  thought  and  sentiment  infinitely  strong- 
er than  any  which  bound  them  to  the  other  classes  of  their  own 
countrymen.  The  aggregation  of  caste  wholly  overbore  that  of  na- 
tionality. And  the  nature  of  the  former,  though  not  wholly  evil  iu 
its  influences,  any  more  than  that  of  the  latter  is  wholly  good,  is  yet 
infinitely  narrower,  less  humanizing,  and  less  ennobling  in  its  action 
on  human  motives  and  conduct.  And  war,  the  leading  aggregative 
occupation  of  those  days,  was  proportionally  narrowed  in  its  scope, 
deteriorated  in  its  influences,  and  rendered  incapable  of  supplying 
that  stimulus  to  healthy  human  development  which  it  has  in  its  more 
noble  forms  indisputably  sometimes  furnished  to  mankind. 

And  it  is  important  to  the  great  history  of  modern  civilization  that 
these  truths  should  be  recognized  and  clearly  understood.  For  this 
same  period,  which  is  here  in  question,  was,  as  all  know,  one  of 
great  intellectual  activity,  of  rapid  development,  and  fruitful  pro- 
gress. And  historical  speculators  on  these  facts,  finding  this  un- 
usual movement  of  mind  contemporaneous  with  a  time  of  almost 
universal  and  unceasing  warfare,  have  thought  that  some  of  the 
producing  causes  of  the  former  fact  were  to  be  found  in  the  exist- 
ence of  the  latter  ;  and  have  argued  that  the  general  ferment  and 
stirring  up  produced  by  these  chivalrous  but  truly  ignoble  wars  as- 
sisted mainly  in  generating  that  exceptionally  fervid  condition  of  tlu- 
human  mind.  But,  admitting  that  a  time  of  national  struggle  for 
some  worthy  object  may  probably  be  found  to  exercise  such  an  in- 
fluence as  that  attributed  to  the  Italian  wars  of  the  fifteenth  and  six- 
teenth centuries,  it  is  certain  that,  these  latter  were  of  no  Buch  enno 
bling  nature.  And  the  causes  of  the  great  intellectual  movement  of 
those  centuries  must  therefore  be  sought  elsewhere. 

From  the  time  when  "  il  gran  Capitano"  Coiisalvo,  on  behalf  of 


VITTOEIA   COLONtfA.  15 

)us  master,  Ferdinand  of  Spain,  having  previously  assisted  the 
French  in  driving  out  the  unfortunate  Frederick,  the  last  of  the 
Aragonese  kings  of  Naples,  had  afterwards  finally  succeeded  in  ex- 
pelling the  French  from  their  share  of  the  stolen  kingdom,  the 
affairs  of  the  Colonna  cousins,  Fabrizio  and  Prospero,  began  to 
brighten.  The  last  French  troops  quitted  Naples  on  January  1st, 
1504.  By  a  diploma,  bearing  date  November  15th,  1504,*  and  still  pre- 
served among  the  Colonna  archives,  eighteen  baronies  were  con- 
ferred on  Prospero  Colonna  by  Ferdinand.  On  the  28th  of  the  same 
month,  all  the  fiefs  which  Fabrizio  had  formerly  possessed  in  the 
Abnizzi  were  restored  to  him  ;  and  by  another  deed,  dated  the  same 
day,  thirty-three  others,  in  the  Abruzzi  and  the  Terra  di  Lavoro, 
were  bestowed  on  him. 

In  the  mean  time  earth  had  been  relieved  from  the  presence  of 
the  Borgia  Vicegerent  of  heaven,  and  Julius  II.  reigned  in  his  stead. 
By  him  the  Colonna  were  relieved  from  their  excommunication 
and  restored  to  all  their  Roman  possessions.  So  that  the  news  of 
the  family  fortunes,  which  from  time  to  time  reached  the  daughter 
of  the  house  in  her  happy  retirement  in  rocky  Ischia,  from  the  pe- 
riod at  which  she  began  to  be  of  an  age  to  appreciate  the  importance 
of  such  matters,  were  altogether  favorable. 

But  the  tranquil  life  there  during  these  years  was  not  unbroken  by 
sympathy  with  the.  vicissitudes  which  were  variously  affecting  the 
excitable  city,  over  which  the  little  recluse  court  looked  from  their 
island  home.  The  untimely  death  of  Ferdinand  II.,  on  Friday,  Octo*- 
ber  7th,  1496,  threw  the  first  deep  shade  over  the  household  of  the 
Duchessa  di  Francavilla,  which  had  crossed  it  since  Vittoria  had  be- 
come its  inmate.  Never,  according  to  the  contemporary  journalist 
Giuliano  Passeri,f  was  prince  more  truly  lamented  by  his  people  of 
every  class.  Almost  immediately  after  his  marriage,  the  young  king 
and  his  wife  both  fell  ill  at  Somma,  near  Naples.  The  diarist  de- 
scribes the  melancholy  spectacle  of  the  two  biers,  supporting  the 
sick  king  and  queen,  entering  their  capital  side  by  side.  Every  thing 
that  the  science  of  the  time  could  suggest,  even  to  the  carrying  in 
procession  of  the  head  as  well  as  the  blood  of  St.  Januarius,  was 
tried  in  vain.  The  young  king,  of  whom  so  much  was  hoped,  died  ; 
and  there  arose  throughout  the  city,  writes  Passeri,  "  a  cry  of  weep- 
ing so  great  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  world  were  falling  in 
ruin,  all,  both  great  and  small,  male  and  female,  crying  aloud  to 
heaven  for  pity.  So  that  I  truly  think  that,  since  God  made  the 
world,  a  greater  weeping  than  this  was  never  known." 

Then  came  the  great  jubilee  year,  1500  ;  on  which  occasion  a  cir 
cumstance  occurred  that  set  all  Naples  talking.  It  was  discussed, 
we  may  shrewdly  conjecture,  in  a  somewhat  different  spirit  in  that 
Ischia  household,  which  most  interests  us,  from  the  tone  in  which 


*  Coppi.  Mem.  Col.,  p.  349.  t  Note  1. 


16  VITTORIA    COLONtfA. 

the  excitable  city  chattered  of  it.  At  the  beginning  of  April,*  the 
Neapolitans,  in  honor  of  the  great  jubilee,  sent  a  deputation,  carry- 
ing with  them  the  celebrated  virgin,  della  Bruua  dello  Carmine,  who 
justified  her  reputation,  and  did  credit  to  her  country,  by  working 
innumerable  miracles  all  the  way  as  she  went.  But  what  was  the 
mortification  of  her  bearers,  when,  arrived  at  Rome,  the  result  of  the 
fame  arising  from  their  triumphant  progress  was,  that  Pope  Borgia, 
jealous  of  a  foreign  virgin,  which  might  divert  the  alms  of  the  faith- 
ful from  the  Roman  begging-boxes,  showed  himself  so  thorough  a 
protectionist  of  the  home  manufacture  that  he  ordered  the  Neapoli- 
tan virgin  to  be  carried  back  again  immediately.  This  had  to  be 
done  ;  but  Madonna  della  Bruna,  nothing  daunted,  worked  miracles 
faster  than  ever  as  she  was  being  carried  off,  and  continued  to  do  so 
all  the  way  home. 

In  July,  1501,  there  came  a  guest  to  the  dwelling  of  Costanza 
d'Avalos,  whose  coming  and  going  must  have  made  a  durable  im- 
pression on  the  opening  mind  of  Vittoria,  then  just  eleven  years  old. 
This  was  Frederick,  the  last  of  the  Aragonese  kings.  When  all  had 
gone  against  him,  and  the  French  had  taken,  and  most  cruelly 
siu-ked,  Capua,  and  were  advancing  on  Naples, f  lie  sought  refuge 
with  his  wife  and  children  on  the  island  of  Ischia,  and  remained 
there  till  he  left  it,  on  the  Gth  of  September,  to  throw  himself  on  the 
generosity  of  the  French  king.  Fabrizio  Colonna  was,  it  is  re- 
Corded,  with  him  on  the  island,  where  the  fallen  king  left  for  a  while 
his  wife  and  children  ;  and  had  then  an  opportunity  of  seeing— as 
far  as  the  brave  condottiere  chieftain  had  eyes  to  see  such  matters — 
the  progress  his  daughter  had  made  in  all  graces  and  good  gifts  dur- 
ing six  years  of  the  superintendence  of  Costanza  d'Avalos. 

Then  there  came  occasionally  events,  which  doubtless  called  the 
Duchessa  di  Francavilla  from  her  retirement  to  the  neighboring  but 
strongly  contrasted  scene  of  Naples  ;  and  in  all  probability  furnished 
opportunities  of  showing  her  young  pupil  something  of  the  great  and 
gay  world  of  the  brilliant  and  always  noisy  capital.  Such,  for  in- 
stance, was  the  entry  of  Ferdinand  of  Spain  into  Naples,  on  Novem- 
ber 1st,  1506.  The  same  people,  who  so  recently  were  making  Iliu 
greatest  lamentation  ever  heard  in  the  world  over  the  death  of  Ferdi- 
nand of  Aragon,  were  now  equally  loud  and  vehement:):  in  their 
welcome  to  his  false  usurping  kinsman,  Ferdinand  of  Castile.  A 
pier  was  run  out  an  hundred  paces  into  the  sea  for  him  and  his  queen 
to  land  at,  and  a  tabernacle,  "  all  of  fine  wrought  gold,"  says  Pas- 
seri,  erected  on  it  for  him  to  rest  in.  The  city  wall  was  thrown  down 
to  make  a  new  passage  for  his  entrance  into  the  city  ;  all  Naples  was 
gay  witli  triumphal  arches  and  hangings.  The  mole,  writes  the  same 
gossiping  authority,  was  so  crowded  that  a  grain  of  millet  thrown 
among  them  would  not  have  reached  the  ground.  Nothing  was  to 


*  Passeri,  p.  183.  t  Passeri,  p.  126-  t  Paswri,  p.  146, 


VITTORIA   COLONHA.  17 

be  heard  in  all  Naples  but  the  thunder  of  cannon,  and  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  velvet,  silk,  and  brocade,  and  gold  on  all  sides.  The  Streets 
were  lined  with  richly  tapestried  seats,  filled  with  all  the  noble  dames 
of  Naples,  who,  as  the  royal  cortege  passed,  rose,  and  advancing, 
kissed  the  hands  of  the  king,  "  et  lo  signore  Re  di  questo  si  pigliava 
gran  piacere. "  It  is  a  characteristic  incident  of  the  times  that,  as 
quick  as  the  cortege  passed,  all  the  rich  and  costly  preparations  for  its 
passage  were  as  Passeri  tells  us,  scrambled  for  and  made  booty  of 
by  the  populace. 

The  Duchessa  di  Francavilla,  at  least,  who  had  witnessed  the  mel- 
ancholy departure  of  Frederick  from  her  own  roof,  when  he  went 
forth  a  wanderer  from  his  lost  kingdom,  must  have  felt  the  hol- 
lowness  and  little  worth  of  all  this  noisy  demonstration,  if  none  other 
among  the  assembled  crowd  felt  it.  And  it  may  easily  be  imagined 
how  she  moralized  the  scene  to  the  lovely  blonde  girl  at  her  side,  now 
at  sixteen,  in  the  first  bloom  of  her  beauty,  as  they  returned,  tired 
with  the  unwonted  fatigue  of  their  gala  doings,  to  their  quiet  home 
in  Ischia. 

Here  is  a  specimen  from  the  pages  of  the  gossiping  weaver,*  of 
the  sort  of  subjects  which  were  the  talk  of  the  day  in  Naples  in  those 
times. 

In  December,  1507,  a  certain  Spaniard,  Pietro  de  Pace  by  name,  a 
hunchback,  and  much  deformed,  but  who  "  was  of  high  courage, 
and  in  terrestrial  matters  had  no  fear  of  spirits  or  of  venomous  ani- 
mals," determined  to  explore  the  caverns  of  Pozzuoli  ;  and  discov- 
ered in  them  several  bronze  statues  and  medals  and  antique  lamps. 
He  found  also  some  remains  of  leaden  pipes,  on  one  of  which  the 
words  "  Imperator  Caesar"  were  legible.  Moreover,  he  saw  "cer- 
tain lizards  as  large  as  vipers."  But  for  all  this,  Pietro  considered 
his  adventure  an  unsuccessful  one  ;  for  he  had  hoped  to  find  hidden 
treasure  in  the  caverns. 

Then  there  was  barely  time  for  this  nine  days'  wonder  to  run  out 
its  natural  span  before  a  very  much  more  serious  matter  was  occu- 
pying every  mind  and  making  every  tongue  wag  in  Naples.  On  the 
night  preceding  Christmas  day,  in  the  year  1507,  the  Convent  of  St. 
Clare  was  discovered  to  be  on  fire.  The  building  was  destroyed, 
and  the  nuns,  belonging  mostly  to  noble  Neapolitan  families,  were 
burnt  out  of  their  holy  home— distressing  enough  on  many  ac- 
counts. But  still  it  was  not  altogether  the  misfortune  of  these  holy 
ladies  that  spread  consternation  throughout  the  city.  It  was  the 
practice,  it  seems,  for  a  great  number  of  the  possessors  of  valuables 
of  all  sorts,  "  Baruni  od  altri,"  as  Passeri  says,f  in  his  homely' Nea- 
politan dialect,  to  provide  against  the  continual  dangers  to  which 
movable  property  was  exposed,  by  consigning  their  goods  to^  the 
keeping  of  some  religious  community.  And  the  nuns  of  St.  Clare 

*  Passeri,  p.  151.  t  Passed,  p.  ir.2. 


IS  VITT01UA    COLONNA. 

especially  were  very  largely  employed  in  this  way.  The  conse« 
quence  was  that  the  almost  incredibly  large  amount  of  three  hundred 
thousand  ducats'  worth  of  valuable  articles  of  all  sorts  was  destroyed 
in  this  disastrous  fire.  Taking  into  consideration  the  difference  in 
the  value  of  money,  this  sum  must  be  calculated  to  represent  at  least 
a  million  and  a  half  sterling  of  our  money.  And  it  is  necessary  to 
bear  in  mind  how  large  a  proportion  of  a  rich  man's  wealth  in  those 
days  consisted  in  chattels  to  render  the  estimate  of  the  loss  at  all 
credible. 

The  prices,  however,  at  which  certain  of  the  products  of  artistic 
industry  were  then  estimated,  were  such  as  to  render  such  an  accu- 
mulation of  property  possible  enough.  For  instance,  among  the 
valuables  recorded  by  Passeri  as  belonging  to  Ferdinand  of  Aragon 
I.  were  three  pieces  of  tapestry  which  were  called  "  La  Pastorella," 
and  were  considered  to  be  worth  130,000  ducats. 

And  thus  the  years  rolled  on  ;  Naples  gradually  settling  down  into 
tranquillity  under  the  Spanish  rule,  administered  by  the  first  of  the 
long  list  of  viceroys,  the  "  Gran  Capitano,"  Don  Consalvo  de  Cor- 
duba,  and  the  star  of  the  Colonna  shining  more  steadily  than  ever  in 
the  ascendant,  till,  in  the  year  1509,  the  nineteenth  of  Vittoria's  and 
of  the  bridegroom's  age,  it  was  determined  to  celebrate  the  long  ar- 
ranged marriage. 

It  took  place  on  the  27th  of  December  in  that  year  ;  and  Passeri 
mentions*  thatVittoria  came  to  Ischia  from  Marino  on  the  occasion, 
escorted  by  a  large  company  of  Roman  nobles.  It  appears,  there- 
fore, that  she  must  have  quitted  Ischia  previously.  But  it  is  proba- 
ble that  she  did  so  only  for  a  short  visit  to  her  native  home,  before 
finally  settling  in  her  husband's  country. 

The  marriage  festival  was  held  in  Ischia,  with  all  the  pomp  then 
usual  on  such  occasions  ;  and  that,  as  will  be  seen  in  a  subsequent 
page,  from  the  account  preserved  by  Passeri  of  another  wedding,  at 
which  Vittoria  was  present,  was  a  serious  matter.  The  only  particu- 
lars recorded  for  us  of  her  own  marriage  ceremony  consist  of  two 
lists  of  the  presents  reciprocally  made  by  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 
These  have  been  printed  from  the  original  documents  in  the  Colonna 
archives,  by  Signer  Visconti,  and.  are  curious  illustrations  of  the 
habits  and  manners  of  that  day. 

The  Marquis  acknowledges  to  have  received,  says  the  document, 
from  the  Lord  Fabrizio  Colonna  and  the  Lady  Vittoria  : 

1.  A  bed  of  French  fashion,  with  the  curtains  and  all  the  hang- 
ings of  crimson  satin,  lined  with  blue  taffetas  with  large  fringes  of 
gold  ;  with  three  mattresses  and  a  counterpane  of  crimson  satin  of 
Bimihir  workmanship  ;  and  four  pillows  of  crimson  satin  garnished 
with  fringes  and  tassels  of  gold. 

2.  A  cloak  of  crimson  raised  brocade. 

*  Passed,  p.  168. 


VITTORIA   COLONNA.  i '.) 

3.  A  cloak  of  black  raised  brocade,  and  white  silk. 

4.  A  cloak  of  purple  velvet  and  purple  brocade. 

5.  Across  of  diamonds  and  a  housing  for  a  mule,  of  Wrought  gold. 
The  other  document  sets  forth  the  presents  offered  by  Pesearn  to  ]HH 

bride  : 

1.  A  cross  of  diamonds  with  a  chain  of  gold,  of  the  value  of  1000 
ducats. 

2.  A  ruby,  a  diamond,  and  an  emerald  set  in  gold,  of  the  value  of 
400  ducats. 

3.  A  "  desciorgh"  of  gold  (whatever  that  may  be),  of  the  value  of 
one  hundred  iucats. 

4.  Twelve  bracelets  of  gold,  of  the  value  of  forty  ducats. 

Then  follow  fifteen  articles  of  female  dress,  gowns,  petticoats, 
mantles,  skirts,  and  various  other  finery  with  strange  names,  only  to 
be  explained  by  the  ghost  of  some  sixteenth-century  milliner,  and  al- 
together ignored  by  Ducange  and  all  other  lexicographers.  But  they 
are  described  as  composed  of  satin,  velvet,  brocade  ;  besides  crimson 
velvet  trimmed  with  gold  fringe  and  lined  with  ermine,  and  llcsh- 
colored  silk  petticoats  trimmed  with  black  velvet.  The  favorite 
color  appears  to  be  decidedly  crimson. 

It  is  noticeable  that  while  all  the  more  valuable  presents  of  IVs- 
cara  to  Vittoria  are  priced,  nothing  is  said  of  the  value  of  her  gifts  to 
the  bridegroom.  Are  we  to  sec  in  this  an  indication  of  a  greater  deli- 
cacy of  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  lady  ? 

So  the  priests  did  their  office — a  part  of  the  celebration,  which,  cu- 
riously enough,  we  learn  from  Passeri,  was  often,  in  those  days,  at 
Naples,  deferred,  sometimes  for  years,  till  after  the  consummation  of 
the  marriage — the  Pantagruelian  feastings  were  got  through,  the 
guests  departed,  boat -load  after  boat-load,  from  the  rocky  shore  of 
Ischia  ;  and  the  little  island,  restored  after  the  unusual  hubbub  to  ifs 
wonted  quiet,  was  left  to  be  the  scene  of  as  happy  a  honeymoon  as 
the  most  romantic  of  novel  readers  could  wish  for  her  favorite  hero- 


CHAPTER  III. 

Vittoria's  Married  Life.— Pcscara  goes  where  Glory  awaits  Jlim.— The  Rout  of 
Ravenna. — Pescara  in  Prison  turns  Penman.— His  "JMalogo  di  Amore."— Vit- 
toria's Poetical  Epistle  to  her  Husband.— Vittoria  and  the  Marches  del  Vasto. 
— Three  Cart-Loads  of  Ladies,  and  three  Mule-Loads  of  Sweetmeats.— Character 
of  Pescara.— His  Cruelty. — Anecdote  in  Proof  of  it. 

THE  two  years  which  followed,  Vittoria  always  looked  back  on  as 
the  only  truly  happy  portion  of  her  life,  and  many  are  the  passages 
of  her  poems  which  recall  their  tranquil  and  unbroken  felicity,  a 
sweet  dream,  from  which  she  was  too  soon  to  be  awakened  to  the  or- 
dinary vicissitudes  of  sixteenth-century  life.  The  happiest  years  of 


20  VITTORIA    COLONHA.. 

individuals,  as  of  nations,  afford  least  materials  for  history,  and  of 
Yittnria's  two  years  of  honeymoon  in  Tschia,  the  whole  record  is  that 
she  was  happy  ;  and  she  wrote  no  poetry. 

Karly  in  1512  oame  the  waking  from  this  pleasant  dream.  Pcscara 
was  of  course  to  be  a  soldier.  In  his  position,  not  to  have  begun  to 
light,  as  soon  as  his  beard  was  fairly  grown  would  have  been  little 
short  of  infamy.  So  he  set  forth  to  join  the  army  in  Lombard  y,  in 
company  with  his  father  in-law,  Fabrizio.  Of  course  there  was  an 
army  in  Lombardy,  where  towns  were  being  besieged,  fields  laid 
waste,  and  glory  to  be  "had  for  the  winning.  There  always  was,  in 
those  good  old  times,  of  course.  French,  Swiss,  Spanish,  German, 
Venetian,  Papal,  and  Milanese  troops  were  fighting  each  other,  with 
changes  of  alliances  and  sides  almost  as  frequent  and  as  confusing  as 
the  changing  of  partners  in  a  cotillion.  It  is  troublesome,  and  not  of 
much  consequence,  to  understand  who  were  just  then  friends  and 
who  foes,  and  what  were  the  exact  objects  all  the  different  parties  had 
in  flitting  each  other's  throats.  And  it  will  be  quite  sufficient  to  say 
that  the  Duchy  of  Milan  was  at  that  moment  the  chief  bone  of  con- 
tention— that  the  principal  pretenders  to  the  glory  of  "  annexing"  it 
were  the  king  of  France  and  the  king  of  Spain,  who  was  now  also 
king  of  Naples— that  the  Pope  was  just  then  allied  with  Spain,  and 
the  Venetians  with  France,  and  that  Italy  generally  was  preparing 
for  the  destiny  she  has  worked  out  for  herself,  by  the  constant  en- 
deavor to  avail  herself  of  the  destroying  presence  of  these  foreign 
troops,  and  their  rivalries,  for  the  prosecution  of  her  internal  quar- 
rels, and  the  attainment  of  equally  low  and  yet  more  unjustifiable, 
because  fratricidal,  aims. 

Pcscara,  as  a  Neapolitan  subject  of  the  king  of  Spain,  joined  the 
army  opposed  to  the  French,  under  the  walls  of  Ravenna.  Vittoria, 
though  her  subsequent  writings  prove  how  much  the  parting  cost 
her,  showed  how  thoroughly  she  was  a  soldier's  daughter  and  a  sol- 
dier's wife.  There  had  been  some  suggestion,  it  seems,  that  the 
marquis,  as  the  sole  surviving  scion  of  an  ancient  and  noble  name, 
might  fairly  consider  it  his  duty  not  to  subject  it  to  the  risk  of  ex- 
tinction by  exposing  his  life  in  the  field.  The  young  soldier,  how- 
ever, wholly  refused  to  listen  to  such  counsels ;  and  his  wife 
strongly  supported  his  view  of  the  course  honor  counselled  him  to 
follow,  by  advice,  which  a  young  and  beautiful  wife,  who  was  1o  re 
main  surrounded  by  a  brilliant  circle  of  wits  and  poets,  would 
scarcely  have  ventured  on  offering,  had  she  not  felt  a  perfect  secur- 
ity from  all  danger  of  being  misinterpreted,  equally  creditable  to 
wife  and  husband. 
_  So  the  young  soldier  took  for  a  motto  on  his  shield  the  well-known 

With  this,  or  on  this  ;"  and,  having  expended,  we  are  told,  much. 

care  and  cash  on  a  mnu'iiiliccnt  equipment,  was  at.  once  appointed  to 

l lie  command  of  the  light  cavalry.     The  knowledge  and  experience 

iry  for  such  a  position  comes  by  nature,  it  must  be  supposed. 


VITTOKIA   COLONN'A.  21 

to  the  descendant  of  a  long  line  of  noble  knights,  as  surely  as  point- 
ing does  to  the  scion  of  a  race  of  pointers.  But  the  young  warrior's 
episcopal  *  biographer  cursorily  mentions  that  certain  old  and  trusty 
veterans,  who  bad  obtained  their  military  science  by  experience,  and 
not  by  right  of  birth,  were  attached  to  his  person. 

The  general  of  light  cavalry  arrived  at  the  camp  at  an  unfortunate! 
moment.  The  total  defeat  of  the  United  Spanish  and  Papal  army 
by  the  French  before  Ravenna,  on  the  9th  of  April,  151-3,  immediately 
followed.  Fabrizio  Colonua  and  his  son-in-law  were  both  made 
prisoners.  The  latter  had  been  left  for  dead  on  the  field,  covered 
with  wounds,  which  subsequently  gave  occasion  to  Isabella  of  Ara 
gon,  Duchess  of  Milan,  to  say,  "  I  would  fain  be  a  man,  Signor 
Marchese,  if  it  were  only  to  receive  such  wounds  as  yours  in  the 
face,  that  I  might  see  if  they  would  become  me  as  they  do  you."  f 

Pescara,  when  picked  up  from  the  field,  was  carried  a  prisoner  to 
Milan,  where,  by  means  of  the  good  offices  and  powerful  influence  of 
Trivulzio,  who  had  married  Beatrice  d'Avalos,  Pescara's  aunt,  and 
was  now  a  general  in  the  service  of  France,  his  detention  was  ren- 
dered as  little  disagreeable  as  possible,  and  he  was,  as  soon  as  his 
wounds  were  healed,  permitted  to  ransom  himself  for  six  thousand 
ducats.}: 

During  his  short  confinement  he  amused  his  leisure  by  composing 
a  "  Dialogo  d'Amore,"  which  he  inscribed  and  sent  to  his  wife.  The 
bishop  of  Como,  his  biographer,  testifies  that  this  work  was  exceed- 
ingly pleasant  reading—"  summte  jucuuditatis" — and  full  of  grave 
and  witty  conceits  and  thoughts.  The  world,  however,  has  seen  lit 
to  allow  this  treasury  of  wit  to  perish,  notwithstanding  the  episcopal 
criticism.  And  in  all  probability  the  world  was  in  the  right.  If  in- 
deed the  literary  general  of  light  horse  had  written  his  own  real 
^thoughts  and  speculations  on  love,  there  might  have  been  some  inter- 
"est  in  seeing  a  sixteenth  century  soldier's  views  on  that  ever  interest- 
ing subject.  But  we  may  be  quite  certain  that  the  Dialogo, 
"  stuffed  full,"  as  Giovio  says,  "of  grave  sentiments  and  exquisite 
conceits,"  contained  only  a  reproduction  of  the  classic  banalities  and 
ingenious  absurdities  which  were  current  in  the  fashionable  literature 
of  the  day.  Yet  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  employment  of  bis 
leisure  in  any  such  manner,  and  still  more,  the  dedication  of  his  la- 
bors on  such  a  subject  to  his  wife,  are  indications  of  an  amount  of 
cultivation  and  right  feeling  which  would  hardly  have  been  found, 
either  one  or  the  other,  among  many  of  the  preux  chevaliers,  his 
brothers-in-arms. 

Meanwhile,  Vittoria,  on  her  part,  wrote  a  poetical  epistle  to  her 
husband  in  prison,  which  is  the  first  production  of  her  pen  that  has 
reached  us.  It  is  written  in  Dante's  "  terza  rima, "  and  consisted  of 

*  Giovio,  Bp.  of  Como,  Life  of  Pcscara,  book  i. 

t  Filocalo,  MS.  Life  of  Pcscara,  cited  by  Visconti,  p.  Ixxxii.          $  Giovio,  lib.  1, 


22  VITTORIA   COLONNA. 

one  hundred  and  twelve  lines.  Both  Italian  and  French  critics  have 
vxpn-.-sed  highly  favorable  judgments  of  this  little  poem.  And  it 
may  be  admitted  that  the  lines  are  elegant,  classical,  well-turned,  and 
ingenious.  But  those  who  seek  something  more  than  all  this  iu 
poetry — who  look  for  passion,  high  and  noble  thoughts,  happy  illus- 
tration, or  deep  analysis  of  human  feeling — will  rind  nothing  of  the 
sort.  That  Vittpria  did  feel  acutely  her  husband's  misfortune,  and 
bitterly  regret  his  absence  from  her,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe. 
But  she  is  unable  to  express  these  sentiments  naturally  or  forcibly. 
She,  in  all  probability,  made  no  attempt  to  do  so,  judging  from  the 
models  on  which  she  had  been  taught  to  form  her  style,  that  wheii 
she  sat  down  to  make  poetry  the  aim  to  be  kept  in  view  was  a  very 
different  one."  Hence  we  have  talk  of  Hector  and  Achilles,  Eolus, 
Sirens,  and  marine  deities,  Pompey,  Cornelia,  Cato,  Martia,  and 
Mithridatcs — a  parade  of  all  the  treasures  of  the  school -room.  The 
pangs  of  the  wife  left  lonely  in  her  home  are  in  neatly  antithetical 
phrase  contrasted  with  the  dangers  and  toils  of  the  husband  iu  the 
field.  Then  we  have  a  punning  allusion  in  her  own  name  : 

"  Se  Vittoria  volevi,  io  t'  era  appresso ; 
Ma  tu,  lasciando  me,  lasciasti  lei." 

"  If  victory  was  thy  desire,  I  was  by  thy  side  ;  but  iu  leaving  me, 
thou  didst  leave  also  her. ' ' 

The  best,  because  the  simplest  and  most  natural  lines,  are  the  fol- 
lowing : 

"  Seguir  pi  dcve  il  eposo  e  dentro  e  fora  ; 
E,  s'  cgli  pate  affannq,  ella  patisca ; 
Se  lieto,  lieta ;  e  so  vi  more,  mora. 
A  quel  clie  arrisca  run,  1'  aliro  s1  arrisca ; 
Kgiuli  iu  vita,  eguali  siano  iu  niorte  ; 
E  cio  che  avvienoa  lui,  a  lei  sortisca."  . 

"  At  home  or  abroad  the  wife  should  follow  her  husband  ;  and  if 
he  suffers  distress,  she  should  suffer  ;  should  be  joyful  if  he  is  joyful, 
and  should  die  if  he  dies.  The  danger  confronted  by  the  one  should 
be  confronted  by  the  other  ;  equals  iu  life,  they  should  be  equal  in 
death  ;  and  that  which  happens  to  him  should  be  her  lot  also" — a 
mere  farrago  of  rhetorical  prettinesses,  as  cold  as  a  school-boy's  prize 
verses,  and  unanimatcd  by  a  spark  of  genuine  feeling  ;  although  the 
writer  was  as  truly  affectionate  a  wife  as  ever  man  had. 

But  although  all  that  Vittoria  wrote,  and  all  that  the  vast  number 
of  the  poets  and  poetesses,  her  contemporaries,  wrote,  was  obnoxious 
to  the  same  remarks,  still  it  will  be  seen  that  in  the  maturity  of  her 
powers  she  could  do  better  than  this.  Her  religious  poetry  may  be 
said,  generally,  to  be  much  superior  to  her  love  verses  ;  either  be- 
<  au-e  they  were  composed  when  her  mind  had  grown  to  its  full  stat- 
ure, or,  as  seems  probable,  because,  model  wife  as  she  was,  the  sub- 
ject took  a  deeper  hold  of  her  mind,  and  stirred  the  depths  of  her 
heart  more  powerfully. 


VITTORIA  COLOKNA.  23 

Very  shortly  after  the  dispatch  of  her  poetical  epistle,  Vittoria  was 
overjoyed  by  the  unexpected  return  of  her  husband.  And  again  for 
a  brief  interval  she  considered  herself  the  happiest  of  women. 

One  circumstance  indeed  there  was  to  mar  the  entirety  of  her  con- 
tentment. She  was  still  childless.  And  it  seems  that  the  science 
of  that  day,  igaorantly  dogmatical,  undertook  to  assert  that  she 
would  continue  to  be  so.  Botli  husband  and  wife  seemed  to  have  sub- 
mitted to  the  award  undoubtingly  ;  and  the  dictum,  however  rashly 
uttered,  was  justified  by  the  event. 

Under  these  circumstances  Vittoria  undertook  the  education  of 
Alphonso  d'Avalos,  Marchese  del  Vasto,  a  young  cousin  of  her  hus- 
band's. The  task  was  a  sufficiently  arduous  one;*  for  the  boy, 
beautiful,  it  is  recorded,  as  an  angel,  and  endowed  with  excellent 
capabilities  of  all  sorts,  was  so  wholly  unbroken,  and  of  so  violent 
and  ungovernable  a  disposition,  that  he  had  been  the  despair  and  ter- 
ror of  all  who  had  hitherto  attempted  to*  educate  him.  Vittoria 
thou0ht  that  she  saw  in  the  wild  and  passionate  boy  the  materials  of 
a  worthy  man.  The  event  fully  justified  her  judgment,  and  proved 
the  really  superior  powers  of  mind  she  must  have  brought  to  the  ac- 
complishment of  it.  Alphonso  became  a  soldier  of  renown,  not  un- 
tinctured  by  those  literary  tastes  which  so  remarkably  distinguished 
his  gentle  preceptress.  A  strong  and  lasting  affection  grew  between 
them  ;  and  Vittoria,  proud  with  good  reason  of  her  work,  was  often 
wont  to  say  that  the  reproach  of  being  childless  ought  not  to  be 
deemed  applicable  to  her  whose  moral  nature  might  well  be  said  to 
have  brought  forth  that  of  her  pupil. 

Pescara's  visit  to  Naples  was  a  very  short  one.  Early  in  1513  we 
find  him  again  with  the  armies  in  Lombardy,  taking  part  in  most  of 
the  mischief  and  glory  going. 

Under  the  date  of  July  the  4th  in  that  year  the  gossiping  Naples 
weaver,  who  rarely  fails  to  note  the  doings  of  the  Neapolitan  general 
of  light  horse  with  infinite  pride  and  admiration,  lias  preserved  for  us 
a  rather  picturesque  little  bit  of  Ariosto-flavored  camp  life.  The 
Spanish  army,  under  Don  Raymond  di  Cardona,  who,  on  Consalvo's 
death,  had  succeeded  him  as  Viceroy  of  Naples,  was  on  its  march 
from  Peschiera  to  Verona,  when  a  messenger  from  the  beautiful  young 
Marchioness  of  .Mantua  came  to  the  gencral-in-chief  tjo  say  that  she 
wished  to  see  those  celebrated  Spanish  troops,  who  were  marching 
under  his  banners,  and  was  t lien  waiting  their  passaire  in  the  vine- 
yards of  the  Castle  of  Villafranca.  "  A  certain  gentle  lady  of  Man- 
tua, named  the  Signora  Laura,  with  whom  Don  Raymond  was  in 
love,"  writes  the  weaver,  was  with  the  Marchioness  ;  and  much 
pleased  was  he  at  the  message.  So  word  was  passed  to  the  various 
captains  ;  and  when  the  column  reached  the  spot,  where  t  lie  Marchion- 
ess with  a  great  number  of  ladies  and  ''avaliers  of  Mantua  were  re- 


*  Viscimti,  p.  77- 


24  VITTORIA    COLOKNA. 

posing  in  the  shade  of  the  vines,  "  Don  Ferrantc  d'Alarcone,  as  chief 
marshiil,  with  his  baton  in  his  hand,  made  all  the  troops  halt,  and. 

?  laced  themselves  in  order  of  battle  ;  and  the  Signor  Marchese  di 
'escara  marched  at  the  head  of  the  infantry,  with  a  pair  of  breeches 
cut  after  the  Swiss  fashion,  and  a  plume  on  his  head,  and  a  two- 
handed  sword  in  his  hand,  and  all  the  standards  were  unfurled." 
And  when  the  Marchioness,  from  among  the  vines  looking  down 
through  the  checkered  shade  on  to  the  road,  saw  that  all  was  in  or- 
der, she  and  her  ladies  got  into  three  carts,  so  that  there  came  out  of 
the  vineyard,  says  Passeri,  three  cartsful  of  ladies  surrounded  by  the 
cavaliers  of  Mantua  on  horseback.  There  they  came  very  slowly  jolt- 
ing over  the  cultivated  ground,  those  three  heavy  bullock  carts,  with 
their  primitive  wheels  of  one  solid  circular  piece  of  wood,  and  their 
huge  cream-colored  oxen  with  enormous  horned  heads  gayly  deco- 
rated, as  Leopold  Robert  shows  them  to  us,  and  the  brilliant  tinted 
dresses  of  the  laughing  l*vy  drawn  by  them,  glancing  gaudily  in  the 
sunlight  among  the  soberer  coloring  of  the  vineyards  in  their  sum- 
mer pride  of  green.  Then  Don  Raymond  and  Pescara  advanced  to 
the  carts,  and  handed  from  them  the  Marchioness  and  Donna  Laura, 
who  mounted  on  handsomely  equipped  jennets  prepared  for  them. 
It  does  not  appear  that  this  attention  was  extended  to  any  of  the  other 
ladies,  who  must  therefore  be  supposed  to  have  remained  sitting  in 
the  carts,  while  the  Marchioness  and  the  favored  Donna  Laura  rode 
through  the  ranks  "  con  multa  festa  et  gloria."  And  when  she  had 
seen  all,  with  much  pleasure  and  admiration,  on  a  given  signal  three 
mules  loaded  with  sweetmeats  were  led  forward,  with  which  the  gay 
Marchioness  "  regaled  all  the  captains."  Then  all  the  company  with 
much  content — excepting,  it  is  to  be  feared,  the  soldiers,  who  had  to 
stand  at  arms  under  the  July  sun,  while  their  officers  were  eating 
sugar-plums,  and  Don  Raymond  and  Donna  Laura  were  saying  and 
swallowing  sweet  things — took  leave  of  each  other,  the  army  pursu- 
ing its  march  toward  Verona,  and  the  Marchioness  and  her  ladies  re., 
turning  in  their  carts  to  Mantua.* 

The  other  scattered  notices  of  Pescara's  doings  during  his  cam. 
paign  are  of  a  less  festive  character.  They  show  him  to  have  been 
a  hard  and  cruel  man,  reckless  of  human  suffering,  and  eminent  even 
among  his  fellow-captains  for  the  ferocity,  and  often  wantonness,  of 
the  ravages  and  widespread  misery  he  wrought.  On  more  than  one 
occasion  Passer!  winds  up  his  narrative  of  some  destruction  of  a 
town,  or  desolation  of  a  fertile  and  cultivated  district,  by  the  remark 
that  the  cruelty  committed  was  worse  than  Turks  would  have  been 
guilty  of.  Yet  this  same  Passeri,  an  artisan,  belonging  to  a  class 
which  had  all  to  suffer  and  nothing  to  gain  from  such  atrocities, 
writes,  when  chronicling  this  same  Pescara's  f  death,  thut  "  on  that 
day  died,  I  would  have  you  know,  gentle  readers,  the  most  glorious 

*  Passed,  p.  l'J7.  t  raaeeri,  p.  386. 


VITTORIA   COLON^A.  25 

and  honored  captain  that  the  world  has  seen  for  the  last  hundred 
years."  It  is  curious  to  observe  how  wholly  the  popular  mind  was 
enslaved  to  the  prejudices  and  conventional  absurdities  of  the  ruling 
classes  ;  how  entirely  the  feelings  of  the  musses  were  in  unison  with 
those  of  the  caste  which  oppressed  them  ;  how  little  reason  they  con- 
ceived they  had  to  complain  under  the  most  intolerable  treatment, 
and  how  little  hope  of  progressive  amelioration  there  was  from  th* 
action  of  native-bred  public  opinion. 

Bishop  Giovio,  the  biographer  and  panegyrist  of  Pescara,  admits  thai 
he  was  a  stern  and  cruelly- severe  disciplinarian,  and  mentions  an 
anecdote  in  proof  of  it.  A  soldier  was  brought  before  him  for  hav- 
ing entered  a  house  en  route  for  the  purpose  of  plundering.  The  gen- 
eral ordered  that  his  ears  should  be  cut  off.  The  culprit  remon- 
strated, and  begged,  with  many  entreaties,  to  be  spared  so  dishonor- 
ing and  ignominious  a  punishment,  saying  in  his  distress  that  death 
itself  would  have  been  more  tolerable. 

"The  grace  demanded  is  granted,"  rejoined  Pescara  instantly, 
with  grim  pleasantry.  "  Take  this  soldier,  who  is  so  careful  of  his 
honor,  and  hang  him  to  that  tree  !" 

In  vain  did  the  wretch  beg  not  to  be  taken  at  his  word  so  cruelly  ; 
no  entreaties  sufficed  to  change  the  savage  decree. 

It  will  be  well  that  we  should  bear  in  mind  these  indications  of  the 
essential  nature  of  this  great  and  glorious  captain,  who  had  studied 
those  ingenuous  arts  which  soften  the  character,  and  do  not  suffer 
men  to  be  ferocious,  as  the  poet  assures  us,  and  who  could  write  dia- 
logues on  love,  when  we  come  to  consider  the  curious  phenomenon 
OT  Vittoria's  unmeasured  love  for  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Society  in  Ischia.— Bernardo  Tasso's  Sonnet  thereon.— How  a  Wedding  waa  cele- 
brated in  Naplns  in  1517.— A  Sixteenth  Century  Trousseau.— Sack  of  Genoa.— The 
Battle  of  Pavia. — Italian  Conspiracy  against  Charles  V.— Character  of  Pescara  — 
Honor  in  1525.— Pescara's  Treason. — Vittoria's  Sentiments  on  the  Occasion. — Pe»- 
cara's  Infamy.— Patriotism  unknown  in  Italy  in  the  Sixteenth  Century.— No  suck 
Sentiment  to  be  found  in  the  Writings  of  Vittoria.— Evil  Inlluence  of  her  Hus- 
band's Character  on  her  Mind.— Death  of  Pescara. 

MEANWHILE  Vittoria  continued  her  peaceful  and  quiet  life  in 
Ischia,  lonely  indeed,  as  far  as  the  dearest  affections  of  her  heart  was 
concerned,  but  cheered  and  improved  by  the  society  of  that  select 
knot  of  poets  and  men  of  learning  whom  Costanza  di  Fruncavilla, 
not  unassisted  by  the  presence  of  Vittoria,  attracted  to  her  little 
island  court.  We  find  Musefilo,  Filocalo,  Giovio,  Miuturno,  Cariteo, 
Rota,  Sanazzaro,  and  Bernardo  Tasso,  among  those  who  helped  to 
make  this  remote  rock  celebrated  throughout  Europe  at  that  day,  su 


26  VITTORIA  COLOHNA. 

one  of  the  best-loved  haunts  of  Apollo  and  the  muses,  to  speak  in  the 
phraseology  of  the  time. 

Many  among  them  have  left  passages  recording  the  happy  days 
spent  on  that  fortunate  island.  The  social  circle  was  doubtless  a 
charming  and  brilliant  one,  and  the  more  so  as  contrasted  with  the 
general  tone  and  habits  of  the  society  of  the  period.  But  the  style 
of  the  following  sonnet  by  Bernardo  Tasso,  selected  by  Visconti 
as  a  specimen  of  the  various  effusions  by  members  of  the  select  circle 
upon  the  subject,  while  it  accurately  illustrates  the  prevailing  modes 
of  thought  and  diction  of  that  period,  will  hardly  fail  to  suggest  the 
idea  of  a  comparison — mutatis  mutandis — between  this  company  of 
sixteenth  century  choice  spirits  and  that  which  assembled  and  pro- 
voked so  severe  a  lashing  in  the  memorable  Hotel  de  Kambouillet, 
more  than  an  hundred  years  afterward.  But  an  Italian  Moliere  is 
as  wholly  impossible  in  the  nature  of  things  as  a  French  Dante. 
And  the  sixteenth  century  swarm  of  Petrarchists  and  Classicists  have, 
unlike  true  prophets,  found  honor  in  their  own  country. 

Gentle  Bernardo  celebrates  in  this  wise  these  famed  Ischia  meet- 
ings : 

"  Snperbo  scoglio,  altero  e  bel  ricetto 
Di  tanti  chiari  eroi,  d'imperadori, 
Onde  raggi  di  gloria  escono  fuori, 
Ch'  ogni  altro  lume  fan  ecuro  e  negletto  ; 
Se  per  yera  virtu te  al  ben  perfetto 
Salir  si  puote  eel  agli  eterni  onori, 
Queste  piu  d'  altre  degne  alme  e  migliorl 
V  andran,  che  chiudi  nel  petroso  petto. 
II  lume  e  in  tc  dell1  armi ;  in  te  s'asconde 
Ca«ta  belta,  valore  e  cortesia, 
Quanta  mai  vide  il  tempo,  o  diede  il  ciel*. 
Ti  sian  secondi  i  fati,  e  il  vento  e  I1  onde 
Rendaiiti  onore,  e  1'  afla  tua  natia 
Abbia  sempre  temprato  il  caldo  e  il  gelo !" 

"WLich  may  be  thus  "  done  into  English,"  for  the  sake  of  giving 
those  unacquainted  with  the  language  of  the  original  some  tolerably 
accurate  idea  of  Messer  Bernardo's  euphuisms  : 

"  Proud  rock !  the  loved  retreat  of  such  a  band 

Of  eartb's  best,  noblest,  greatest,  that  their  light 
Pales  other  glories  to  the  dazzled  sight, 
And  like  a  beacon  shines  throughout  the  land, 
If  truest  worth  can  reach  the  perfect  state, 
And  man  may  hope  to  merit  heavenly  reel, 
Those  whom  thou  harborest  in  thy  rocky  breast, 
First  in  the  nice  will  reach  the  heavenly  gate. 
Glory  of  martial  deeds  is  thine.    In  thee. 

Brightest  the  world  e'er  saw,  or  heaven  gave, 
Dwell  chastest  beauty,  worth,  and  courtesy! 
Well  be  it  with  theo !    May  both  wind  and  sea 
Respect  thee  :  and  thy  native  air  mid  wave 
Be  temper'd  ever  by  a  genial  sky !" 

Such  ia  the  poetry  of  one  of  the  brightest  stars  of  the  lechian  gal- 
axy ;  and  the  incredulous  reader  is  assured  that  it  would  b«  &Mf  to 


VITTORIA    COLONNA.  27 

find  much  worse  sounds  by  the  ream  among  the  extant  productions 
of  the  crowd  who  were  afflicted  with  the  prevalent  Petrarch  mania  of 
that  epoch.  The  statistical  returns  of  the  ravages  of  this  malady, 
given  by  the  poetical  registrar-gsneral  Crescimbeni,  would  astonish 
even  Paternoster  Row  at  the  present  day.  But  Vittoria  Colonua, 
though  a  great  number  of  her  sonnets  do  not  rise  above  the  level  of 
Bernardo  Tasso  in,  the  foregoing  specimen,  could  occasionally,  espe 
cially  in  her  later  years,  reach  a  much  higher  tone,  as  will,  it  is 
hoped,  be  shown  in  a  future  chapter. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  the  religious  feelings  which  inspired  her 
later  poetry  were,  though  not  more  genuine,  yet  more  absorbing 
than  the  conjugal  love,  which  is  almost  exclusively  the  theme  of  her 
earlier  efforts.  And  it  is  at  all  events  certain  that  the  form-  r  so  en- 
grossed her  whole  mind  as  to  sever  her  in  a  great  measure  from  the 
world.  This  the  so  fervently  sung  pangs  of  separation  from  her 
husband  do  not  appear  to  have  effected. 

Besides  the  constant  society  of  the  select  few,  of  whom  mention 
has  been  made,  there  were  occasionally  gayer  doings  in  Ischia  ;  as 
when  in  February,  1517,  a  brilliant  festival  was  held  there  on  occa- 
sion of  the  marriage*  of  Don  Alfonso  Piccolomiui  with  Costauza 
d'Avalos,  the  sister  of  Vittoria's  pupil,  theMarchese  del  Vasto,  And 
occasionally  the  gentle  poetess,  necessitated  probably  by  the  exigen- 
cies of  her  social  position,  would  leave  her  beloved  Ischia  for  brill- 
iant and  noisy  Naples.  And  when  these  necessities  did  occur,  it  is 
recorded  that  the  magnificence  and  pomp  with  which  the  beautiful 
young  wife  made  her  appearance  among  her  fellow  nobles  was  such 
as  few  of  them  could  equal,  and  none  surpass. 

One  of  these  occasions  is  worth  specially  noting,  for  the  sake  of 
the  detailed  account  which  has  been  preserved  of  it  by  that  humble 
and  observant  chronicler,  our  friend  the  weaver.  For  it  contains 
traits  and  indications  curiously  and  amusingly  illustrative  of  the  life 
and  manners  of  that  time  in  Naples. 

It  was  December  6th,  1517,  and  high  festival  was  to  be  held  for  the 
marriage  of  the  king  of  Poland  with  Donna  Bona  Sforza.  The 
guests  comprised  the  whole  nobility  of  Naples  ;  and  worthy  Passcri 
begins  his  account  with  an  accurate  Moming-Post-lika  statement  of 
the  costume  of  each  in  the  order  of  their  arrival  at  the  church. 
Doubtless  the  eager  weaver,  a  shrewd  judge  of  such  matters,  hud 
pushed  hmself  into  a  good  place  in  the  front  row  of  the  crowd,  who 
lined  the  roadway  of  the  noble  guests,  and  might  have  been  seen, 
with  tablets  in  hand,  taking  notes  with  busy  excitement  to  be  trans- 
ferred to  his  journal  at  night.  One  after  another  the  high-sounding 
titles  very  many  of  them  Spanish,  are  set  forth,  as  they  swept  by, 
brilliant  with  gold  and  every  brightest  tint  of  cosily  fabric,  and  are 
swallowed  up  t;y  the  dark  nave  of  the  huge  church. 

*  ;  asseri,  p,  334, 


28  VITT01UA   COLONNA. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  attempt  a  translation  of  all  the  changes  Mas- 
ter Passed  rings  on  velvet,  satin,  gold,  J>rocade,  and  costly  furs. 
Merely  noting  that  the  bride's  dress  is  estimated  to  be  worth  seven 
thousand  ducats,  we  let  them  all  pass  on  till  "  the  illustrious  lady 
the  Signora  Vittoria,  Marchioness  of  Pescara,"  arrives.  She  is 
mounted  on  a  black  and  white  jennet,  with  housings  of  crimson  vel- 
vet fringed  with  gold.  She  is  accompanied  by  site  ladies  in  waiting, 
uniformly  clad  in  azure  damask,  and  attended  by  six  grooms  on  foot 
with  cloaics  and  jerkins  of  blue  and  yellow  satin.  The  lady  herself 
wears  a  robe  of  brocaded  crimson  velvet,  with  large  branches  of 
beaten  gold  on  it.  She  has  a  crimson  satin  cap,  with  a  head-dress  of 
wrought  gold  above  it ;  and  around  her  waist  is  a  girdle  of  beaten 
gold. 

Some  of  the  assembled  company,  one  might  think,  would  require 
their  girdles  to  be  of  some  more  yielding  material.  For,  on  quitting 
the  church,  they  sat  down  to  table  at  six  in  the  evening,  "  and  be- 
gan to  eat,"  says  Passeri,  "and  left  off  at  five  in  the  morning!" 
The  order  and  materials  of  this  more  than  Homeric  feast  are  handed 
down  to  posterity  with  scrupulous  accuracy  by  our  chronicler.  Hut 
the  stupendous  menu,  in  its  entirety,  would  be  almost  as  intolerable 
to  the  reader  as  having  to  sit  out  the  eleven  hours'  orgy  in  person. 
A  few  particulars  culled  here  and  there,  partly  because  they  are  curi- 
ous, and  partly  because  the  meaning  of  the  words  is  more  intelligi- 
ble than  is  the  case  in  many  instances,  even  to  a  Neapolitan  of  the 
present  day,  will  amply  suffice. 

There  were  twenty-seven  courses.  Then  the  quantity  of  sugar 
used  was  made,  as  we  have  noticed  on  a  former  occasion  at  I^ome,  a 
special  subject  of  glorification.  There  was  "  puttagio  Ungarese," 
Hungary  soup,  stuffed  peacocks,  quince  pies,  and  thrushes  st'  v«l 
with  bergamottes,  which  were  not  pears,  as  an  English  reader  might 
perhaps  suppose,  but  small  highly-scented  citrons  of  the  kind  from 
which  the  perfume  of  that  name  is,  or  is  supposed  to  be,  made. 
"With  the  "  bianco  mangiare,"  our  familiarity  with  "  blanc-mauge' 
seems  at  first  sight  to  make  us  more  at  home.  But  we  are  thrown 
out  by  finding  that  it  was  eaten  in  1517,  "con  mostaida."  The 
dishes  of  pastry  seem,  according  to  our  habits,  much  out  of  propor- 
tion to  tin:  rest.  Sweet  preparations  also,  whether  of  animal  or  vege- 
table composition,  seem  greatly  to  preponderate.  At  the  queen's 
own  table  a  fountain  gave  forth  odoriferous  waters.  But  to  all  the 
guc.sts  per!  unicd  water  for  the  hands  was  served  at  the  removal  of 
the  first  tables. 

"  And  thus  having  passed  this  first  day  with  infinite  delight,"  the 
whole  party  passed  a  second,  and  a  Ihird,  in  the  same  manner  ! 

That  eleven  hours  should  have  been  spent  in  eating  and  drinking  is 
of  course  simply  impossible.  Large  interludes  must  be  supposed  to 
have  been  occupied  by  music,  and  very  likftly  by  recitations  of 
poetry.  On  the  first  day  a  considerable  time  must  have  been  taken 


VITTORIA   COLO  NX  A.  29 

up  by  a  part  of  the  ceremonial,  wliicli  was  doubtless  far  more  inter- 
estiug  to  the  fairer  half  of  the  assembly  than  the  endless  gormandiK- 
ing.  This  was  a  display,  article  by  article,  of  the  bride's  trousseau, 
which  took  place  while  the  guests  were  still  sitting  at  table.  Passer; 
minutely  catalogues  the  whole  exhibition.  The  list  begins  with 
twenty  pairs  of  sheets,  all  embroidered  with  different  colored  silks  ; 
ami  seven  pairs  of  sheets,  "  d'olanda,"  of  Dutch  linen,  fringed  with 
gold.  Then  come  an  hundred  and  live  shirts  of  Dutch  linen,  all  em- 
broidered with  silk  of  divers  colors  ;  and  seventeen  shirts  of  cambric, 
"cambraia,"  with  a  selvage  of  gold,  as  a  present  for  the  royal  bride- 
groom. There  were  twelve  head-dresses,  and  six  ditto,  ornamented 
with  gold  anil  colored  silk,  for  his  majesty  ;  an  hundred  and  twenty 
handkerchiefs,  embroidered  with  gold  cord  ;  ninety-six  caps,  orna- 
mented with  gold  and  silk,  of  which  thirty-six  were  for  the  king. 
There  were  eighteen  counterpanes  of  silk,  one  of  which  was  wrought 
"  alia  moresca ;"  forty-eight  sets  of  stamped  leather  hangings, 
thirty-six  others  "  of  the  ostrich-egg  pattern,"  sixteen  "  of  the  arti- 
choke pattern,"  and  thirty-six  of  silk  tapestry.  Beside  all  these 
hundred  sets,  there  were  eight  large  pieces  of  Flanders  arras,  "  con 
seta  assai."  They  represented  the  seven  works  of  mercy,  and  were 
valued  at  a  thousand  golden  ducats.  There  was  a  litter,  carved  and 
gilt,  with  its  four  mattresses  of  blue  embroidered  satin.  Passing  mi 
to  the  plate  department,  we  have  a  silver  waiter,  two  large  pitchers 
wrought  in  relief,  three  basins,  an  ewer,  and  six  large  cups,  twelve 
large  plates,  twelve  ditto  of  second  size,  and  twenty-four  soup  plates 
made  "  alia  franxese,"  a  massive  salt-cellar,  a  box  of  napkins,  spoons, 
and  jugs,  four  large  candlesticks,  two. Large  flasks,  a  silver  pail,  and 
cup  of  gold  worth  two  hundred  ducats  for  the  king's  use.  Then  for 
the  chapel,  a  furniture  for  the  altar,  with  the  history  of  the  three 
kings  embroidered  in  gold  on  black  velvet  ;  a  missal  on  paivhmcnt, 
with  illuminated  miniatures,  bound  in  velvet,  ornamented  with  silver 
clasps  and  bosses  ;  and  a  complete  set  of  requisites  for  the  service  in 
silver.  Then,  returning  to  the  personal  department,  came  twenty- 
one  gowns,  each  minutely  described,  and  one  of  blue  satin  spangled 
with  bees  in  solid  gold,  particularly  specified  as  being  worth  four 
thousand  ducats. 

When  all  this  and  much  more  had  been  duly  admired,  there  were 
brought  forward  an  empty  casket  and  fifteen  trays,  in  which  were 
an  hundred  thousand  ducats  of  gold,  which  were  put  into  the  casket 
"  before  all  the  Signori."  But  our  chronicler  is  compelled  by  his 
love  of  truth  to  add  reluctantly  that  there  were  several  false  ducats 
among  them.* 

It  is  evident,  from  the  nature  of  many  of  the  articles  in  the  above 
list,  that  this  "trousseau"  was  not  merely  a  bride's  lilting  outpur- 
chased  for  the  occasion,  but  was  a  collection  of  all  the  Lady  Bona's 

*  See  Note  2. 


30  YlTTOiUA   COLONNA. 

dial  Id  property,  and  represented,  as  was  then  usually  the  case  with 
all  wealthy  persons,  a  very  large,  if  not  the  principal  part,  of  the 
worldly  goods. 

It  may  well  be  imagined  that  Vittoria  was  not  sorry  to  return  to 
the  quiet  and  intellectual  society  of  Ischia  after  these  tremendous 
three  days  at  Naples.  There  she  was  cheered  from  time  to  time 
by  three  or  four  short  visits  from  her  husband,  and  by  continual 
tidings  of  his  increasing  reputation  and  advancement  in  dignity  and 
wealth — a  prosperity  which  she  considered  dearly  purchased  by  his 
almost  continual  absence.  The  death  of  her  father  Fabrizio,  in 
March,  1520,  and  that  of  her  mother,  in  1522,  made  her  feel  more 
poignantly  this  loneliness  of  heart. 

In  October  of  1522  Pescara  made  a  flying  visit  to  his  wife  and 
home.  He  was  with  her  three  days  only,  and  then  hastened  back  to 
the  army.  It  was  the  last  time  she  ever  saw  him.  His  career  with 
the  army  mean  time  was  very  glorious.  In  May,  1522,  he  took  and 
sacked  Genoa  ;  "  con  la  maggior  crodelitate  de  lo  mundo,"  writes 
admiring  Passeri.  The  plundering  lasted  a  day  and  a  half  ;  and, 
"  da  che  lo  mundo  fo  mundo,"  never  was  seen  a  sacking  of  so  great 
riches,  "  for  there  was  not  a  single  soldier  who  did  not  at  the  Irast 
get  a  thousand  ducats."  Then,  with  the  year  1525,  came,  on  the 
24th  of  February,  the  memorable  day  of  Pavia,  which  was  so  glori- 
ous that,  as  Passeri  writes,  the  desolation  inflicted  by  it  on  the  coun- 
try around  was  such  that  neither  house,  tree,  nor  vine  was  to  be  seen 
for  miles.  All  was  burned.  Few  living  creatures  were  to  be  met 
with,  and  those  subsisting  miserably  on  roots. 

The  result  of  that  "  field  of  honor"  is  sufficiently  well  known. 
Pescara,  who  received  three  wounds,  though  none  of  them  serious, 
in  the  battle,  considered  that  he  was  ill-used,  when  the  royal  captive 
Francis  was  taken  out  of  his  hands  to  Spain,  and  made  complaints 
on  the  subject  to  his  master  Charles  V.,  who  had  succeeded  Ferdinand 
on  the  thrones  of  Spain  and  Naples  in  1516.  He  was  now,  however, 
at  the  age  of  thirty-five,  general-in-chief  for  that  monarch  in  Lom- 
foardy,  and  enjoyed  his  perfect  confidence,  when  circumstances  arose 
calculated  to  try  his  fidelity  severely.  Whether  that,  almost  the  only 
virtue  recognized,  honored,  and  professed  by  his  own  class  at  that 
day,  remained  altogether  intact  and  unblemished  is  doubtful.  But  it 
is  certain  that,  in  any  view  of  the  case,  his  conduct  was  such  as  would 
consign  him  to  utter  infamy  in  any  somewhat  more  morally  enlight- 
ened age  than  his  own,  and  such  as  any  noble-hearted  man,  however 
untaught,  would  have  instinctively  shrunk  from  even  then. 

The  circumstances  briefly  were  as  follows  : 

Clement  VII. ,  who  had  succeeded  to  the  Popedom  in  1523,  had, 
after  much  trimming  and' vacillation  between  Francis  I.  and  Charles 
V.,  become,  like  the  rest  of  Italy,  exceedingly  alarmed  at  the  pre- 
ponderating power  of  Charles,  after  the  discomfiture  of  the  French  at 
Pavia.  Now  the  discontent  of  Pescara,  mentioned  above,  being 


VITTORIA   COLONNA.  wi 

notorious,  the  pope  and  bis  counsellors,  especially  Giberti,  bisbop  of 
Verona,  and  Alorone,  chancellor  and  prime  minister  of  the  Duke  of 
Milan,  thought  that  it  might  not  be  impossible  to  induce  him  to  turn 
traitor  to  Charles,  and  make  use  of  the  army  under  his  command  to 
crush  once  and  forever  the  Spanish  power  in  Italy.  The  prime 
mover  and  agent  in  this  conspiracy  was  Morone,  who  had  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  one  of  the  profoundest  and  most  far-sighted  statesmen 
of  his  day.  Guicciardini  *  has  recorded  that  he  (the  historian)  had 
often  heard  Morone  declare  that  there  did  not  exist  a  worse  or  more 
faithless  man  in  all  Italy  than  Pescara.  The  conspiring  chancellor, 
therefore,  being  empowered  by  the  pope  to  promise  the  malcontent 
general  the  throne  of  Naples  as  the  price  of  his  treason,  thought  that 
lie  might  well  venture  to  make  the  proposal. 

Pescara  received  his  overtures  favorably,  saying  that,  ifhe  could  b« 
satisfied  that  what  was  proposed  to  him  c-ould  be  done  witlunit  injury  to 
his  Jwnor,  he  would  willingly  undertake  it,  and  accept  the  rowan! 
offered  to  him. f  Upon  this  reply  being  communicated  to  the  pope, 
a  couple  of  cardinals  forthwith  wrote  to  the  Marchese,  assuring  him 
that  the  treason  required  of  him  was,  "  according  to  the  dispositions 
and  ordinances  of  the  laws,  civil  as  well  as  canon, "|  perfectly  con- 
sistent with  the  nicest  honor.  Meanwhile,  however,  it  chanced  that 
one  Messer  Gismondo  Santi,  who  had  been  sent  by  the  conspirators 
with  letters  on  the  subject  into  France  or  Switzerland,  was  mur- 
dered for  the  purpose  of  robbery  by  an  innkeeper  with  whom  he 
lodged  at  Bergamo,  and  was  buried  under  the  staircase,  as  was  dis- 
covered  some  years  afterward.  And  as  no  tidings  were  heard  of 
this  messenger,  all  engaged  in  the  plot,  and  Pescara  among  them, 
suspected  that  he  had  been  Avaylaid  for  the  sake  of  his  dispatches, 
and  that  thus  all  was  probably  made  known  to  Charles.  Thereupon 
Pescara  immediately  wrote  to  the  emperor,  revealing  the  whole  con- 
spiracy, and  declaring  that  he  had  given  ear  lo  their  proposals  only 
for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  full  information  of  the  conspirators' 
designs. 

Such  is  the  version  of  the  story  given  by  Varchi,  probably  the 
most  trustworthy  of  all  the  numerous  contemporary  historians.  lie 
adds,  "  It  is  not  unknown  to  me  that  many  say,  and  perhaps  think. 
that  the  Marchese,  acting  loyally  from  the  beginning,  had  all  along 
given  the  emperor  true  information  of  every  thing  ;  all  which  I,  for 
my  part,  knowing  nothing  further  than  what  I  have  said,  will  not 
undertake  to  deny.  It  would  indeed  be  agreeable  to  me  to  believe 
that  it  was  so,  rather  than  that  the  character  of  so  great,  a  soldier 
should  be  stained  with  so  foul  a  blot.  Though  indeed  I  know  not 
what  sort  of  loyalty  or  sincerity  that  may  be,  which  consists  in  hav- 
ing deceived  and  betrayed  by  vile  trickery  and  fraud  a  pope,  who,  it 

*  1st.  Ital.,  lib.  xvi.  cap.  4. 

t  Varchi,  6toria  Floreutiiia,  vol.  i.  p.  &*,  edit.  Fireu/o,  1843.         J  Varclii,  p.  89. 


32  V1TTOKIA    COLOXN'A. 

nothing  else,  was  at  least  very  friendly  to  him,  a  republic  such  aa 
that  of  Venice,  and  many  other  personages,  for  the  sake  of  acquiring 
favor  with  his  master.  This  I  know  well,  that  the  lady  Vittoria 
Colonna,  his  wife,  a  woman  of  the  highest  character,  and  abounding 
in  all  the  virtues  which  can  adorn  her  sex,  had  no  sooner  heard  of 
the  intrigue  on  foot  than,  wholly  untempted  by  the  brilliant  hope 
hung  out  to  her,  she  with  infinite  sorrow  and  anxiety  wrote  most 
warmly  to  her  husband,  urging  him  to  bethink  him  of  his  hitherto 
unstained  character,  and  to  weigh  well  what  he  was  about,  assuring 
him  that,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  she  had  no  wish  to  be  the  wife 
of  a  king,  but  only  of  a  loyal  and  upright  man. " 

This  letter  from  Vittoria,  urging  her  husband  not  to  be  seduced  to 
swerve  from  the  path  of  honor  and  duty,  is  recorded  by  most  of  the 
writers  ;  and  Viscouti  asserts  that  it  was  the  means  of  inducing 
lY-scara  to  abandon  the  idea  of  betraying  his  sovereign.  At  all 
events,  the  existence  of  such  a  letter  is  very  strong  evidence  that 
Pesrara  had  not  from  the  first  informed  Charles  of  the  plot,  but  Tutd 
at  least  hesitated  whether  he  should  not  join  in  it,  inasmuch  as  his 
communications  to  her  upon  the  subject  had  given  her  reason  to  fear 
lest  he  should  do  so. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  fair  to  observe  that  several  of  those  con- 
cerned in  the  intrigue  saw  reason  to  suspect  the  possibility  of 
Pescara's  having  from  the  first  listened  to  their  overtures  only  to 
betray  them,  as  is  proved  by  extant  letters  from  one  to  another  of 
them.* 

Perhaps  this,  too,  was  consistent  with  the  nicest  honor,  as  defined 
"  by  the  ordinances  of  canon  and  civil  law."  But  whether  he  were  a 
traitor  to  his  king  or  not,  he  was  determined  to  shrink  from  no  depth 
of  treachery  toward  his  dupes  that  could  serve  to  ingratiate  him  with 
his  master.  While  still  feigning  to  accede  to  their  proposals,  he  sent 
to  Morone  to  come  to  him  at  Novara,  that  all  might  be  arranged 
between  them.  Morone,  against  the  advice  of  many  of  his  friends, 
and,  as  Guicciardini  thought,!  with  a  degree  of  imprudence  astonish- 
ing in  so  practised  and  experienced  a  man,  went  to  the  meeting.  He 
was  received  in  the  most  cordial  manner  by  Pescara,  who,  as  soon  as 
they  were  alone  together,  led  him  to  speak  of  all  the  details  of  the 
proposed  plan.  The  trap  was  complete  ;  for  behind  the  hangings  of 
the  room  in  which  they  were  sitting  he  had  hidden  Antonio  da 
Leyva,  one  of  the  generals  of  the  Spanish  army,  who  arrested  him  as 
lie  was  quitting  the  house,  and  took  him  to  the  prison  of  Novara, 
whore  Pescara  the  next  day  had  the  brazen  audacity  to  examine  as  a 
judge  the  man  whom  a  few  hours  previously  he  had  talked  with  as 
au  accomplice.  $ 

*  Lcttere  do  Prinripi,  vol.  I.  p.  87.     See  Letters  from  Giberto  to  Gismondo  Santi 
and  to  Domenico  Sanli. 
t  ItoruL,  lib.  xvii.  chap.  Jy.  J  Guicciardini,  lib.  xvii.  chap.  iv. 


VITTORIA   COLONKA.  3 

Surely,  whichever  version  of  the  story  may  be  believed,  as  to 
Peseara's  original  intentions,  there  is  enough  here  in  evidence  to  go 
far  toward  justifying  Chancellor  Moroue's  opinion  that  he  was  one 
of  the  worst  and  most  faithless  men  in  Italy.  Some  modern  Italian 
writers,  with  little  moral,  and  less  historical,  knowledge,  have  rested 
the  gravamen  of  the  charge  against  him  on  his  want  of  patriotic 
Italian  feeling  on  the  occasion.  In  the  first  place,  no  such  motive, 
however  laudable  in  itself,  could  have  justified  him  in  being  guilty 
of  the  treason  proposed  to  him.  In  the  second  place,  the  class  of 
ideas  in  question  can  hardly  be  found  to  have  had  any  existence  at 
that  period,  although  distinct  traces  of  such  may  be  met  with  in  Italian 
history  200  years  earlier.  Certainly  the  Venetian  senate  were  not 
actuated  by  any  such  ;  and  still  more  absurd  would  it  be  to  attribute 
them  to  Pope  Clement.  It  is  possible  that  Morone,  and  perhaps  still 
more  Giberti,  may  not  have  been  untinctured  by  them. 

But  Pescara  was  one  of  the  last  men,  even  had  he  been  as  high- 
minded  as  we  find  him  to  have  been  the  reverse,  in  whom  to  look  for 
Italian  "fu&ri  i  barbari  "  enthusiasm.  Of  noble  Spanish  blood,  his 
family  had  always  been  the  counsellors,  friends,  and  close  adherents 
of  a  Spanish  dynasty  at  Naples,  and  the  man  himself  was  especially 
Spanish  in  all  his  sympathies  and  ideas.  "lie  adopted,"*  says 
Giovio,  "  in  all  his  costume  the  Spanish  fashion,  and  always  preferred 
to  speak  in  that  language  to  such  a  degree  that,  with  Italians,  and 
even  with  Vittoria  his  wife,  he  talked  Spanish."  And  elsewhere  he 
is  said  to  have  been  in  the  habit  of  expressing  his  regret  that  he  -uas 
not  born  a  Spaniard. 

Such  habits  and  sentiments  would  have  been  painful  enough  to  a 
wife,  a  Roman,  and  a  Colonua,  if  Vittoria  had  been  sufficiently  in 
advance  of  her  age  to  have  conceived  patriotic  ideas  of  Italian  nation- 
ality. But  though  her  pursuits  and  studies  were  infinitely  more 
likely  to  have  led  her  mind  to  such  thoughts  than  were  those  of  the 
actors  in  the  political  drama  of  the  time  to  generate  any  such  notions  in 
them,  yet  no  trace  of  any  sentiment  of  the  kind  is  to  be  found  in  her 
writings.  Considering  the  extent  of  the  field  over  which  her  mind 
had  travelled,  her  acquaintance  with  classical  literature  and  with  the 
history  of  her  own  country,  it  may  seem  surprising  that  a  nature 
certainly  capable  of  high  and  noble  aspirations  should  have  remained 
untouched  by  one  of  the  noblest.  That  it  was  so  is  a  striking  proof 
of  the  utter  insensibility  of  the  age  to  any  feelings  of  the  sort.  It  is 
possible,  too,  that  the  tendencies  and  modes  of  thought  of  her  hus- 
band on  the  subject  of  Italy  may  have  exercised  a  repressing  inHucnrr 
in  this  respect  on  Vittoria's  mind  ;  for  who  does  not  know  how 
powerfully  a  woman's  intelligence  and  heart  may  be  elevated  or 
degraded  by  the  nature  of  the  object  of  her  affections  ;  and,  doubt- 

*  Yitn.  lib.  i. 


34  VITTORIA   COLONNA. 

less,  to  Vittoria,  as  to  so  many  another  of  every  age,  do  the  admirable 
lines  of  the  poet  address  themselves  : 

"  Thou  ehalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day, 
What  is  fine  within  tliee  Crowing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 
As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  ;  thou  art  mated  with  a  <Jown, 
And  the  grossuess  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down." 

When  we  come  to  examine  the  tone  of  sentiment  prevailing  in 
Vittoria's  poetry,  other  indications  of  this  deteriorating  influence  will 
l»c  perceptible,  and  if  much  of  nobleness,  purity,  high  aspiration  be 
nevertheless  still  found  in  her,  this  partial  immunity  from  the  evil 
influence  must  be  attributed  to  the  trifling  duration  of  that  portion  of 
her  life  passed  in  her  husband's  company. 

Pescara  was  not  unrewarded  for  the  infamy  with  which  he  covered 
himself  in  the  service  of  his  master.  He  obtained  the  rank  of  general- 
issimo of  the  imperial  forces  in  Italy.  But  he  enjoyed  the  gratifica- 
tion for  a  very  little  while.  In  the  latter  end  of  that  year  he  fell  into 
a  state  of  health  which  seems  to  have  been  not  well  accounted  for  by 


shame  for  the  part  he  had  acted  in  (he  Morone  affair,  or,  with  greater 
probability,  misgiving  as  to  the  possibility  of  the  emperor's  discover- 
ing the  real  truth  of  the  facts  (for  the  fate  of  Gismondo  Santi  and 
his  papers  was  not  known  yet),  was  the  real  cause  of  his  illness.  It 
seems  clearly  to  have  been  of  the  nature  of  a  sudden  and  premature 
decay  of  all  (he  vital  forces. 

Toward  ihe  end  of  the  year  he  abandoned  all  hope  of  recovery, 
and  sent  to  his  wife  to  desire  her  to  come  to  him  with  all  speed.  He 
was  then  at  .Milan.  She  set  out  instantly  on  her  painful  journey,  and 
had  reached  Viterbo  on  her  way  northward  when  she  was  met  by 
the  news  of  his  death. 

It  took  place  on  the  25th  of  November,  1535.  He  was  buried  on 
the  :i()th  of  that  mouth,  says  Giovio,  at  Milan  ;  but  the  body  was 
shortly  afterward  transported  with  great  pomp  and  magnificence 
U>  Naples. 


CHAPTER  V. 


\  i  lorm.  a  Widow,  with  the  Nuns  of  San  Silvestro.— Returns  to  lachia.— Her  Poetry 
divisible  mil)  two  Classes.— Specimens  of  her  Sonnets.— They  rapidly  attain 
•  VIebrity  throughout  Italy.— Vittoria's  Sentiments  toward  her  Husband —Her 
molemished  Character.— Platonic  Love.— The  Love  Poetry  of  the  Sixteenth  Cen- 

VriToiuA  became  thus  a  widow  in  the  thirty-sixth  year  of  her  age. 
She  was  still  in  the  full  pride  of  her  beauty,  as  contemporary  writers 
as.M.Tt,  and  as  two  cxtam  medals,  struck  at  Milan  shortly  before  her 


i 


VITTORIA    COLONNA.  35 

husband's  death,  attest.  One  of  them  presents  the  bust  of  PCM  ai a 
on  the  obverse,  and  that  of  Vittoria  on  the  reverse  ;  the  other  has  the 
same  portrait  of  her  on  the  obverse,  and  a  military  trophy  on  the 
reverse.  The  f«ce  represented  is  a  very  beautiful  one,  and  seen  thus 
in  profile  is  perhaps  more  pleasing  than  the  portrait,  which  has 
been  spoken  of  in  a  previous  chapter.  She  was,  moreover,  even  now 
probably  the  most  celebrated  woman  in  Italy,  although  she  had 
done  little  as  yet  to  achieve  that  immense  reputation  which  awaited 
her  a  few  years  later.  Very  few,  probably,  of  her  sonnets  were 
written  before  the  death  of  her  husband. 

But  the  exalted  rank  and  prominent  position  of  her  own  family, 
the  high  military  grade  and  reputation  of  her  husband,  the  wide- 
spread hopes  and  fears  of  which  he  had  recently  been  the  centre 
in  the  affair  of  the  conspiracy,  joined  to  the  fame  of  her  talents, 
learning,  and  virtues,  which  had  been  made  the  subject  of  enthu- 
siastic praise  by  nearly  all  the  Ischia  knot  of  poets  and  wits,  ren- 
dered her  a  very  conspicuous  person  in  the  eyes  of  all  Italy.  Her 
husband's  premature  and  unexpected  death  added  a  source  of  in- 
terest of  yet  another  kind  to  her  person.  A  young,  beautiful,  and 
very  wealthy  widow  gave  rise  to  quite  as  many  hopes,  speculations, 
and  designs  in  me  sixteenth  century  as  in  any  other. 

But  Vittoria's  first  feeling,  on  receiving  that  fatal  message  at 
Viterbo,  was,  that  she  could  never  again  face  that  world  which  was 
so  ready  to  open  its  arms  to  her.  Escape  from  the  world,  solitude,  a 
cell,  whose  walls  should  resemble  as  nearly  as  might  be  those  of  the 
grave,  since  that  asylum  was  denied  to  her,  was  her  only  wish.  And 
she  hastened,  stunned  by  her  great  grief,  to  Home,  with  the  intention 
of  throwing  herself  into  a  cloister.  The  convent  of  San  Silvestro  in 
Capite — so  called  from  the  supposed  possession  by  the  community 
of  the  Baptist's  head — had  always  been  a  special  object  of  veneration 
to  the  Colouna  family  ;  and  there  she  sought  a  retreat.  Her  many 
friends,  well  knowing  the  desperation  of  her  affliction,  feared  that, 
acting  under  the  spur  of  its  first  violence,  she  would  take  the  irrevo- 
cable step  of  pronouncing  the  vows.  That  a  Vittoria  Colouna  should 
be  so  lost  to  the  world  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  So  Jacopo  Sadoleto, 
bishop  of  Carpentras,  and  afterward  made  a  cardinal  by  Pope  Paul 
III.,  one  of  the  most  learned  men  of  his  day,  himself  a  poet,  and  an  in- 
timate friend  of  Vittoria,  hastened  to  Pope  Clement,  whose  secretary 
he  was  at  the  time,  and  obtained  from  him  a  brief  addressed  to  the 
abbess  and  nuns  of  San  Silvestro,  enjoining  them  to  receive  into  their 
.house,  and  console  to  the  best  of  their  ability,  the  Marchesana  di 
Pescara,  "omnibus  spiritualibus  et  temporalibus  consolationibus," 
but  forbidding  them,  under  pain  of  the  greater  excommunication,  to 
permit  her  to  take  the  veil,  "  impetupotius  sui  doloris,  quam  mature 
consilio  circa  mutationem  vestium  vidualium  ha  mouasticas." 

This  brief  is  dated  the  7th  December,  1525. 

She  remained  with  the  Bisters  of  San  Silvestro  till  the  autumn  of 


3C  VICTORIA   COLONNA. 

tlic  following  year  ;  and  would  have  further  deferred  returning  into 
a  world,  which  the  conditions  of  the  time  made  less  than  ever  tempt- 
ing to  her,  had  not  her  brother  Ascanio,  now  her  only  remaining 
natural  protector,  taken  her  from  the  convent  to  Marino,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  Colonua  clan  being  once  again  at  war  with  the  pope, 
as  partisans  of  the  emperor. 

On  the  20th  of  September,  1526,  this  ever-turbulent  family  raised  a 
tumult  in  Rome  to  the  cry  of  "  Imperio  !  Imperio  !  Liberia  !  Liberia  ! 
Colouna  !  Colonna!"  and  sacked  the  Vatican,  and  every  house 
belonging  to  the  Orsini  ;*  the  old  clan  hatred  showing  itself  as  usual 
on  every  pretext  and  opportunity. 

The  result  was  a  papal  decree  depriving  Cardinal  Colonna  of  his 
hat,  and  declaring  confiscated  all  the  estates  of  the  family.  Deeply 
grieved  by  all  these  excesses,  both  by  the  lawless  violence  of  her  kins- 
men and  by  the  punishment  incurred  by  them,  she  left  Marino,  and 
once  more  returned  to  the  retirement  of  Ischia,  in  the  beginning  of 
1527.  It  was  well  for  her  that  she  had  decided  on  not  remaining  in 
or  near  Home  during  that  fatal  year.  While  the  eternal  city  and  its 
neighborhood  were  exposed  to  ttye  untold  horrors  and  atrocities  com- 
mitted by  the  soldiers  of  the  Most  Catholic  king,  Vittoria  was  safe 
in  her  island  home,  torn  indeed  to  the  heart  by  the  tidings  which 
rcai  lied  her  of  the  ruin  and  dispersion  of  many  valued  friends,  but 
at  least  tranquil  and  secure. 

And  now,  if  not  perhaps  while  she  was  still  with  the  nuns  of  San 
ilvestro,  began  her  life  as  a  poetess.  She  had  hitherto  written  but 
lit  Hi-,  and  occasionally  only.  Henceforward  poetical  composition 
seems  to  have  made  the  great  occupation  of  her  life.  Viscouti,  the 
latest,  and  by  far  the  best  editor,  of  her  works,  has  divided  them  into 
two  portions.  With  two  or  three  unimportant  exceptions,  of  which 
the  letter  to  her  husband  already  noticed  is  the  most  considerable, 
they  consist  entirely  of  sonnets.  The  first  of  Signor  Visconti'.s 
divisions,  comprising  134  sonnets,  includes  those  inspired  almost 
eni  irel y  liy  her  grief  for  the  loss  of  her  husband.  They  form  a  nearly 
uninterrupted  scries  "  In  Memoriam,"  in  which  the  changes  arc  rung 
With  infinite  ingenuity  on  a  very  limited  number  of  ideas,  all  turning 
on  the  glory  and  high  qualities  of  him  whom  she  had  lost,  and  her 
own  muiiminished  and  hopeless  misery. 

"  I  only  write  to  vent  that  inward  pain 
On  which  my  heart  doth  feed  itself,  nor  wills 
Aught  other  nourishment," 

lieu-ins  the  first  of  these  elegiac  sonnets  ;  in  which  she  goes  on  to  dis- 
claim any  Idea  of  increasing  her  husband's  glory—"  non  per  giunger 
tame  al  mio  bel  sole,"  which  is  the  phrase  she  uses  invariably  to 
Hgnate  him.     This  fancy  of  alluding  to  Pescara  always  by  the 
ame  not  very  happily-chosen   metaphor  contributes  an  additional 

*  Contemporary  copy  of  the  Act  of  Accusation,  cited  by  Visconti,  p.  ci. 


TITTOItIA   COLOXNA.  3? 

element  of  monotony  to  verses  still  further  deprived  of  variety  by 
the  identity  of  their  highly  artificial  form. 

This  form,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  remark,  more  than  any  other 
mode  of  the  lyre,  needs  and  exhibits  the  beauties  of  accurate  finish 
and  neat  polish.  Shut  out,  as  it  is,  by  its  exceeding  artificiality  and 
difficult  construction  from  many  of  the  higher  beauties  of  more 
spontaneous  poetical  utterance,  the  sonnet,  "  totus,  teres  atque 
rotundus,"  is  nothing  if  not  elaborated  to  gem-like  perfection. 

Yet  Viltoria  writes  as  follows  : 

"  Se  in  man  prender  non  soglio  unqua  la  lima 

Del  huou  giudicio,  e  ricercando  in  to  run 

Con  occhio  disdegnoso,  io  non  adorno 
Ne  tergo  la  mia  rozza  incolta  rirna, 
Nas-cc  perche  non  e  mia  cura  prima 

Procacciar  di  cio  lode,  o  t'uggir  scorno  ; 

Ne  clie  dopo  il  mio  lietoal  ciel  ritorno 
Viva  ella  al  moiido  in  piu  nnorata  stima. 
Ma  dal  foco  divin,  chc  '1  mio  intelletto 

Sim  merce  iuliamma,  convion  clic  escan  faore 

Mai  mio  grado  talor  qucste  faville. 
E  se  alcunii  di  loro  1111  Dentil  core 

Avvien  che  scaldi,  inille  volte  e  millc 

Ringraziar  debbo  il  mio  felice  errore." 

Which  may  be  thus  Englished  with  tolerable  accuracy  of  meaning 
if  not  with  much  poetical  elegance  :  * 

"If  in  these  rude  and  artless  songs  of  mine 

I  never  take  the  file  in  hand,  nor  try 

With  curious  care,  and  nic.e  fastidious  eye, 
To  deck  and  polish  each  uncultured  line, 
'Tis  that  it  makes  small  portion  of  my  aim 

To  merit  praise,  or  'scape;  pconi's  blighting  breath; 

Or  that  my  verse,  when  I  have  welcomed  death, 
May  live  rewarded  with  the  meed  of  fame. 
But  it  must  he  that  Heaven's  own  gracious  gift. 

Which  with  its  breath  divine  inspires  my  "soul. 

Strike  I'orth  these  spurks,  unbidden  by  my  will. 
And  should  one  such  but  haply  serve  to  lift 

One  gentle  heart,  I  thankful  reach  my  goal, 

And,  faulty  tho'  tlu  strain,  my  every  wish  fulfil." 

Again,  in  another  sonnet,  of  which  the  first  eight  lines  are  perhaps 
as  favorable  a  specimen  of  a  really  poetical  image  as  can  be  found 
throughout  her  writings,  she  repeats  the  same  profession  of  "  pouring 
an  unpremeditated  lay." 

"Qual  digiuno  augellin,  che  vede  ed  ode 
Batter  1'  ali  alia  madre  intorno,  quando 
Gii  reca  il  nutrimeiito;  oml  egliamando 

II  cibo  e  quella,  si  rallegra  e  gode, 

E  dunt.ro  al  nido  suo  si  struprge  c  rode 
I'er  desio  di  segnirla  anch'  ei  volando, 
E  la  ringrazia  in  tal  modo  cantando, 

Che  par  cli'  oltro  '1  poter  la  lingua  miode ; 

*  See  Note  3. 


COLONNA. 

Tal'  io  qualor  il  raldo  raggio  e  vivo 

Del  divin  pole,  onde  nutrisco  il  core 

Piii  del  usato  lucido  lampeggia, 
Muovo  la  peniin.  spinta  dall"  amore 

Intenio  :  e  sen/a ch'  io  atessa  m'avvcggia 

Di  quel  ch1  io  dico  le  sue  lodi  scrivo." 

Which  in  English  runs  pretty  exactly  as  follows  : 

"  Like  to  a  hungry  nestling  bird,  that  hears 

And  sees  the  fluttering  of  his  mother's  wings 
Bearing  him  food,  whence,  loving  what  she  bring* 

And  her  no  less,  a  joyful  mien  he  weans 

And  struggles  in  the  nest,  and  vainly  stirs, 
Wishful  to  follow  her  free  wanderings, 
And  thanks  her  in  such  fashion,  while  he  sings, 

That  the  free  voice  beyond  his  strength  appears  ; 

So  I.  whene'er  the  warm  and  living  glow 
Of  him  my  PUH  divine,  that  feeds  my  heart, 
Shines  brighter  than  its  wont,  take  up  the  pen, 

Urged  by  the  force  of  my  deep  love  ;  and  so 
Unconscious  of  the  words  unkempt  by  art 
I  write  his  praises  o'er  and  o'er  again." 

The  reader  conversant  with  Italian  poetry  will  have  already  seen 
enough  to  make  him  aware  that  the  Colonna's  compositions  are  by 
no  means  unkempt,  unpolished,  or  spontaneous.  The  merit  of  them 
consists  in  the  high  decree  to  which  they  are  exactly  the  reverse  of 
all  this.  They  are  ingenious,  neat,  highly  studied,  elegant,  and  elabo- 
rate. It  may  be  true,  indeed,  that  much  thought  was  not  expended 
on  the  subject-matter  ;  but,  it  was  not  spared  on  the  diction,  versifica- 
tion, and  form.  So  much  so  that  many  of  her  sonnets  were  re- 
touched, altered,  improved,  and  finally  left  to  posterity,  in  a  form 
very  different  from  that  in  which  they  were  first  handed  round  the 
literary  world  of  Italy.*  The  file,  in  truth,  was  constantly  in  hand, 
though  tlio  nice  fastidious  care  bestowed  in  dressing  out  with  curious 
conceits  a  jejune  or  trite  thought,  which  won  the  enthusiastic  ap- 
plause of  her  contemporaries,  does  not  to  the  modern  reader  com- 
pensate for  the  absence  of  passion,  earnestness,  and  reality. 

Then,  again,  the  declaration  of  the  songstress  of  these  would-be 
"wood-notes  wild,"  that  they  make  no  pretension  to  the  meed  of 
praise,  nor  care  to  escape  contempt,  nor  are  inspired  by  any  hope  of 
a  life  of  fame  after  the  author's  death,  leads  us  to  contrast  with  such 
professions  the  destiny  that  really  did — surely  not  altogether  un- 
sought—await these  grief-inspired  utterances  of  a  breaking  heart 
during  the  author's  lifetime. 

No  sooner  was  each  memory-born  pang  illustrated  by  an  ingenious 
metaphor,  or  pretty  simile,  packed  neatly  in  its  regulation  case  of 
fourteen  lines,  with  their  complexity  of  twofold  rhymes  all  right, 
than  it  was  handed  all  over  Italy.  Copies  were  as  eagerly  sought  for 


*  Sri-  advertisement  "  ai  lettori"  of  Uinaldo's  Corso's  edition  of  the  Sonnet 


VITTORIA   COLOHNA.  39 

88  the  novel  of  the  season  at  a  nineteenth-century  circulating-library. 
Cardinals,  bishops,  poets,  wits,  diplomatists, -passed  them  from  one  to 
another,  made  them  the  subject  of  their  correspondence  with  each 
other,  and  with  the  fair  mourner  ;  and  eagerly  looked  out  for  the 
next  poetical  bonne-bquclie  which  her  undying  grief  and  constancy 
to  her  "  bel  sole"  should  send  them. 

The  enthusiasm  created  by  these  tuneful  wailings  of  a  young  widow, 
as  lovely  as  inconsolable,  as  irreproachable  as  noble,  learned  enough 
to  correspond  with  the  most  learned  men  of  the  day  on  their  own 
subjects,  and  with  all  this  a  Colonna,  was  intense.  Vittoria  became 
speedily  the  most  famous  woman  of  her  day,  was  termed  by  universal 
consent  "the  divine,"  and  lived  to  see  three  editions  of  the  grief- 
cries,  which  escaped  from  her  "  without  her  will." 

Here  is  a  sonnet,  which  was  probably  written  at  the  time  of  her 
return  to  Ischia  in  1527  ;  when  the  sight  of  all  the  well-loved  scenery 
of  the  home  of  her  happy  years  must  have  brought  to  her  mind 
Dante's — 

"  Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria !" 

Vittoria  looks  back  on  the  happy  time  as  follows  : 

"Oh !  che  tranquillo  mar,  oh  chochiare  onde 

Solcava  gia  lamia epalmata  barca, 

Di  ricca  e  nobil  merce  adorna  e  carca, 
Con  I'  aer  puro,  e  con  1'  aure  seconde, 
II  ciel,  ch'ora  i  bei  vaghi  Inini  asconde 

Porgea  screna  luce  e  d'  ombra  scarca  ; 

Ahi !  quanto  ha  da  temer  chi  licto  varca ! 
Che  non  sempre  al  principle)  11  flu  rispond& 
Ecco  1'  empia  e  volubilefortunu 

Scoperse  poi  1'  irata  iniqna  fronte, 

Dal  cui  furor  si  gran  procella  insorge. 
Venti,  pioggia,  saette  insieme  aduna, 

E  flere  intorno  a  divorarmi  pronte  ; 

Ma  1'  alina  ancor  la  fitla  stella  ecorge." 

In  English,  thus : 

"  On  what  smooth  seas,  on  what  clear  waves  did  Mil 
My  fresh  careened  bark  !  what  costly  freight 
Of  noble  merchandise  adorn'd  its  state  ! 

How  pure  the  breeze,  how  favoring  the  gale  ! 

And  Heaven,  which  now  its  beauteous  rays  doth  vet, 
Shone  then  serene  and  shadpwless.     But  fate 
For  the  too  happy  voyager  lies  In  wait. 

Oft  fair  beginnings  in  their  endings  full. 

And  now  doth  impious  changeful  fortune  bare 
Her  angry  ruthless  brow,  whose  threat'ning  power 
Rouses  the  tempest,  and  lets  loose  its  war ! 

But  though  ruins,  winds,  mid  lightnings  fill  the  air, 
And  wild  beasts  seek  to  rend  nie  and  devour, 
Still  shines  o'er  my  true  soul  its  faithful  star." 

Bearing  in  mind  what  we  have  seen  of  Pescarn,  would  scnn 
evident  that  some  monstrous  illusion  with  respect  to  iiim  must  hava 


40  VITTOKIA 

obscured  Vittoria's  mind  and  judgment.  It  might  have  been  expected 
that,  sin-  would  hare  been  found  attributing  to  him  high  and  noble 
qualities,  which  existed  only  in  her  own  imagination.  But  it  is 
remarkable  that,  though  in  general  terms  she  speaks  of  him  as  all  that 
was  noblest  and  greatest,  yet  in  describing  his  merits,  she  confines 
herself  to  the  few  which  he  really  had.  This  highly-cultured,  devout, 
thoughtful,  intellectual  woman,  seems  really  to  have  believed,  that  a 
mercenary  swordsman's  calling  was  the  noblest  occupation  earth 
could  oiler,  and  the  successful  following'  of  it  the  best  preparation 
and  surest  title  to  immortal  happiness  hereafter. 

The  following  sonnet  is  one  of  many  expressing  the  same  senti- 
ments : 

"  Alle  Vittorie  tue,  mio  lume  eterno, 

Non  diede  il  tempo  o  la  stagion  favore  ; 
La  spada,  la  virtu,  T  invitto  core 
Fur  li  ministri  tuoi  la  state  e'  verno. 
Col  prudente  occhio,  e  col  saggio  governo 
,  L'altrui  forze  spezzasti  in  si  brev'  ore, 

Che  '1  modo  all'  alte  imprese  accrebbe  onore 
Non  men  che  1'  opre  al  tuo  yalore  interne. 
Non  t«rdaro  il  tuo  corso  animi  altieri, 
O  flami,  o  monti ;  e  le  maggior  cittadi 
Per  cortesia  od  ardir  rimasir  vinte. 
Salisti  al  mondo  i  piu  pregiati  gradi ; 
Or  godi  in  ciel  d'altri  trionii  e  veri, 
D'  altre  f  rondi  le  tempie  ornate  e  cinte." 

Which  may  be  Englished  as  follows : 

"  To  thy  great  victories,  my  eternal  light, 

Nor  time,  nor  seasons,  lent  their  favoring  aid  ; 
Thy  sword,  thy  might,  thy  courage  undismay'd, 

Snmmer  and  winter  serv'd  thy  will  aright. 

By  thy  wise  governance  and  eagle  sight, 
Thou  didst  so  rout  the  foe  with  headlong  speed, 
The  manner  of  the  doing  crown'd  the  deed, 

No  less  than  did  the  deed  display  thy  might. 

Mountains  and  streams,  and  haughty  souls  in  vain 
Would  check  thy  course.  By  Force  of  courtesy 
Or  valor  vanquish'd,  cities  of  name  were  won. 

Earth's  highest  honors  did  thy  worth  attain  ; 
Now  truer  triumphs  Heaven  reserves  for  thee, 
And  nobler  garlands  do  thy  temples  crown." 

Often  Ler  wishes  for  death  are  checked  by  the  consideration  that 
haply  her  virtue  may  not  suffice  to  enable  her  to  rejoin  her  husband 
in  the  mansions  of  the  blessed.  Take  the  following  example  • 

"  Quando  del  suo  tormento  il  cor  fi  doole 
Si  ch'  io  bramo  il  mio  fin,  timpr  m'  assale, 
E  dice  ;  il  morir  tosto  a  che  ti  vale 

81  forge  lungi  vai  dal  tuo  bel  sole  ? 

Da  questa  fredda  tema  nascer  suole 
Un  caldo  ardir,  che  pon  d'  intorno  1'  ale 
All  alma  ;  onde  diegombra  il  mio  mortale 

Quanto  ella  puo,  da  quel  ch'  1  mondo  vaole, 
Coai  lo  epirto  mio  a'  asconde  e  copra 


VITTOillA   COLOtfHA.  41 

Qui  dal  placer  unian,  non  gia  per  fama 

O  van  grido,  o  pregiar  troppo  se  stesso ; 
Ma  sente  '1  lumesuo,  che  ojcnor  lo  chiama, 

E  vede  il  yolto,  ovunque  inira,  impresso, 

Che  gli  inisura  i  passi  e  ecorge  1'opre." 

Thus  done  into  English  :, 

"When  of  its  pangs  my  heart  doth  sore  complain. 

So  that  I  long  to  die,  fear  falls  on  me, 

And  saith,  what  boots  such  early  death  to  the*, 
If  far  from  thy  bright  sun  thou  shouldst  remain  ? 
Then  oft  from  thin  cold  fear  is  born  again 

A  fervent  boldness,  which  doth  presently 

Lend  my  soul  wings,  so  that  mortality 
Strives  to  put  off  its  worldly  wishes  vain. 

For  this,  my  spirit  here  herself  enfolds, 
And  hides  from  human  joys  ;  and  not  for  fame, 

Nor  empty  praise,  nor  overblown  conceit ; 
But  that  she  hearsJier  euu  still  call  her  name, 

And  still,  where'er  she  looks,  his  face  doth  meet, 

Who  measures  all  her  steps,  and  all  her  deeds  beholds." 

A  similar  cast  of  thought,  both  as  regards  her  own  disgust  of  life 
and  the  halo  of  sanctity,  which  by  some  mysterious  process  of  mind 
she  was  able  to  throw  around  her  husband's  memory,  is  found  again 
in  this,  the  last  of  the  sonnets  selected  to  illustrate  this  phase  of  our 
poetess's  mind  and  exemplify  the  first  division  of  her  writings  : 

"  Cara  union,  che  in  si  mirabil  modo 

Fosti  ordiuata  dal  signor  del  cielo, 

Che  lo  spirto  divino,  e  1'  uman  velo 
Lego  con  dolce  ed  amoroso  nodo, 
lo,  beuchi  lui  disi  bell'  opralodo, 

Pur  cerco,  e  ud  altri  il  mio  pensier  non  celo, 

Sciorre  il  tno  laccio ;  ni  piu  a  caldo  o  gelo 
Serbarti ;  poi  che  qui  di  te  non  godo. 

Che  1'  alma  chiusa  in  questo  career  rio 
Come  nemico  1'  odia  ;  onde  smarrita 

Ne  vive  qui,  ue  vola  ove  desia. 
Quando  sara  con  suo  gran  Bole  unita, 

Felice  gioruo  !  allor  contenta  ila  ; 
Che  sol  nel  viver  suo  conobbe  vita." 

Of  which  the  subjoined  rendering,  prosaic  and  crabbed  as  it  i§,  ifl 
perhaps  hardly  more  so  than  the  original : 

"  Sweet  bond,  that  wast  ordaiu'd  so  wondrous  well 
By  the  Almighty  ruler  of  the  sky, 
Who  did  unite  in  one  sweet  loving  tie 

The  godlike  spirit  and  its  fleshy  shell, 

I,  while  I  praise  his  loving  work,  yet  try— 
Nor  wish  my  thought  from  others  to  withhold- 
To  loose  thy  knot ;  nor  more,  through  heat  or  cold, 

Preserve  thee,  since  in  thee  no  joy  have  I. 

Therefore  my  soul,  shut  in  this  dungeon  stern, 
Detests  it  as  a  foe  ;  whence,  all  astray. 
She  lives  not  here,  nor  flics  where  she  would  go. 

When  to  her  glorious  sun  she  shall  return, 
Ah  !  then  content  shall  come  with  that  blest  day, 
For  she,  but  while  he  liv'd,  a  sense  of  life  could  know. 


42  V1TTOKIA    COLON  N  A. 

In  considering  the  collection  of  117  sonnets  from  which  the  above 
specimens  have  been  selected,  and  whicli  were  probably  the  product 
of  about  seven  or  eight  years,  from  1526  to  15:58-4  (in  one  she  la- 
incuts  that  the  seventh  year  from  her  husband's  death  should  have 
brought  with  it  no  alleviation  of  her  grief),  the  most  interesting 
question  that  suggests  itself  is,  whether  we  are  to  suppose  the  sen- 
timents expresseoTiu  them  to  be  genuine  outpourings  of  the  heart,  or 
lather  to  consider  them  all  as  part  of  the  professional  equipment  of  a 
poet,  earnest  only  in  the  work  of  achieving  a  high  and  brilliant  poet- 
ical reputation  ?  The  question  is  a  prominent  one,  as  regards  the 
concrete  notion  to  be  formed  of  the  sixteenth-century  woman,  Vit- 
toria  Colonna  ;  and  is  not  without  interest  as  bearing  en  the  great 
subject  of  woman 's  nature. 

Yittoria's  moral  conduct,  both  as  a  wife  and  as  a  widow,  was 
wholly  irreproachable.  A  mass  of  concurrent  contemporary  testi- 
mony seems  to  leave  no  doubt  whatever  on  this  point.  More  than 
one  of  the  poets  of  her  day  professed  themselves  her  ardent  admirers, 
devoted  slaves,  and  despairing  lovers,  according  to  the  most  ap- 
proved poetical  and  Platonic  fashion  of  the  time  ;  and  she  received 
their  inflated  bombast  not  un pleased  with  the  incense,  and  answered 
them  with  other  bombast,  all  en  regie  and  in  character.  The  "  carte 
de  teudre"  was  then  laid  down  on  the  Platonic  projection  ;  and  the 
sixteenth-century  fashion  in  this  respect  was  made  a  convenient 
screen,  for  those  to  whom  a  screen  was  needful,  quite  as  frequently 
as  the  less  classical  whimsies  of  a  later  period.  But  Platonic  love 
to  Yittoria  was  merely  an  occasion  for  indulging  in  the  spiritualistic 
pedantries  by  which  the  classicists  of  that  day  sought  to  link  the 
infant  metaphysical  speculations,  then  beginning  to  grow  out  of  ques- 
tions of  church  doctrine,  with  the  ever-interesting  subject  of  roman- 
tic love. 

A  recent  French  writer,*  having  translated  into  prose  Vittoria's 
poetical  epistle  to  her  husband,  adds  that  she  has  been  "  obliged  to 
veil  and  soften  certain  passages  which  might  damage  the  writer's 
poetical  character  in  the  eyes  of  her  fair  readers,  by  exhibiting  her 
as  more  woman  than  poet  in  the  ardent  and  '  positive '  manner  in 
which  she  speaks  of  her  love."  Never  was  there  a  more  calumnious 
insinuation.  It  is  true  indeed  that  the  French  woman  omits  or  slurs 
over  some  passages  of  the  original,  but  as  they  are  wholly  void  of 
I  lie  shadow  of  offence  it  can  only  be  supposed  that  the  translator 
did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  them. 

There  is  no  word  in  Vittoria's  poetry  which  can  lead  to  any  othei 
conclusion  on  this  point,  than  that  she  was,  in  her  position  and  social 
rank,  an  example,  rare  at  that  period,  not  only  of  perfect  regularity 
of  conduct,  but  of  great  purity  and  considerable  elevation  of  mina. 
Buch  other  indications  as  we  have  of  her  moral  nature  are  all  favora- 

*  Madame  Lamazc,  Jstudee  sur  Trois  Femraes  Celebres  •,  Paris,  1848,  p.  41, 


VITtOKIA  COLOKKA.  43 

ble.  We  find  her,  uninfluenced  by  the  bitter  hereditary  hatreds  of 
her  family,  striving  to  act  as  peacemaker  between  hostile  factions, 
and  weeping  over  the  mischiefs  occasioned  by  their  struggles  We 
find  her  the  constant  correspondent  and  valued  friend  of  almost 
every  good  and  great  man  of  her  day.  And  if  her  scheme  <  f  inoial 
doctrine,  as  gatherablc  from  that  portion  of  her  poems  which  we 
have  not  yet  examined,  be  narrow — as  how  should  it  be  otherwise- 
yet  it  is  expressive  of  a  mind  habitually  under  the  influence  of  vir- 
tuous aspiration,  and  is  more  humanizing  in  its  tendencies  than  that 
generally  prevalent  around  her. 

Such  was  Vittoria  Colonna.  It  has  been  seen  what  her  husband 
Pescara  was.  And  the  question  arises — how  far  can  it  be  imagined 
possible  that  she  should  not  only  have  lavished  on  him  to  the  last, 
while  living,  all  the  treasures  of  an  almost  idolatrous  affection  ;  not 
only  have  looked  back  on  his  memory  after  his  death  with  fondness 
and  charitable,  even  blindly  charitable,  indulgence,  but  should  abso- 
lutely have  so  canonized  him  in  her  imagination  as  to  have  doubted 
of  her  own  fitness  to  consort  hereafter  with  a  soul  so  holy  !  It  may 
be  said  that  Vittoria  did  not  know  her  husband  a$  we  know  him  ; 
that  the  few  years  they  had  passed  together  had  no  doubt  shown  her 
only  the  better  phases  of  his  character.  But  she  knew  that  he  had 
at  least  doubted  whether  he  should  not  be  false  to  his  sovereign,  and 
had  been  most  infamously  so  to  his  accomplices  or  dupes.  She  knew 
at  least  all  that  Giovio's  narrative  could  tell  her  ;  for  the  bishop  pre- 
sented it  to  her,  and  received  a  sonnet  in  return. 

But  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  properties  of  woman's  nature, 
some  men  say,  that  their  love  has  power  to  blind  their  judgment. 
Novelists  and  poets  are  fond  of  representing  women  whose  affections 
remain  unalterably  fixed  on  their  object,  despite  the  manifest  un- 
worthincss  of  it ;  and  set  such  examples  before  us,  as  something 
high,  noble,  admirable,  "beautiful,"  to  the  considerable  demorali- 
zation of  their  confiding  students  of  either  sex.  There  is  a  tendency 
in  woman  to  refuse  at  all  risks  the  dethroning  of  the  sovereign  she 
has  placed  on  her  heart's  throne.  The  pain  of  deposing  him  i.s  so 
great  that  she  is  tempted  to  abase  her  own  soul  to  escape  it  ;  for  it  is 
only  at  that  cost  that  it  can  be  escaped.  And  the  spectacle  of  a  line 
nature  "  dragged  down  to  sympathize  with  clay, "  is  not  "  beautiful," 
but  exceedingly  the  reverse.  Men  do  not  usually  set  forth  MS  worthy 
of  admiration — though  a  certain  school  of  writers  do  even  this,  in 
the  trash  talked  of  love  at  first  sight — that  kind  of  love  between  the 
sexes  which  arises  from  causes  wholly  independent  of  the  higher  part 
of  our  nature.  Yet  it  is  that  love  alone  which  can  survive  esteem. 
And  it  is  highly  important  to  the  destinies  of  woman,  that  she  should 
understand  and  be  thoroughly  persuaded  that  she  cannot  love  that 
which  does  not  merit  love,  without  degrading  her  own  nature  ;  that 
under  whatsoever  circumstances  love  should  cease  when  respect,  ap- 
probation, and  esteem  have  come  to  an  end  ;  and  that  those  who  find 


44  V1TTOBIA   COLONS  A. 

poetry  and  beauty  in  the  love  which  no  moral  change  in  its  object 
can  kill,  are  simply  teaching  her  to  attribute  a  fatally  debasing  su- 
premacy to  those  lower  instincts  of  our  nature,  on  whose  due  subor- 
dination to  the  diviner  portion  of  6ur  being  all  nobleness,  all  moral 
purity  and  spiritual  progress  depends. 

Vittoria  Colonna  was  not  one  whose  intellectual  and  moral  self  had 
thus  abdicated  its  sceptre.  The  texture  of  her  mind  and  its  habits  of 
thought  forbid  the  supposition  ;  and,  bearing  this  in  mind,  it  becomes 
wholly  impossible  to  accept  the  glorification  of  her  "  bel  sole,"  which 
makes  the  staple  of  the  first  half  of  her  poems,  as  the  sincere  expres- 
sion of  genuine  feeling  and  opinion. 

She  was  probably  about  as  much  in  earnest  as  was  her  great  model 
and  master,  Petrarch,  in  his  adoration  of  Laura.  The  poetical  mode 
of  the  day  was  almost  exclusively  Petrarchist ;  and  the  abounding 
Castalian  fount  of  that  half  century  in  "  the  land  of  song,"  played 
from  its  thousand  jets  little  less  than  Petrarch  and  water  in  different 
degrees  of  dilution.  Vittoria  has  no  claim  to  be  excepted  from  the 
"  servum  pecus,"  though  her  imitation  has  more  of  self -derived 
vigor  to  support  .it.  And  this  assumption  of  a  mighty,  undying, 
exulted  and  hopeless  passion,  was  a  necessary  part  of  the  poet's  pro- 
fessional appurtenances.  Where  could  a  young  and  beautiful  widow 
of  unblemished  conduct,  who  had  no  intention  of  changing  her  con- 
dition, and  no  desire  to  risk  misconstruction  by  the  world,  find  this 
needful  part  of  her  outfit  as  a  poet,  so  unobjectionably  as  in  the  mem- 
ory of  her  husband,  sanctified  and  exalted  by  the  imagination  to  the 
point  proper  for  the  purpose. 

For  want  of  a  deeper  spiritual  insight,  and  a  larger  comprehension 
of  the  finer  affections  of  the  human  heart  and  the  manifestations  of 
Ibem,  with  the  Italian  poets  of  the  "  renaissance,"  love-poetry  was 
little  else  than  the  expression  of  passion  in  the  most  restricted  sense 
of  the  term.  But  they  were  often  desirous  of  elevating,  purifying, 
;ind  spiritualizing  their  theme.  And  how  was  this  to  be  accom- 
plished? The  gratification  of  passion,  such  as  they  painted,  would, 
they  felt,  have  led  them  quite  in  a  different  direction  from  that  they 
wen-  seeking.  A  hopeless  passion,  therefore,  one  whose  wishes  the 
reader  was  perfectly  to  understand,  were  never  destined  to  be  grati- 
fied— better  still,  one  by  the  nature  of  things  impossible  to  be  grati- 
fied—this was  the  contrivance  by  which  love  was  to  be  poetized  and 
moralized, 

The  passion-poetry,  which  addressed  itself  to  the  memory  of  one 
no  more,  met  the  requirements  of  the  case  exactly  ;  and  Vittoria's 
Irn  years'  despair  and  lamentations,  her  apotheosis  of  the  late  cavalry 
raptain,  and  longing  to  rejoin  him,  must  be  regarded  as  poetical 
properties  brought  out  for  use,  when  she  sat  down  to  make  poetry 
for  the  perfectly  self-conscious  though  very  laudable  purpose  of  ac- 
quiring for  herself  a  poet's  reputation. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  any  thing  in  the  nature  of  hypoc 


VITTORIA   COLONXA.  45 

risy  was  involved  in  the  assumption  of  the  poetical  role  of  inconsol- 
able widow.  Everybody  understood  that  the  poetess  was  only  mak- 
ing poetry,  and  saying  the  usual  and  proper  things  for  that  purpose. 
She  was  no  moro  attempting  to  impose  on  anybody  than  was  a  poet 
when  on  entering  some  "  acadcmia"  lie  termed  himself  Tyrtanis  or 
Lycidas,  instead  of  the  name  inherited  from  his  father. 

And  from  this  prevailing  absence  of  all  real  and  genuine  feeling 
arises  the  utter  coldness  and  shallow  insipidity  of  the  poets  of  that 
time  and  school.  Literature  has  probably  few  more  unreadable  de- 
partments than  the  productions  of  the  Petrarchists  of  the  beginning 
of  the  sixteenth  century. 

Vittoria,  when  she  began  to  write  on  religious  subjects,  was  more 
in  earnest ;  and  the  result,  as  we  shall  see,  is  accordingly  improved. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Vtttoria  in  Rome  in  1530.— Antiquarian  Rambles.—  Pyramns  and  Thisba  Medal. -> 
Contemporary  Commentary  on  Vittoria's  Poems.— Paul  the  Third.— Koine  aj,'uin 
in  1536.— Visit  to  Lucca.— To  Fcrrara.— Protestant  Tendencies.— Invitation  from 
Qiberto.— Return  to  Rome. 

THE  noble  rivalry  of  Francis  I.  and  Charles  V.  was  again,  in  1530. 
making  Naples  a  field  of  glory  in  such  sort  that  outraged  nature  ap- 
peared also  on  the  scene  with  pestilence  in  her  hand.  Tin;  first  in- 
fliction had  driven  most  of  the  literary  society  in  Naples  to  take,  refuge 
in  the  comparative  security  of  Ischia.  The  latter  calamity  had 
reached  even  that  retreat ;  and  Vittoria  some  time  in  that  year  again 
visited  Rome. 

Life  was  beginning  there  to  return  to  its  usual  conditions  after  the 
tremendous  catastrophe  of  1527.  Pestilence  had  then-  also,  as  usual, 
followed  in  the  train  of  war  and  military  license.  And  many  in  all 
classes  had  been  its  victims.  Great  numbers  fled  from  the  city,  and 
among  these  were  probably  most  of  such  as  were  honort.il  by  Vit- 
toria's personal  friendship.  Now  they  were  venturing  back  to  their 
old  haunts  on  the  Pincian,  the  Quirinal,  or  those  favorite  Colon na 
gardens  still  ornamented  by  the  ruins  of  Aurelian's  Temple  to  the 
>Sun.  The  tide  of  modern  Goths,  who  had  threatened  to  make  tho 
eternal  city's  name  a  mockery,  had  been  swept  back  at  the  word  of 
that  second  and  "  most  Catholic"  Alaric, .Charles  V.  Cardinals,  poet 
asters,  wit's,  Ciceronian  bishops,  statesmen,  ambassadors,  and  artists. 
busy  in  the  achievement  of  immortality,  were  (race  moro  forming  a 
society,  which  gave  the  Rome  of  that  day  a  fair  title  to  be  consid- 
ered, in  some  points  of  view,  the  capital  of  the  world.  The  golden 
Roman  sunlight  was  still  glowing  over  aqueduct,  arch,  and  temple  ; 
and  Rome  the  Eternal  was  herself  again. 

By  this  varied  and  distinguished  society  Vittor.'*  w«tf  received  with 

A.B.-25 


46  VITTORIA   COLOHHA. 

opon  arms.  The  Colonna  family  had  become  reconciled  to  Pope 
( 'loment,  ami  had  had  their  fiefs  restored  to  them  ;  so  that  there  was 
no  cloud  on  the  political  horizon  to  prevent  the  celebrated  Marche- 
sana  from  receiving  the  homage  of  all  parties.  The  Marchese  del 
Vasto,  Vitloria's  former  pupil,  for  whom  she  never  ceased  to  feel  the 
warmest  affection,  was  also  then  at  Rome.*  In  his  company,  and 
that  of  some  others  of  the  gifted  knot  around  her,  Vittoria  visited  the 
ruins  and  vestiges  of  ancient  Rome,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  one 
deeply  versed  in  classic  lore,  and  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  then 
prevailing  admiration  for  the  works  "and  memorials  of  Pagan  an- 
tiquity. Vittoria's  sister-in-law,  Donna  Giovanna  d'Aragoua,  the 
beautiful  and  accomplished  wife  of  her  brother  Ascanio,  in  whose 
house  she  seems  to  have  been  living  during  this  visit  to  Rome,  was 
doubtless  one  of  the  party  on  these  occasions.  The  poet  Mol/a  has 
chronicled  his  presence  among  them  in  more  than  one  sonnet.  His 
muse  would  seem  to  have  *'  made  increment  of  any  thing."  For  no 
less  than  four  sonnets  f  were  the  result  of  the  exclamation  from  Vit- 
toria, "  Ah,  happy  they" — the  ancients,  "  who  lived  in  days  so  full 
of  beauty  !"  Of  course,  various  pretty  things  were  obtainable  out  of 
this.  Among  others,  we  have  the  gallant  Pagans  responding  to  the 
lady's  ejaculation,  that  on  the  contrary  their  time  was  less  fortunate 
than  the  present,  in  that  it  was  not  blessed  by  the  sight  of  her. 

It  would  have  been  preferable  to  have  had  preserved  for  us  some 
further  scraps  from  the  lips  of  Vittoria,  while  the  little  party  ga/e  at 
sunset  over  that  matchless  view  of  the  aqueduct-bestridden  Cam- 
pagna  from  the  terrace  at  the  western  front  of  the  Lateran,  looked 
up  at  the  Colosseum,  ghostly  in  the  moonlight,  from  the  arch  of 
Titus,  or  discoursed  on  the  marvellous  proportions  of  the  Pantheon. 

Hut  history  rarely  guesses  aright  what  the  after-ages  she  works 
for  would  most  thank  her  for  handing  down  to  them.  And  \\e  must 
he  content  to  construct  fcr  ourselves,  as  best  we  may,  from  the  stray 
hints  we  have,  the  singularly  pleasing  picture  of  these  sixteenth  cen- 
tury rambles  among  the  ruins  of  Rome  by  as  remarkable  a  company 
of  pilgrims  as  any  of  the  thousands  who  have  since  trodden  m  their 
steps. 

Vittoria's  visit  to  Rome  upon  this  occasion  was  a  short  one.  It 
was  probably  early  in  the  following  year  that  she  returned  to  Ischia. 
Signor  Visconti  attributes  this  journey  to  the  restlessness  arising  from 
a  heart  ill  at  ease,  vainly  hoping  to  find  relief  from  its  misery  by 
change  of  place.  lie  assumes  all  the  expressions  of  despair  to  be 
found  in  her  sonnets  of  this  period,  to  be  so  many  reliable  autobio- 
graphical documents,  and  builds  his  narrative  upon  them  accord- 
ingly. To  tliis  period  he  attributes  the  sonnet,  translated  in  a  previ- 
ous chapter,  in  which  the  poetess  declares  that  she  has  no  wish  to 
conceal  from  the  world  the  temptation  to  suicide  which  assails  her. 

*  Li-ttcn-  cli  I'.rmho,  vol.  i.  p.  115,  ed.  1560. 
+  Kilit.  fcerasBi,  pp.  14,  15,  ar,  40. 


VICTORIA    COLONNA.  47 

And  in  commemoration  of  this  mood  of  mind,  he  adds,  in  further 
proof  of  the  sad  truth,  a  medal  was  struck  upon  this  occasion,  in 
Rome,  of  which  he  gives  an  engraving.  It  represents,  on  one  side, 
the  inconsolable  lady  as  a  handsome,  well-nourished,  comfortable- 
looking  widow,  in  mourning  weeds,  more  aged  in  appearance,  cer- 
tainly, since  the  striking  of  the  former  medal  spoken  of,  than  the 
lapse  of  seven  years  would  seem  sufficient  to  account  for.  And,  on 
the  reverse,  is  a  representation  of  the  melancholy  story  of  Pyramus 
and  Thisbe,  the  former  lying  dead  at  the  feet  of  the  typical  paragon, 
who  is  pointing  toward  her  breast  a  sword,  grasped  in  both  hands, 
half  way  down  the  blade,  in  a  manner  sure  to  have  cut  her  fingers. 
The  two  sides  of  the  piedal,  seen  at  one  glance,  as  in  Signer  Visconti's 
engraving,  are,  it  must  be  admitted,  calculated  to  give  rise  to  ideas 
the  reverse  of  pathetic. 

To  this  period  too  belongs  the  sonnet,  also  previously  alluded  to,  in 
which  Vittoria  speaks  of  the  seventh  year  of  her  bereavement  having 
arrived,  without  bringing  with  it  any  mitigation  of  her  woe.  Signor 
Visconti  takes  this  for  simple  autobiographical  material.  It  is  curi- 
ous, as  a  specimen  of  the  modes  of  thought  at  the  time,  to  sec  how 
the  same  passage  is  handled  by  Vittoria's  first  editor  and  commenta- 
tor, Rinaldo  Corsi,  who  published  her  works  for  the  second  time  at 
Venice  in  1558.  His  commentary  begins  as  follows  :  "  On  this  son 
net,  it  remains  for  me  to  speak  of  the  number  seven  as  I  have  done 
already  of  the  number  four.  But  since  Varro,  Macrobius,  and 
Aulus  Gellius,  together  with  many  others,  have  treated  largely  of  the 
subject,  I  will  only  add  this— which,  perhaps,  ladies,  may  appear  to 
you.  somewhat  strange  ;  that,  according  to  Hippocrates,  the  number 
four  enters  twice  into  the  number  seven  ;  and  I  find  it  stated  by  most 
credible  authors  as  a  certain  fact,  and  proved  by  the  testimony  of 
their  own  observation,  that  a  male  child  of  seven  years  old  lias  been 
known  to  cure  persons  afflicted  by  the  infirmity  called  scrofula  by  no 
other  means  than  by  the  hidden  virtue  of  that  number  seven,"  etc., 
etc.,  etc. 

In  this  sort,  Messer  Rinaldo  Corso  composed,  and  the  literary 
ladies,  to  whom  throughout,  as  in  the  above  passage,  his  labors  an; 
especially  dedicated,  must  be  supposed  to  have  read  more  than  live 
hundred  close-printed  pages  of  commentary  on  the  works  of  the  cele- 
brated poetess,  who,  in  all  probability,  when  she  penned  the  sonnet 
in  question,  had  no  more  intention  of  setting  forth  the  reasons  for 
her  return  to  Ischia  than  she  had  of  alluding  to  the  occult  properties 
of  the  mysterious  number  seven.  The  natural  supposition  is,  that  as 
she  had  been  driven  from  her  home  by  the  pestilence,  she  returned 
to  it  when  that  reason  for  absence  was  at  an  end. 

There  she  seems  to  have  remained  tranquilly  employed  on  her 
favorite  pursuits,  increasing  her  already  great  reputation,  and  cor- 
responding assiduously  with  all  the  lu-pt  and  most  distinguished  men 
of  Italy,  whether  laymen  or  ecclesiastu  a,  till  the  year  1536, 


48  vnrouiA  COLONNA. 

In  that  year  she  again  visited  Rome,  and  resided  during  her  stay 
there  with  Donna  Giovanna  d'Aragona,  her  sister-in-law.  Paul  III., 
Farnese,  had  in  3534  succeeded  Clement  in  the  chair  of  St.  Peter  ; 
and  though  Paul  was  on  many  accounts  very  far  from  being  a  good 
pope  or  a  good  priest,  yet  the  Farnese  was  an  improvement  on  the 
Medici.  As  ever,  Rome  began  to  show  signs  of  improvement  when 
danger  to  her  system  from  without  began  to  make  itself  felt.  Paul 
seems  very  soon  to  have  become  convinced  that  the  general  council, 
which  had  been  so  haunting  a  dread  to  Clement  during  the  whole  of 
his  pontificate,  could  no  longer  be  avoided.  But  it  was  still  hoped  in 
the  council  chambers  of  the  Vatican,  that  the  doctrinal  difficulties  of 
the  German  reformers,  which  threatened  the  church  with  so  fatal  a 
schism,  might  be  got  over  by  conciliation  and  dexterous  theological 
diplomacy.  As  soon  as  it  became  evident  that  this  hope  was  vain,  fear 
began  to  influence  the  papal  policy,  and  at  its  bidding  the  ferocious 
persecuting  bigotry  of  Paul  IV.  was  contrasted  with  the  shameless 
profligacy  of  Alexander,  the  epicurean  indifferentism  of  Leo,  and  the 
pettifogging  worldliness  of  Clement. 

Between  these  two  periods  came  Paul  III.,  and  the  illusory  hopes 
that  the  crisis  might  be  tided  over  by  finding  some  arrangement  of 
terminology  which  should  satisfy  the  reformers,  while  Rome  should 
abandon  no  particle  of  doctrine  on  which  any  vital  portion  of  her 
system  of  temporal  power  was  based.  To  meet  the  exigencies  of  this 
period,  Paul  III.  signalized  his  accession  by  raising  to  the  purple  a 
number  of  the  most  earnest,  .most  learned,  and  truly  devout  men  in 
Italy.  Contariui,  the  Venetian  ;  Caraffa,  from  Naples  ;  Sadoleto, 
Bishop  of  Carpentras  ;  Pole,  then  a  fugitive  from  England  ;  Giberti, 
Bishop  of  Verona  ;  and  Fregoso,  Archbishop  of  Salerno,  were  men 
chosen  solely  on  account  of  their  eminent  merit. 

With  most,  if  not  all  of  these,  Vittoria  was  connected  by  the  bonds 
of  intimate  friendship.  With  Contarini,  Sadoleto,  and  Pole,  especial- 
ly, she  corresponded  ;  and  the  esteem  felt  for  her  by  such  men  is 
the  most  undeniable  testimony  to  the  genuine  worth  of  her  charac- 
ter. It  is  easy  to  imagine,  therefore,  how  warm  a  reception  awaited 
her  arrival  on  this  occasion  in  Rome,  and  how  delightful  must  have 
been  her  stay  there.  She  had  now  reached  the  full  measure  of  her 
reputation.  The  religious  and  doctrinal  topics  which  were  now  oc- 
cupying, the  best  minds  in  Italy,  and  on  which  her  thoughts  were 
frequently  busied  in  her  correspondence  with  such  men  as  those 
named  above,  had  recently  begun  to  form  the  subject-matter  of  her 
poems.  And  their  superiority  in  vigor  and  earnestness  to  her  earlier 
works  must  have  been  perfectly  apparent  to  her  reverend  and 
learned  friends. 

Accordingly,  we  are  told  that  her  stay  in  Rome  on  this  occasion 
was  a  continued  ovation  ;  and  Signer  Visconti  informs  us,  on  the 
authority  of  the  Neapolitan  historian,  Gregorio  Rosso,  that  Charles 
V.,  being  then  in  Rome,  "  condescended  to  visit  in  their  own  house 


V1TTORIA    COLONNA.  49 


the  ladies  Giovanna 


Movanua  di'Aragona,  wife  of  Ascauio  Colonua,  ami  Vit- 
toria  Colon na,  Marchesu  di  Pescara. " 

The  following  year,  15:]?  that  is,  she  went,  Visconti  snvs,  to  Luc 
ca,  from  which  city  she  passed  to  Ferrara,  arriving  there  on  (lie  sil; 
of  April,  "in  humble  guise,  with  six  waiting-women  onlv."* 
Ercole  d'Este,  the  second  of  the  name,  was  then  the  rciu-iiiiej;  duke, 
having  succeeded  to  his  father  Alphouso  in  I."}:;!.  And  the  court  of 
Ferrara,  which  had  been  for  several  years  pre-eminent  among  the 
principalities  of  Italy  for  its  love  of  literature  and  its  patronn 
literary  men,  became  yet  more  notably  so  in  consequence  of  the  mar- 
riage of  Hercules  II.  with  Reuee  of  France,  the  (laughter  of  Louis 
XII.  The  Protestant  tendencies  and  sympathies  of  this  princess  had 
rendered  Ferrara  also  the  resort,  and  in  some  instances  the  refugr,  of 
many  professors  and  favorers  of  the  new  ideas  which  were  begin  - 
ning  to  stir  the  mind  of  Italy.  And  though  Vittoria's  orthodox 
Catholic  biographers  are  above  all  things  anxious  to  clear  her.  frond 
all  suspicion  of  having  ever  held  opinions  eventually  condemned  l>y 
the  church,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  her  journey  to  Fcr- 
rani  was  prompted  by  the  wish  to  exchange  ideas  upon  these  suit 
Jects  with  some  of  those  leading  minds  which  were  known  to  h;ive 
imbibed  Protestant  tendencies,  if  not  to  have  acquired  fully-formed 
Protestant  convictions.  It,  is  abundantly  clear,  from  the  character  of 
her  friendships,  from  her  correspondence,  and  from  the  tone  of  her 
poetry  at  this  period,  and  during  the  remainder  of  her  life,  that  her 
mind  was  absorbingly  occupied  with  topics  of  this  miture.  And  the 
short  examination  of  the  latter  division  of  her  works,  which  it  is 
proposed  to  attempt  in  the  next  chapter,  will  probably  convince 
such  a.s  have  no  partisan  Catholic  feelings  on  the  subject,  that  Vil 
toria's  mind  had  made  very  considerable  progress  in  the  Protestant, 
direction. 

No  reason  is  assigned  for  her  stay  at  Lucca.  Visconti,  with  un- 
usual brevity  and  dryness,  merely  states  that  she  visited  that,  city.f 
And  it  is  probable  that  he  has  not  been  able  to  discover  any  docu- 
ments directly  accounting  for  the  motives  of  her  visit.  But  he  for- 
bears to  mention  that  the  new  opinions  had  gained  so  much  ground 
there  that  that  republic  was,  very  near  declaring  Protestantism  the 
religion  of  their  state.  After  her  totally  unaccounted-for  visit  to  :he 
heresy- stricken  city,  she  proceeds  to  another  almost  ecmally  tainted 
with  suspicion. 

It  is  no  doubt  perfectly  true  that  Duke  Hercules  and  his  court  re- 
ceived her  with  every  possible  distinction  on  the  score  of  her  poeti- 
cal celebrity,  and  deemed  his  city  honored  by  her  presence,  lie  in- 
vited, we  are  told,  the  most  distinguished  poets  and  men  of  letters  of 
Venice  and  Lombardy  to  meet  her  at  Ferrara.  And  so  much  was 

*  Mem.  per  la  St.  di  Ferrara,  di  Antouia  Frizzi,  vol.  iv.  p.  335, 
t  Vita,  p,  cxiii. 


50  VITTORIA    COLONNA. 

her  visit  prized  that  when  Cardinal  Giberto  sent  thither  his  secretary, 
Francesco  della  Torre,  to  persuade  her  to  visit  his  episcopal  city,  Ve- 
rona, that  ambassador  wrote  to  his  friend  Bembo,  at  Venice,  that  he 
"  had  like  to  have  been  banished  by  the  duke  and  stoned  by  the 
people  for  coming  there  with  the  intention  of  robbing  Ferrura  of  its 
most  precious  treasure,  for  the  purpose  of  enriching  Verona."  Vit- 
toria,  however,  seems  to  have  held  out  some  hope  that  she  might  be 
induced  to  visit  Verona.  For  the  secretary,  continuing  his  letter  to 
the  literary  Venetian  cardinal,  says,  "  "Who  knows  but  what  we  may 
succeed  in  making  reprisal  on  them  ?  And  if  that  should  come  to 
pass,  I  should  hope  to  see  your  lordship  more  frequently  in  Verona, 
as  I  should  see  Verona  the  most  honored  as  well  as  the  most  envied 
city  in  Italy."* 

It  is  impossible  to  have  more  strfking  testimony  to  the  fame  our 
poetess  had  achieved  by  her  pen  ;  and  it  is  a  feature  of  the  age  and 
clime  well  worth  noting,  that  a  number  of  small  states,  divided  by 
hostilities  and  torn  by  warfare,  should  have,  nevertheless,  possessed 
among  them  a  republic  of  letters  capable  of  conferring  a  celebrity 
so  cordially  acknowledged  throughout  the  whole  extent  of  Italy. 

From  a  letter  f  written  by  Vittoria  to  Qiaugiorgio  Trisino  of  Vicen- 
za,  the  author  of  an  almost  forgotten  epic,  entitled  "  Italia  libcrata 
da  Goti,"  bearing  date  the  10th  of  January  (1537),  we  learn  that  she 
found  the  climate  of  Ferrara  "unfavorable  to  her  indisposition  ;" 
which  would  seem  to  imply  a  continuance  of  ill-health.  Yet  it  was  at 
this  time  that  she  conceived  the  idea  of  undertaking  a  journey  to  the 
Holy  Land.:):  Her  old  pupil,  and  nearly  lifelong  friend,  the  Mar 
chese  del  Vasto,  came  from  Milan  to  Ferrara  to  dissuade  her  from 
the  project.  And  with  this  view,  as  well  as  to  remove  her  from  the 
air  of  Ferrara,  he  induced  her  to  return  to  Home,  where  her  arrival 
was  again  made  a  matter  of  almost  public  rejoicing. 

The  date  of  this  journey  was  probably  about  the  end  of  1537.  The 
society  of  the  Eternal  City,  especially  of  that  particular  section  of  it 
which  made  the  world  of  Vittoria,  was  in  a  happy  and  hopeful 
mood.  The  excellent  Contarini  had  not  yet  departed  £  thence  on  his 
mission  of  conciliation  to  the  conference,  which  had  been  arranged 
with  the  Protestant  leaders  at  Ratisbon.  The  brightest  and  most 
phcering  hopes  were  based  on  a  total  misconception  of  the  nature,  or 
Tatuer  on  an  entire  ignorance  of  the  existence  of  that  undercurrent 
of  social  change,  which,  to  the  north  of  the  Alps,  made  the  reforma- 
tory movement  something  infinitely  greater,  more  fruitful  of  vast  re- 
sults, and  more  inevitable,  than  any  scholastic  dispute  on  points  of 
theologic  doctrine.  And  at  the  time  of  Vittoria's  arrival,  that  little 

*  Letter,  dated  llth  September,  1537,  from  Bembo's  Correspondence,  cited  by 
Visconti,  p.  cxv. 

t  Visconti,  p.  cxiv.  +  Visronti,  p.  cxvi. 

SHe  left  Home  llth  November,  1538.  Letter  from  Contarini  to  Pole,  cited  by 
R&ukt.  Ani-tiu'a  truui.,  vol.  I.  p.  153. 


VICTORIA.   COLONtfA.  5\ 

band  of  pure,  amiable,  and  high-minded,  but  not  large-minded  men, 
who  fondly  hoped  that,  by  the  amendment  of  some  practical  abuses. 
and  a  mutually  forbearing  give-and-take  arrangement  of  some  nice. 
questions  of  metaphysical  theology,  peace  on  earth  and  good-will 
among  men  might  yet  be  made  compatible  with  the  uudiminished 
pretensions  and  theory  of  an  universal  and  infallible  church,  wen- 
still  lapped  in  the  happiness  of  their  day-dream.  Of  this  knot  of 
excellent  men,  which  comprised  all  that  was  best,  most  amiable, 
and  most  learned  in  Italy,  Vittoria  was  the  disciple,  the  friend,  and 
the  inspired  Muse.  The  short  examination  of  her  religious  poeirv, 
therefore,  which  will  be  the  subject  of  the  next  chapter,  will  not  only 
open  to  us  the  deepest  and  most  earnest  part  of  her  own  mind,  but 
will,  in  a  measure,  illustrate  the  extent  and  nature  of  the  Protestant- 
izing tendencies  then  manifesting  themselves  in  Italy. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Oratory  of  Divine  Love.—  Italian  Reformers.— Their  Tenets. — Consequence  of  th« 
Doctrine  of  Justification  by  Faith.— Fear  of  Schism  in  Italy.— .Orthodoxy  of  Vit- 
toria questioned.— Proofs  of  her  Protestantism  from  her  Writings.— Calvinism  of 

her  Sonnets.— Remarkable  Passage  against  Auricular  I'onlYssion.--  Controversial 
and  Religions  Sonnets. — Absence  from  the  Sonnets  of  Moral  Topics.  S|>,'<  iniru 
of  her  Poetical  Power.— Romanist  Ideas.— Absence  from  the  Sonnets  of  all  Patri- 
otic Feeling. 

THE  extreme  corruption  of  the  Italian  church,  and  in  some  degree 
also  the  influence  of  German  thought,  had  even  as  early  as  the  Pon- 
tificate of  Leo  X.  led  several  of  the  better  minds  in  Italy  to  desire 
ardently  some  means  of  religious  reform.  A  contemporary  writer 
cited  by  Ranke,*  tells  us  that  in  Leo's  time  some  fifty  or  sixty  ear- 
nest and  pious  men  formed  themselves  into  a  society  at  Rome,  which 
they  called  the  "  Oratory  of  Divine  Love,"  and  strove  by  example 
and  preaching  to  stem  as  much  as  in  them  lay  the  tide  of  profligacy 
and  infidelity.  Among  these  men  were  Contarini,  the  learned  and 
saint-like  Venetian,  Sadolet,  Giberto,  Caraffa  (a  man,  who,  however 
earnest  in  his  piety,  showed  himself  at  a  later  period,  when  he  be- 
came pope  as  Paul  IV.,  to  be.  animated  with  a  very  different  spirit 
from  that  of  most  of  his  fellow-religionists),  Gaetano,  Thiene,  who 
was  afterward  canonized,  etc.  But  in  almost  every  part  of  Italy, 
not  less  than  in  Rome,  there  were  men  of  the  same  stamp,  who  car- 
ried the  new  ideas  to  greater  or  lesser  lengths,  were  the  objects  of 
more  or  less  ecclesiastical  censure  and  persecution  ;  and  who  died, 
some  reconciled  to  and  some  excommunicated  by  the  church  they 
so  vainly  strove  to  amend. 

*  Caracciolo,  Vita  di  Paolo  1,  M*.  HanUe,  Po[>es,  vol.  i.  p.  136,  edit.  clt. 


M  V1TTOBIA   COLOXNA. 

in  Naples,  Juaa  Valdcz,  a  Spaniard,  secretary  to  tlie  viceroy, 
warmly  embraced  the  new  doctrines  ;  and  being  a  man  much  be- 
loved and  of  great  influence,  he  drew  many  converts  to  the  cause. 


over  the  whole  of  Italy,  and  exercised  a  very  powerful  influence.  A 
little  later,  when  the  time  of  inquisitorial  persecution  came,  this  book 
was  so  vigorously  proscribed,  sought  out  and  destroyed,  that  despite 
the  vast  number  of  copies  which  must  have  existed  in  every  corner 
of  Italy,  it  has  utterly  disappeared,  and  not  one  is  known  to  be  in  ex- 
istence.* It  is  impossible  to  have  a  more  striking  proof  of  the  vio- 
lent and  searching  nature  of  the  persecution  under  Paul  IV.  An- 
other friend  of  Valdez,  who  was  also  intimate  with  Yittoria,  was 
Marco  Flaminio,  who  revised  the  treatise  "  On  the  Benefits  of 
Christ's  Death." 

In  Modena,  the  Bishop  Moronc,  the  intimate  friend  ,of  Pole  and 
Contariui,  and  his  chaplain,  Don  Girolamo  de  Modena,  supported 
and  taught  the  same  opinions. 

In  Venice,  Gregorio  Cortese,  abbot  of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore,  Luigi 
Priuli,  a  patrician,  and  the  Benedictine  Marco,  of  Padua,  formed  a 
society  mainly  occupied  in  discussing  the  subtle  questions  which 
formed  the  "  symbolum"  of  the  new  party. 

"  If  we  inquire,"  says  Kankc,f  "  what  was  the  faith  which  chiefly 
inspired  these  men,  we  shall  lind.that  the  main  article  of  it  was  that 
same  doctrine  of  justification,  which,  as  preached  by  Luther,  had 
given  rise  to  the  whole  Protestant  movement." 

The  reader  fortunate  enough  to  be  wholly  unread  in  controversial 
divinity  will  yet  probably  not  have  escaped  hearing  of  the  utterly 
interminable  disputes  on  justification,  free-will,  election,  faith,  good 
works,  prevenient  giace,  original  sin,  absolute  decrees,  and  predesti- 
nation, which,  with  much  of  evil,  and  as  yet  little  good  consequence, 
have  occupied  the  most  acute  intellects  and  most  learning-stored 
brains  of  Europe  for  the  last  three  centuries.  Without  any  accurate^ 
knowledge;  of  the  manner  in  which  the  doctrines  represented  by 
these  familiar  terms  are  dependent  on,  and  necessitated  by,  each 
oilier,  and  of  the  precise  point  on  which  the  opposing  ennuis  have 
fought  this  eternal  battle,  he  will  be  aware  that  the  system  popularly 
known  as  Calvinism  represents  the  side  of  the  question  taken  by  tho 
reformers  of  Hie  sixteenth  century,  while  the  opposite  theory  of  justi- 
fication by  good  works  \\us  that  held  by  the  orthodox  Catholic 
Church,  or  unreforming  party.  And  with  merely  these  general  ideas 
to  guide  him,  it  will  appear  strangely  unaccountable  to  find  all  tho 
lii-.-t.  noblest,  and  purest  minds  adopting  a  system  which  in  its  sim- 
plest logical  development  inevitably  leads  to  the  most  debasing 


*  Ranke,  ed.  cit.,  vol.  i.  p.  217.       _         t  Ed.  cit.,  vol.  i.  p.  138. 


VITTORIA   COLONNi..  53 

demonolatry,  and  lays  the  axe  to  the  root  of  all  morality  and  noble 
action  ;  while  the  corrupt,  the  worldly,  the  ambitions,  the  unspiritual, 
the  unintellectual  natures  that  formed  the  dominant  party,  held  the 
opposite  opinion,  apparently  so  favorable  to  virtue. 

An  explanation  of  this  phenomenon  by  a  partisan  of  either  school 
would  probably  be  long  and  somewhat  intricate.  But  the  matter 
becomes  intelligible  enough,  and  the  true  key  to  the  wishes  and  con- 
duct of  both  parties  is  found,  if,  without  regarding  the  nmral  or 
theological  results  of  either  scheme,  or  troubling  ourselves  with  the, 
subtleties  by  which  cither  side  sought  to  meet  the  objections  of  the 
other,  we  consider  simply  the  bearings  of  the  new  doctrines  on  thai, 
ecclesiastical  system,  which  the  orthodox  and  dominant  parly  wen: 
determined  at  all  cost  to  support.  If  it  were  admitted  that  man  is 
justifiable  by  faith  alone,  that  his  election  is  a  matter  to  be  cerlitied 
to  his  own  heart  by  the  immediate  operation  of  the  Divine  Spirit,  it 
would  follow  that  the  whole  question  of  his  religious  condition  and 
future  hopes  might  be,  or  rather  must  be,  settled  between  him  and 
his  Creator  alone.  And  then  what  would  become  of  ecclesiastical 
authority  and  priestly  interference  ?  If  the  only  knowledge  possible 
to  be  attained  of  any  individual's  standing  before  (}od  were  locked 
in  his  own  breast,  what  hold  can  the  Church  have  on  him?  It  is 
absolutely  necessary  to  any  system  of  spiritual  tyranny  that  no  doc 
trine  should  be  admitted  by  virtue  of  which  a  layman  may  tell  a 
priest,  that  despite  the  opinion  he,  the  priest,  may  form  upon  the 
subject,  he,  the  layman,  has  the  assurance  of  acceptation  befoie  (!oii, 
by  means  of  evidence  of  a  nature  inscrutable  to  the  priest.  Once 
admit,  this,  and  the  whole  foundation  of  ecclesiastical  domination  is 
sapped.  Nay,  by  a  very  logical  and  short  route,  sure  to  be  soon  trav- 
elled by  those  who  have  made  good  this  first  fundamental  pretension, 
they  would  arrive  at  the  negation  and  abolition  of  all  priesthood 
Preachers  and  teachers  might  still  have  place  under  such  a  system, 
but  not  priests,  or  priestly  power.  To  this  an  externally  ascertainable 
religion  is  so  vitally  necessary  that  the  theory  of  justification  by  good 
works  was  far  from  sufficient  for  the  purposes  of  the  Catholic  priest 
hood,  as  long  as  good  works  could  be  understood  to  mean  a  general 
course  of  not  very  accurately  measurable  virtuous  living.  This  was 
not  sufficient,  because,  though  visible,  not  sufficiently  tangible,  eounl- 
nble.  and  tarifl'able.  Hence  the  good  works  most  urgently  pre- 
scribed became  reduced  to  that  mass  of  formal  practices  so  well 
known  as  the  material  of  Romanist  piety,  among  which,  the  most 
valuable  for  the  end  in  view,  are  of  course  those  which  can  only  be 
performed  by  the  intervention  of  a  priest. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  all  this  was  as  plainly  discerned 
by  the  combatants  in  that  confused  strife  as  it  may  be  by  lookers 
back  on  it  from  a  vantage-ground  three  centuries  high.  The  innova- 
tors were  hi  all  probability  few,  if  any  of  them,  conscious  of  the  ex- 
tent and  importance  of  the  principle  they  were  fighting  for.  And, 


54  VITTORIA   COLONNA. 

on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  reason  to  attribute  an  evil  conscious 
ness  of  motives,  .such  as  those  nakedly  set  forth  above,  to  the  con- 
servative party.  The  fact  that  a  doctrine  would  tend  to  abridge 
church  power  and  endanger  church  unity  would  doubtless  have  ap- 
peared to  many  a  good  and  conscientious  man  a  sutlicient  proof  of 
its  unsoundness  and  falsity. 

Indeed,  even  among  the  reformers  in  Italy  the  fear  of  schism  was 
so  great,  and  the  value  attached  to  church  unity  so  high,  that  these 
considerations  probably  did  as  much  toward  checking  and  finally  ex- 
tinguishing Protestantism  in  Italy  as  did  the  stiong  hand  of  persecu- 
tion. From  the  first,  many  of  the  most  earnest  advocates  of  the  new 
doctrine's  were  by  no  means  prepared  to  sever  themselves  from  the 
Church  for  the  sake  of  their  opinions.  Some  were  ready  to  face  such 
schism  and  martyrdom  also  in  the  cause  ;  as,  for  instance,  Bernardino 
Ochino,  the  General  of  the  Capuchins,  and  the  most  powerful 
preacher  of  his  day,  who  lied  from  Italy  and  became  a  professed 
Protestant,  and  Carnesecchi,  the  Florentine,  who  was  put  to  death 
for  his  heresy  at  Rome. 

But  it  had  not  yet  become  clear  how  far  the  new  doctrines  might 
be  held  compatibly  with  perfect  community  with  the  Church  of 
Home  at  the  time  when  Vittoria  arrived  in  that  city  from  Ferrara. 
The  conference  with  the  German  Protestants,  by  means  of  which  it 
was  hoped  to  effect  a  reconciliation,  was  then  being  arranged,  and 
the  hopes  of  Vittoria's  friends  ran  high.  When  these  hopes  proved 
delusive,  and  when  Rome  pronounced  herself  decisively  on  the  dor- 
trincs  held  by  the  Italian  reformers,  the  most  conspicuous  friends  of 
Vittoria  did  not  quit  the  church.  She  herself  writes  ever  as  its  suit- 
missive  and  faithful  daughter.  But  as  to  her  having  held  opinions 
which  were  afterward  declared  heretical,  and  for  which  others 
suffered,  much  of  her  poetry,  written  probably  about  this  time,  ail'ords 
evidence  so  clear  that  it  is  wonderful  Tiraboschi  and  her  biographers 
can  deem  it  possible  to  maintain  her  orthodoxy. 

Take,  for  example,  the  following  sonnet : 

"  Quand'  io  rignardo  il  nobil  raggio  ardente 

Delia  gni/.iu  divina,  e  quel  valore 

Cir  illuslra  '1  intullctto.  iiiflamma  il  core 
Con  virtu'  sopr'  uinana.  alia,  <•  possonte, 
L'  alma  le  vojtlii-  allur  lisse  ed  intente 

llacco^lie  tutlc  insieme  a  fargli  onore  ; 

Ma  tanto  liu  di  poter,  truant'  e  '1  favore 
Che  dal  luine  e  dal  foco  intendc  e  sente. 

Ond'  clla  pno  hen  1'ar  certa  efflcace 
L'  alia  sua  elezion,  in  a  iiifiiio  al  segno 

Ch'  all  autpr  d'ogiii  ben,  sna  nierce,  piaca. 
Non  sprona  il  cpr.»o  nostro  induRtria  o  ingegno; 

Ouel  corre  ))in  sicnro  v  piii  vivace, 
C'  na  dal  favor  del  ciel  inaggior  Bostugno." 

Thus  rendered  into  English  blank  verse,  with  a  greater  closeness  to 
the  sense  of  the  original  than  might  perhaps  have  been  attained  m  a 
iranslation  hampered  by  the  necessity  of  rhyming  : 


TITTORIA    COLOWNA.  55 

"  When  I  reflect  on  that  bright  noble  ray 
Of  grace  divine,  and  on  that  mighty  power, 
Which  clears  the  intellect,  inflames  the  heart 
With  virtue,  strong  with  more  than  human  strength, 
My  soul  then  gathers  up  her  will,  intent 
To  render  to  that  Power  the  honor  due; 
But  only  so  much  can  she,  as  free  grace 
Gives  her  to  feel  and  know  th'  inspiring  flre. 
Thus  can  the  soul  her  high  election  make 
Fruitful  and  sure  ;  but  only  to  such  point 
As,  in  his  gooduess,  wills  the  Fount  of  good, 
Nor  art  nor  industry  can  speed  her  course  ; 
He  most  securely  and  alertly  runs 
Who  most  by  Heaven's  free  favor  is  upheld." 

The  leading  points  of  Calvinistic  doctrine  could  hardly  be  in  the 
limits  of  a  sonnet  more  clearly  and  comprehensively  stated.  Devo- 
tional meditation  inclines  the  heart  to  God  ;  but  the  soul  is  powerless 
even  to  worship,  except  in  such  measure  as  she  is  enabled  to  do  «<> 
by  freely-given  grace.  By  this  means  only  can  man  make  sure  his 
election.  To  strive  after  virtue  is  useless  to  the  non-elect,  seeing  that. 
man  can  safely  run  his  course  only  in  proportion  as  he  has  received 
the  favor  of  God. 

Again,  in  the  following  sonnet  will  be  remarked  a  tone  of  thought 
and  style  of  phrase  perfectly  congenial  to  modern  devotional  feeling 
of  what  is  termed  the  evangelical  school  ;  while  it  is  assuredly  not 
such  as  would  meet  the  approval  of  orthodox  members  of  either  the 
Roman  Catholic  or  Anglo-Catholic  churches  : 

"  Qnando  dal  lume,  il  cui  vivo  splendore 

Rende  il  petto  fedel  licto  e  cicuro, 

Si  dissolve  per  grazia  il  ghiaccio  duro, 
Che  sovt-nte  si  geTa  intorno  al  core, 
Sento  ai  bei  lampi  del  possente  ardore 

Cader  delle  inie  colpe  il  manto  oscuro, 

E  vestinni  in  quel  punto  il  chiaro  e  pnro 
Delia  priniii  iunocenza  e  primo  amore. 
E  sebben  con  serrata  e  fida  chiave 

Serro  quel  raggio  ;  egli  e  scivo  e  sottile, 

Si  ch'  mi  basso  pengkT  lo  ecaccia  e  edegna. 
Ond'  ei  ratio  sen  vola ;  io  mesta  e  grave 

Rimango,  e  'Iprego  die  d'  ogni  oinbra  vile 

Mi  spogli,  accid  piu  presto  a  me  sen  vegna." 

Which  may  be  thus,  with  tolerable  accuracy,  rendered  into  Engliafc   , 

"  When  by  the  light,  \rhose  living  ray  both  peace 

And  joy  to  faithful  bosoms  doth  impart, 

The  indurated  ice,  around  the  heart 
So  often  gather'd,  is  dissolved  through  grace, 
Beneath  that  blessed  radiance  from  above 

Falls  from  me  the  dark  mantle  of  my  sin  ; 

Sudden  I  stand  forth  pure  and  radiant  in 
The  garb  of  primal  innocence  and  love. 
And  though  I  strive  with  lock  and  trusty  key 

To  keep  that  rav.  so  subtle  'tis  and  coy, 
By  one  low  thought  'tis  wared  and  put  to  flight 
So  flies  it  from  me.     I  in  sorrowing  plight 

Remain,  and  pray,  that  he  from  ba»e  alloy 
May  pprge  mo,  «o  the  light  come  ioonct  back  to  m.™ 


5f!  VITTORIA    COLONNA. 

Here,  in  addition  to  the  "  points  of  doctrine"  laid  down  in  the  pre- 
vious sonnet,  we  have  that  of  sudden  and  instantaneous  conversion 
and  sanctification  ;  and  that  without  any  aid  from  sacrament,  altar, 
or  priest. 

Similar  thoughts  are  again  expressed  in  the  next  sonnet  selected, 
which  hi  Signor  Visconti's  edition  immediately  follows  the  preced- 
ing : 

"jSpiego  per  voi,  mia  luce,  indarno  1'  ale, 
Pnma  che  '1  caldo  vostro  interne  yento 
M'  apra  1'  acre  d'  intorno,  pra  ch'  io  sento 
Vincer  da  nuovp  ardir  1'  antico  male  ; 
Che  giunga  all'  infinite  opra  mortale 
Opra  rostra  e,  Signor,  che  in  un  momento 
La  pud  far  uegna  ;  ch'  io  da  me  pavento 
Di  cadcr  col  pensier  quand'  ei  piu.  Bale. 
Bramo  quell'  invisibil  chiaro  lume, 
Che  fuga  dcnsa  nebbia  ;  e  quell'  access 
Secreta  flamina,  elf  o<:ni  gel  consuma. 
Onde  poi,  sgombra  clal  terren  costume, 
Tutta  al  divino  amor  V  anima  intesa 
Si  mova  al  volo  altero  in  ultra  piuma." 

Tliua  done  into  English  : 

"  Feeling  new  force  to  conquer  primal  pin. 

Yet  all  in  vain  I  spread  my  wings  to  thee, 

My  light,  until  the  air  around  nhall  be 
Made  clear  for  me  by  thy  warm  breath  within. 
That  mortal  works  should  reach  the  infinite 

Is  thy  work,  Lord  !    For  in  a  moment  thou 

Canst  give  them  worth.    Left  to  myself  I  know 
My  thought  would  fall,  when  at  its  utmost  height. 

I  long  for  that  clear  radiance  from  above 
That  puts  to  flight  all  cloud  ;  and  that  bright  flame 

Which  secret  burning  warms  the  frozen  soul  ; 
So.  that  set  free  from  every  mortal  aim. 

And  all  intent  alone  on  heavenly  love, 

She  flies  with  stronger  pinion  toward  her  goal." 

Tn  the  following  lines,  which  form  the  conclusion  of  a  sonnet  in 
which  she  has  been  saying  that  God  does  not  permit  that  any  pure 
heart  should  be  concealed  from  His  all-seeing  eye  "  by  the  fraud  or 
force  of  others, "  we  have  a  very  remarkable' bit  of  such  heresy  on 
the  vital  point  of  the  confessional,  as  has  been  sufficient  to  consign 
more  than  one  victim  to  the  stake  : 

"  Sccuri  del  sup  dolce  e  gitisto  impero, 

Non  come  il  primo  padre  e  la  sua  donna, 
Dobbiam  del  nostro  error  biasimare  altrui  ; 
Ma  con  la  wpemc  accesa  e  dolor  vero 
Aprir  dentro,  pansando  ollra  la  gonna 
I falli  noKtri  a  solo  a  sol  con  /wi." 

The  underlined  words,  "  passando  oltra  la  gonna,"  literally, 
"  passing  beyond  the  gown,"  though  the  sense  appears  to  be  unmis- 
takable, are  yet  sufficiently  obscure  and  unobvious,  and  the  phrase 
RumrJeiitly  far-fetched,  to  lead  to  the  suspicion  of  a  wish  on  the  p;;it 


TITTORIA   COLOKNA.  5? 

of  the  writer  in  some  degree  to  veil  her  meaning.  "  That  in  the  cap- 
tain's but  a  choleric  word,  which  in  the  soldier  is  foul  blasphemy." 
And  the  high-born  Colonna  lady,  the  intimate  friend  of  cardinals 
and  princes,  might  write  much  with  impunity  which  would  have  I  icon 
perilous  to  less  lofty  heads.  But  the  sentiment  in  this  very  remarka- 
ble passage  implies  an  attack  on  one  of  Rome's  teuderest  and  sorott 
points.  In  English  the  lines  run  thus  : 

"  Confiding  in  His  just  and  gentle  sway 

We  should  not  dare,  like  Adam  and  hi8  wife, 

On  other's  backs  our  proper  blame  to  lay  ; 
But  with  new-kindled  hope  and  unfeigned  grief, 

Passing  by  priestly  robes,  lay  bare  within 

To  Him  alone  the  secret  of  our  sin." 

Again,  in  the  conclusion  of  another  sonnet,  in  which  she  lias  been 
speaking  of  the  benefits  of  Christ's  death,  and  of  the  necessity  of  a 
"  sopnumatural  divina  fcde"  for  the  receiving  of  them,  she  writes  in 
language  very  similar  to  that  of  many  a  modern  advocate  of  "  free 
inspiration,"  and  which  must  have  been  distasteful  to  the  erudite 
clergy  of  the  dominant  hierarchy,  as  follows  : 

"  Quo1  ch'  avra  sol  in  lui  le  luci  flsse, 

Non  quo'  ch'  iutese  meglio,  o  che  piu  lesse 
Volumi  in  terra,  in  cicl  wira  beato. 
In  carta  questa  legge  non  si  scrisse  ; 
Ma  con  la  wtampa  sua  nel  cor  purgato 
Col  foco  dell'  amor  Gesu  1'  irnpresse." 

In  English  : 

"  ITc  who  hath  fixed  on  Christ  alone  his  eyes, 
Not  he  who  best  hath  understood,  or  read 
Most  earthly  volumes,  shall  Heaven's  bliss  attain. 
For  not  on  paper  did  He  write  His  law. 
But  printed  it  on  expurgated  hearts 
Stamped  with  the  fire  of  Jesus'  holy  love." 

In  another  remarkable  sonnet  she  gives  expression  to  the  prevail- 
ing feeling  of  the  pressing  necessity  for  chiirch  reform,  joined  to  a 
marked  declaration  of  belief  in  the  doctrine  of  Papal  infallibility  ;  a 
doctrine  which,  by  its  tenacious  hold  on  the  Italian  mind,  contributed 
mainly  to  extinguish  the  sudden  straw  blaze  of  reforming  tendencies 
throughout  Italy.  The  lines  run  as  follows  : 

"  Veggio  d'  alga  e  di  fango  omai  si  carca, 

Pietro,  la  rete  tua,  che  se  qnalche  onda 

Di  fuor  1'  assale  o  intorno  circonda. 
Potria  spezKaroi,  e  a  rischio  andnr  la  barca  ; 
La  qual,  non  come  suol  leggicra  e  scarca, 

Sovra  'I  turbato  mar  corre  a  seconda, 

Ma  in  poppa  e'n  prora,  all'  una  e  all'  altr«  gponda 
E'  grave  si  ch'  a  gran  periglio  varca. 
II  tuo  buon  successor,  ch"1  alta  cagione 

Direttamente  elesse,  e  cor  e  mano 

Move  aovente  per  condnrla  a  porto. 
Ida  contra  il  voler  »uo  ratto  s'  oppone 

L'  altrni  malizia  ;  onde  ciaacum  •'  d  accorto, 

Ch'  egli  seuza  '1  two  aiuto  urtopra  in  yano." 


,-,S  ViTTORIA   COLONNA. 

Which  may  be  thus  read  in  English  blank  verse,  giving  not  very 
poetically,  but  with  tolerable  fidelity,  the  sense  of  the  original : 

"  With  mud  and  weedy  {growth  so  fonl  I  see 
Thy  net,  O  Peter,  that  should  any  wave 
Assail  it  from  without  or  trouble  it, 
It  might  be  rended,  and  so  risk  the  ship. 
For  now  thy  bark,  no  more,  as  erst,  skims  light 
With  favoring  breezes  o'er  the  troubled  sea, 
But  labors  bnrthen'd  so  from  stem  to  stern, 
That  danger  menaces  the  course  it  steers. 
Thy  good  successor,  by  direct  decree 
Of  providence  elect,  with  heart  and  hand 
Assiduous  strives  to  bring  it  to  the  port. 
But  spite  his  striving  his  intent  is  foiled 
By  others'  evil.    So  that  all  have  seen 
That  without  aid  from  thee,  he  strives  in  vain." 

The  lofty  pretensions  of  the  Bishop  of  Rome,  which  our  poetess, 
with  all  her  reforming  aspirations,  goes  out  of  her  way  to  declare  and 
maintain  in  the  phrase  of  the  above  sonnet  marked  by  italics,  were 
•dear  to  the  hearts  of  Italians.  It  may  be  that  an  antagonistic  bias, 
arising  from  feelings  equally  beyond  the  limits  of  the  religious  ques- 
tion, helped  to  add  acrimony  to  the  attacks  of  the  transalpine  re- 
formers. But  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Italian  self-love  was  active 
in  rendering  distasteful  to  Italians  a  doctrine,  whose  effect  would  be 
to  pull  down  Rome  from  her  position  as  capital  of  the  Christian 
world,  and  no  longer  permit  an  Italian  ecclesiastic  lo  issue  his  lofty 
decrees  "  Urbi  et  Orbi. "  And  those  best  acquainted  with  the  Italian 
mind  of  that  period,  as  evidenced  by  its  literature,  and  illustrated  by 
its  still-existing  tendencies  and  prejudices,  will  most  appreciate  the 
extent  to  which  such  feelings  unquestionably  operated  in  preventing 
the  reformation  from  taking  root,  and  bearing  fruit  in  Italy. 

The  readers  of  the  foregoing  sonnets,  even  those  who  are  familiar 
with  the  language  of  the  original,  will  probably  have  wondered  at 
the  greatness  of  the  poetical  reputation,  which  was  built  out  of  such 
materials.  It  is  but  fair,  however,  to  the  poetess  to  state,  that  the 
citations  have  been  selected,  rather  with  the  view  of  decisively  prov- 
ing these  Protestant  leanings  of  Vittoria,  which  have  been  so  eagerly 
denied,  and  of  illustrating  the  tone  of  Italian  Protestant  feeling  at 
that  period,  than  of  presenting  the  most  favorable  specimens  of  her 
poetry.  However  fitly  devotional  feeling  may  be  clothed  in  poetry 
of  the  highest  order,  controversial  divinity  is  not  a  happy  subject 
for  verse.  And  Vittoria,  on  the  comparatively  rare  occasions,  when 
she  permits  herself  to  escape  from  the  consideration  of  disputed 
dogma,  can  make  a  nearer  approach  to  true  poetry  of  thought  and 
expression. 

In  the  following  sonnet,  it  is  curious  to  observe  how  the  expression 
of  the  grand  and  simple  sentiment  of  perfect  trust  in  the  will  and  in- 
tentions of  the  omnipotent  Creator,  which,  in  the  first  eight  lines, 
rises  iuto  something  like  poetry,  becomes  flattened  and  debased  into 


VITTORIA    COLONNA.  59 

Jie  iiost  prosaic  doggerel,  as  soon  as  the  author,  recollecting  the  con- 
»rovi-rsie?»  raging  round  her  on  the  subject,  bethinks  her  of  the  neces- 
sity of  daly  defining  the  theological  virtue  of  "Faith,  "as  being  of 
that  sort  tit  for  the  production  of  works. 

"  Deh  !  mandi  oggi,  Signor,  novello  e  chiaro 

Raggio  ul  inio  cor  ai  quclla  ardente  fede, 

Ch  opra  sol  per  amor,  non  per  mercede, 
Omle  ngualmente  il  tuo  voler  gli  e  caro ! 
Dal  dolcc  fonte  tuo  pensa  die  amaro 

Nasccr  non  posaa,  anzi  riceve  e  crude 

Per  buon  quant'  ode.  e  per  bel  quanto  vedft, 
Per  largo  il  ciel,  quand'  ei  si  mostra  avaro. 

So  chieder  grazia  all'  umil  servo  lice, 
Questu  fede  vorrei,  che  illustra,  accende, 

E  pasce  1'  alma  sol  di  lume  vero. 
Con  questa  in  parte  il  gran  valor  8'  intende, 

Che  pianta  e  fcriua  in  noi  T  alta  radice, 

Qual  rende  i  frutti  a  lui  tutti  d'amore." 

Which  may  be  thus  rendered  : 

"  Grant  to  my  heart  a  pure  fresh  ray,  O  Lord, 

Of  that  bright  ardent  faith  which  makes  thy  will 

Its  best-loved  law,  and  seeks  it  to  fulfil 
For  love  alone,  not  looking  for  reward  ; 
That  faith,  which  deems  no  ill  can  come  from  thce, 

But  humbly  trusts,  that,  rightly  understood. 

All  that,  meets  eye  or  ear  is  fair  and  good. 
And  Heaven's  love  oft  in  prayers  refused  can  see. 

And  if  thy  handmaid  might  prefer  a  suit, 
I  would  that  faith  possess  that  fires  the  heart. 

And  feeds  the  soul  with  the  true  light  alone  ; 
I  mean  hereby,  that  mighty  power  in  part, 

Which  plants  and  strengthens  in  us  the  deep  root, 

From  which  all  fruits  of  love  for  him  are  grown." 

In  the  following  sonnet,  which  is  one  of  several  dictated  by  the 
same  mood  of  feeling,  the  more  subjective  tone  of  her  thought  affords 
iis  an  autobiographical  glimpse  of  her  state  of  mind  on  religious  sub- 
jects. We  find  that  the  new  tenets  which  she  had  imbibed  had 
failed  to  give  her  peace  of  mind.  That  comfortable  security,  and  un- 
doubting  satisfied  tranquillity,  procured  for  the  mass  of  her  orthodox 
contemporaries,  by  the  due  performance  of  their  fasts,  vigils,  peni- 
tences, etc.,  was  not  attained  for  Vittoria  by  a  creed,  which  required 
her,  as  she  here  tells  us,  to  stifle  the  suggestions  of  her  reason. 

"  Se  con  T  armi  celesti  avess'  io  vinto 

Me  stessa,  i  sensi,  e  la  ragione  umana, 

Andrei  con  altro  spirto  aita  e  lontana 
Dal  mondo,  e  dal  suo  onor  falso  dipinto. 
Suir  ali  della  fede  il  peusier  cinto 

Di  speme,  omai  non  piii  caduca  e  vana, 

Sarebbe  fuor  di  quest*  valle  insana 
Da  verace  virtute  alzato  e  spinto. 

Ben  ho  gia  ferino  1'  occhio  al  miglior  flu* 
Dei  nostro  corso  ;  ma  non  volo  aurora 

Per  lo  destro  sentier  salda  e  leggiera. 
Veggio  i  segni  del  BO),  scorgo  I1  aurora ; 

Ma  per  li  sacri  girialle  divine 

Stonze  non  entro  in  quslla  luce  Tera," 


V1TTORIA   COLOHNA. 

as  follows  : 

"  Hud  I  with  heavenly  arms  'gainst  self  and  sense 

And  human  reason  wagecfsuceepsf  ul  war, 

Then  with  a  different  spirit  soaring  far 
I'd  lly  the  world's  vain  glory  and  pretence. 
Then  soaring  thought  on  wings  of  faitli  might  rite, 

Armed  by  a  hope  no  longer  vain  or  frail, 

Far  from  the  madness  of  this  earthly  vale, 
Led  hy  true  virtue  toward  its  native  skies. 
That  better  aim  is  ever  in  iny  sight, 

Of  man's  existence ;  Cut  not  yet  'tis  mine 

To  speed  sure-footed  on  the  happy  way. 

Signs  of  the  rising  sun  and  coming  day 

I  see  ;  bnt  enter  not  the  courts  divine 
Whose  holy  portals  lead  to  perfect  light." 

A  touch  of  similar  feeling  may  be  observed  also  in  the  following 
rionnet,  united  with  more  of  poetical  feeling  and  expression.  Indeed, 
this  sonnet  may  be  offered  as  a  specimen  of  the  author's  happiest 
efforts  : 

"  Fra  gelo  e  nebbia  corro  a  Dio  soyeritc 
Per  foco  e  lume,  onde  i  ghiaccj  disciolti 
Sieno,  e  gli  ombrosi  veil  aperti  e  tolti 
Dalla  divina  luce  e  fiamina  urdente. 
E  se  freda  ed  oscura  e  ancor  la  meute, 
Pur  sou  tittti  i  pensieri  ul  ciel  rivolti ; 
B  par  cue  dentro  in  gran  silenzio  ascolti 
Un  suon,  ehe  sol  nell'  anima  si  sente  ; 

E  dice  ;  Non  temer,  ehe  venne  al  niondo 
Gesii  d'  eterno  ben  largo  ainpio  mare, 
Per  far  leggiero  ogni  gravoso  pomlo. 
an  I'  ondi 


Sempre  son  1'  onde  sue  piii  dole!  e  chiare 

A 
Dell 


A  chi  con  umil  barca  in  quel  gran  tbndo 
'  alta  eua  Inn  it  a  si  lascia  andare." 


If  the  reader,  who  is  able  to  form  a  judgment  of  the  poetical  merit 
of  this  sonnet  only  from  the  subjoined  translation,  should  fail  to  find 
in  it  anything  to  justify  the  opinion  that  has  been  expressed  of  it,  he 
is  entreated  to  believe  that  the  fault  is  that  of  the  translator,  who  can 
promise  only  that  the  sense  has  been  faithfully  rendered  : 

"  Of  I  times  to  God  through  frost  and  cloud  I  go 

For  lifjht  and  warmth  to  break  my  icy  chain, 

And  pierce  and  rend  my  veils  of  doubt  in  twain 
With  his  divincst  love,  and  radiant  glow. 
And  if  my  soul  sit  cold  and  dark  below 

Yet  all  her  longings  fixed  on  heaven  remain  ; 

And  seems  she  'mid  deep  silence  to  a  strain 
To  listen,  which  the  soul  alone  can  know, 

Saying,  Fear  naught !  for  Jesus  came  on  earth- 
Jesus  of  endless  joys  the  wide  deep  sea — 

To  ease  each  heavy  load  of  mortal  birth. 
His  waters  ever  clearest,  sweetest  be 

To  him,  who  in  a  lonely  bark  Orifts  forth, 
Oa  his  great  deeps  of  goodness  trustfully." 

It  will  probably  he  admitted  that  the  foregoing  extracts  from  Vii, 
toria  Colonna's  poetry,  if  they  do  not  suffice  to  giv«  the  outline  of 


VITTOKIA    COLONNA.  fi1 

the  entire  fabric  of  her  religious  faith,  yet  ;ilmn<l;uitly  prove  that  she 
must  be  classed  among  the  Protestant  and  reforming  party  of  her  age 
and  country,  rather  than  among  the  orthodox  Catholics,  their  oppo- 
nents. The  passages  quoted  all  bear,  more  or  less  directly,  on  a  few 
special  points  of  doctrine,  as  do  also  the  great  bulk  of  her  religious 
poems.  But  these  points  are  precisely  those  on  which  the  reforming 
movement  was  based,  the  cardinal  points  of  dill'erenee  between  the 
parties.  They  involve  exactly  those  doctrines  which  Home,  on  ma- 
ture examination  and  reflection,  rightly  found  to  be  fatally  incom- 
patible with  her  system.  For  the  dominant  party  at  Trent  were  as- 
suredly wiser  in  their  generation  than  such  children  of  light  as  the; 
good  Contarini,  who  dreamed  that  a  purified  Papacy  was  possible, 
and  that  Kome  might  still  be  Rome,  after  its  creed  had  been  thus 
modified.  Caraffa  and  Ghislieri,  Popes  Paul  IV.  and  Pius  V.  and 
their  inquisitors  knew  very  clearly  better. 

It  is,  of  course,  natural  enough  that  the  points  of  doctrine  then 
new  and  disputed,  the  points  respecting  which  the  poetess  differed 
from  the  majority  of  the  world  around  her,  and  which  must  have 
been  the  subject  of  her  special  meditation,  should  occupy  also  the 
most  prominent  position  in  her  writings.  Yet  it  is  remarkable,  that 
in  so  large  a  mass  of  poetry  on  exclusively  religious  themes,  there 
should  be  found  hardly  a  thought  or  sentiment  on  topics  of  practical 
morality.  The  title  of  "  Rime  sacre  e  morafo',"  prefixed  by  Visconti 
to  this  portion  of  Vittoria's  writings,  is  wholly  a  misnomer.  If  these 
sonnets  furnish  the  materials  for  forming  a  tolerably  accurate  notion 
of  her  scheme  of  theology,  our  estimate  of  her  views  of  morality 
must  be  sought  elsewhere. 

There  is  every  reason  to  feel  satisfied,  both  from  such  records  as 
we  have  of  her  life  and  from  the  perfectly  agreeing  testimony  of 
her  contemporaries,  that  the  tenor  of  her  own  life  and  conduct,  was 
not  only  blameless  but  marked  by  the  consistent  exercise  of  many 
noble  virtues.  But,  much  as  we  hear  from  the  lamentations  of 
preachers  of  the  habitual  tendency  of  human  conduct  to  fall  short  of 
human  professions,  the  opposite  phenomena  exhibited  by  men,  whose 
intuitive  moral  sense  is  superior  to  the  teaching  derivable  from  their 
creed,  is  perhaps  quite  as  common.  That  band  of  eminent  men,  who 
were  especially  known  as  the  maintainers  and  defenders  of  Hie  pecu 
liar  tenets  held  by  Vittoria,  were  unquestionably  in  all  respects  the 
best  and  noblest  of  their  age  and  country.  Yet  their  creed  was  as- 

iredly  an  immoral  one.  And  in  the  rare  passages  of  our  poetess's 
••: writings  in  which  a  glimpse  of  moral  theory  can  be  discerned,  the 
low  and  unenlightened  nature  of  it  is  such  as  to  prove  that  the 
heaven-taught  heart  reached  purer  heights  than  the  creed-taught  in- 
telligence could  attain. 

What  could  be  worse,  for  instance,  than  the  morality  of  the  fol 
lowing  conclusion  of  a  sonnet,  in  which  she  has  been  lamenting  the 
blindness  of  those  who  sacrifice  eternal  bliss  for  the  sake  of  worldly 
pleasures.    She  writes ; 


(53  VICTORIA   COLONNA. 


In  English  : 


"  Polrhe"  M  mal  per  natiira  non  gli  annoia, 
E«l»'l  hen  per  ration  piar'-r  non  lianno, 
Abbian  almeii  dfDiogiiuto  timore." 


"  Since  evil  by  its  nature  pains  them  not. 
Nor  good  for  its  own  proper  sake  delights, 
Let  them  at  least  have  righteous  fear  of  God. 


She  appears  incapable  of  understanding  that  no  fear  of  God  could 
in  any  wise  avail  to  improve  or  profit  him  who  has  no  aversion  from 
evil  and  no  love  for  good.  She  does  not  perceive  that  to  iuculcatu 
so  godless  a  fear  of  God  is  to  make  the  Creator  a  mere  bugbear  for 
police  purposes  ;  and  that  a  theory  of  Deity  constructed  on  this  basis 
would  become  a  degrading  deuionolatry  ! 

Yittoria  Colonna  has  survived  in  men's  memory  as  a  poetess.  But 
she  is  far  more  interesting  to  the  historical  student,  who  would  ob- 
tain a  full  understanding  of  that  wonderful  sixteenth  century,  as  a 
Protestant.  Her  highly  gifted  and  richly  cultivated  intelligence,  her 
great  social  position,  and  above  all,  her  close  intimacy  with  the  emi- 
nent men  who  strove  to  set  on  foot  an  Italian  reformation  which 
should  not  be  incompatible  with  the  papacy,  make  the  illustration  of 
her  religious  opinions  a  matter  of  no  slight  historical  interest.  And 
the  bulk  of  the  citations  from  her  works  has  accordingly  been 
selected  wilh  this  view.  But  it  is  fair  to  her  reputation  to  give  one 
sonnet  at  least,  chosen  for  no  other  reason  than  its  merit. 

Tho  following,  written  apparently  on  the  anniversary  of  our 
Saviour's  crucifixion,  is  certainly  one  of  the  best,  if  not  the  best,  iu 
the  collection  : 

"Gli  angeli  eletti  al  gran  bene  inflnito 

Bruman  oggi  soffrir  penosa  inorte, 

Accii>  nelfa  celeste  einpirea  corte 
Non  fia  piu  il  nervo,  die  il  signor,  gradito. 
I'iunge  1'  antica  mad  re  il  gusio  ardito 

Oh'  a'  figlisuoi  del  ciel  chiu*e  le  porte  ; 

E  che  due  man  piagate  or  nieno  hcurte 
Da  ridurne  al  cammiti  per  lei  sniarrito. 

Asconde  il  sol  la  sua  ftilgente  chiorna  ; 
Spe/.zansi  i  cassi  vivi  ;  iiproiisi  i  inonti ; 

Trema  la  lerra  e  '1  ciel  ;  turbant#i  1'  acque ; 
Piangou  gli  gpirti,  al  nostro  mal  si  pronti, 

Delle  catene  lor  1'  aggiunta  soma. 

L,'  uomo  non  plunge,  u  pur  piungeudo  «atqu-e  !'• 

Of  which   the   following  is  an    inadequate   but   tolerably    faltkfm 
translation  : 

"  The  angels  to  eternal  bliss  preferred. 

Long  on  this  day,  a  painful  death  to  die, 

Lest  in  the  heavenly  manxiois  of  the  sky 
The  servant  be  more  favored  than  his  Lord. 
Man's  ancient  mother  weeps  the  deed,  this  day 

That  shut  the  gates  of  aeaven  against  her  race, 

Woepa  tbo  two  pierced  hands,  whose  work  ofgraco, 
Kofliidd  tbe  path,  from  which  stae  iu»U«  inau  Birujr. 


VlTTOrtrA   COLONtfA.  63 

The  snn  his  ever-burning  ray  doth  veil ; 

Earth  and  sky  tremble  ;  ocean  quakes  amain, 

And  mountains  gape,  and  living  rocks  are  torn. 
The  fienda,  on  watch  for  human  evil,  wail 

The  added  weight  of  their  restraining  chain. 

Man  only  weeps  not ;  yet  was  weeping  horn." 

As  the  previous  extracts  from  the  works  of  Vittoria  have  been,  as 
has  been  stated,  selected  principally  with  a  view  to  prove  her  Protest  - 
antism,  it  is  fair  to  observe  that  there  are  several  sonnets  addressed 
to  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  some  to  various  saints,  from  which  (though 
they  are  wholly  free  from  any  allusion  to  the  grosser  superstitions 
that  Rome  encourages  her  faithful  disciples  to  connect  with  these, 
personages)  it  is  yet  clear  that  the  writer  believed  in  the  value  of 
saintly  intercession  at  the  throne  of  grace.  It  is  also  worth  remark- 
ing, that  she  nowhere  betrays  the  smallest  consciousness  that  she  is 
differing  hi  opinion  from  the  recognized  tenets  of  the  Church,  unless 
it  be  found,  as  was  before  suggested,  in  an  occasional  obscurity  of 
phrase,  which  seems  open  to  tiie  suspicion  of  having  been  intentional. 

The  great  majority  of  these  poemu,  however,  were  in  all  probability 
composed  before  the  Church  had  entered  on  her  new  career  of  petse- 
cution.     And  as  regards  the  ever-recurring  leading  point  of  "  justili 
cation  by  grace,"  it  was  impossible  to  sajr  exactly  how  far  it  was 
orthodox  to  go  in  the  statement  of  this  tenet,  until  Rome  had  finally 
decided  her  doctrine  by  the  decrees  of  the  Council  of  Trent. 
'  One  other  remark,  which  will  hardly  fail  to  suggest  itself  to  tin- 
modern  reader  of  Vittoria's  poetry,  may  be  added  respecting  these 
once  celebrated  and  enthusiastically  received  works.     There  is  not  to 
be  discovered  throughout  the  whole  of  them  one  spark  of  Italian  or 
patriotic  feeling.     The  absence  of  any  such,  must,  undoubtedly,  be 
regarded  only  as  a  confirmation  of  the  fact  asserted  in  a  previous 
chapter,  that  no  sentiment  of  the  kind  was  then  known  in  Italy.     In 
that  earlier  portion  of  her  works,  which  is  occupied  almost  exclu- 
sively with  her  husband's  praises,  it  is  hardly  possible  that  the  e\ 
pression  of  such  feelings  should  have  found  no  place,  had  they  ex 
isted  in  her  mind.     But  it  is  a  curious  instance  of  the  degree  to  whieh 
even  the  better  intellects  of  an  age  are  blinded  by  and  made  subser- 
vient to  the  tone  of  feeling  and  habits  of  thought  prevalent  around 
them,  that  it  never  occurs  to  this  pure  and  lofty-minded  Vittoria.  in 
celebrating  the  prowess  of  her  hero,  to  give  a  thought  to  the  cause 
for  which  he  was  drawing  the  sword.    To  prevail,  to  be  the  stronger 
"  to  take  great  cities,"  "to  rout  the  foe,"  appears  to  be  all  that  her 
beau  ideal  of  heroism  required. 

Wrong  is  done,  and  the  strong-handed  doer  of  it  admired,  the 
moral  sense  is  blunted  by  the  cowardly  worship  of  success,  and 
might  takjs  from  right  the  suffrages  of  the  feeble,  in  the  nineteenth 
as 'in  the  sixteenth  century.  But  the  contemplation  of  the  total 
absence  from  such  a  miuJ  .'.;  l!::it  -f  YMl^rin  OlAnna,  "f  :i!! 


<}•[  VITTOIIIA    COLOXNA. 

nition  of  a  right  and  a  wrong  in  such  matters,  furnishes  highly  in 
structive  evidence  of  the  reality  of  the  moral  progress  mankind  ha* 
achieved. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Return  to  Rome.— Her  Great  Reputation. — Friendship  \rith  Michael  Angelo.— 
Medal  of  this  Period.— Removal  to  Orvieto.—  Visit  from  Luca  Contilc.— Her  De- 
termination not  to  quit  the  Church.— Francesco  d'Olanda.— His  Record  of  Con- 
versations with  Viltoria. — Vittoriaat  Viterbo. — Influence  of  Cardinal  I'olo  on  her 
Mind.— Last  Return  to  Rome.— Her  Death. 

VITTOJUA  arrived  in  Rome  from  Ferrara  in  all  probability  about 
l IK-  end  of  the  year  1537.  She  was  now  in  the  zenith  of  her  reputa- 
tion. The  learned  and  elegant  Bembo*  writes  of  her  that  he  consid- 
ered her  poetical  judgment  as  sound  and  authoritative  as  that  of  the 
greatest  masters  of  the  art  of  song.  Guidiccioni,  the  poetical  Bishop 
of  Fossombronc,  and  of  Paul  III.  's  ablest  diplomatists,  declares  f  that 
the  ancient  glory  of  Tuscany  had  altogether  passed  into  Latium  in 
her  person  ;  and  sends  her  sonnets  of  his  own,  with  earnest  entreaties 
that  she  will  point  out  the  faults  of  them.  Veronica  Gambara,  her 
self  a  poetess  of  merit  perhaps  not  inferior  to  fliat  of  Vittoria,  pro- 
fessed herself  her  most  ardent  admirer,  and  engaged Rinaldo Cored  to 
write  the  commentary  on  her  poems,  which  he  executed  as  we  have 
seen.  Bernardo  Tusso  made  her  the  subject  of  several  of  his  poems. 
Giovio  dedicated  to  her  his  life  of  Pcscara,  and  Cardinal  Pompeo 
Colonna  his  book  on  "  The  Praises  of  Women  ;"  and  Contarini  paid 
her  the  far  more  remarkable  compliment  of  dedicating  to  her  his 
work,  "  On  Free  "Will." 

Paul  III.  was,  as  Muratori  says.J  by  no  means  well  disposed 
toward  the  Colonna  family.  Yet  Vittoria  must  have  had  influence 
with  the  haughty  and  severe  old  Farnese.  For  both  Bembo  and 
Frogoso,  the  Bishop  of  Naples,  have  taken  occasion  to  acknowledge; 
that  they  owed  their  promotion  to  the  purple  in  great  measure  to 
her. 

But  the  most  noteworthy  event  of  this  period  of  Vittoria's  life, 
WAS  the  commencement  of  her  acquaintance  with  Michael  Angdo 
Buonarroti. §  That  great  man  was  then  in  his  (><Jd  year,  while  the 
poetess  was  in  her  47th.  The  acquaintanceship  grew  rapidly  into  a 
close  and  durable  friendship,  which  lasted  during  the  remainder  of 
Vittoria's  life.  It  was  a  friendship  eminently  honorable  to  both  of 
them.  Michael  Angelo  was  a  man  whose  inlluence  on  his  age  was 
felt  and  acknowledged,  while  he  was  yet  living  and  exercising  it  tr 

*  Bembo,  Opere,  vol.  ill.  p.  65.  J  Annnles,  ad.  ami.  1MO. 

t  OptTu,  cd.  Ven.,  p.  1*1.  s  Visconti,  p.  123. 


TITTORTA   COLONNA.  65 

a  degree  rarely  observable  even  in  the  case  of  the  greatest  minds. 
He  had,  at  the  time  in  question,  already  reached  the  zenith  of  his 
fame,  although  he  lived  to  witness  and  enjoy  it  for  another  quarter 
of  a  century.  He  was  a  man  formed  by  nature,  and  already  hahitu 
ated  by  the  social  position  his  contemporaries  had  accorded  to  him, 
to  mould  men — not  to  be  moulded  by  them— not  a  smooth  or  pliable 
man  ;  rugged  rather,  self-relying,  self-concentrated,  and,  though  full 
of  kindness  for  those  who  needed  kindness,  almost  a  stern  man  ;  no 
courtier,  though  accustomed  to  the  society  of  courts  ;  and  apt  to  con- 
sider courtier-like  courtesies  and  habitudes  as  impertinent  impedi- 
mets  to  the  requirements  of  his  high  calling,  to  be  repressed  rather 
than  condescended  to.  Yet  the  strong  and  kingly  nature  of  this 
high-souled  old  man  was  moulded  into  new  form  by  contact  with  that 
of  the  comparatively  youthful  poetess. 

The  religious  portion  of  the  great  artist's  nature  had  scarcely 
shaped  out  for  itself  any  more  denned  and  substantial  form  of  ex- 
pression than  a  worship  of  the  beautiful  in  spirit  as  well  as  in  matter. 
By  Vittoria  he  was  made  a  devout  Christian.  The  change  is  strongly 
marked  in  his  poetry  ;  and  in  several  passages  of  the  poems,  four  or 
five  in  number,  addressed  to  her,  he  attributes  it  entirely  to  her  in- 
fluence.* 

Some  silly  stuff  has  been  written  by  very  silly  writers,  by  way  of 
imparting  the  "  interesting"  character  of  a  belle  passion,  more  or  less 
platonic,  to  this  friendship  between  the  sexagenarian  artist  and  the 
immaculate  Colonna.  No  argument  is  necessary  to  indicate  the 
utter  absurdity  of  an  idea  which  implies  a  thorough  ignorance  of  the 
persons  in  question,  of  the  circumstances  of  their  friendship,  and  of 
all  that  remains  on  record  of  what  passed  between  them.  Mr.  liar- 
ford,  whose  "  Life  of  Michael  Angelo"  has  been  already  quoted,  AMIS 
permitted,  he  says,  to  hear  read  the  letters  from  Vittoria  to  her 
friend,  which  are  preserved  in  that  collection  of  papers  and  memori- 
als of  the  great  artist,  which  forms  the  most  treasured  possession  of 
his  descendants  ;  f  and  he  gives  the  following  account  of  them  :  $ 

"  They  are  five  in  number  ;  and  there  is  a  sixth,  addressed  by  her 
to  a  friend,  which  relates  to  Michael  Angelo.  Two  of  these  letters 
refer  in  very  grateful  terms  to  the  fine  drawings  he  had  been  making 
for  her,  and  to  which  she  alludes  with  admiration.  Another  glances 
with  deep  interest  at  the  devout  sentiments  of  a  sonnet,  whicli  it  ap- 
pears he  had  sent  for  her  perusal.  .  .  .  Another  tells  him  in  playful 
terms  that  his  duties  as  architect  of  St.  Peter's,  and  her  own  to  the 
youthful  inmates  of  the  convent  of  St.  Catherine  at  Viterbo,  admit 
not  of  their  frequently  exchanging  letters.  This  must  have  been 
written  just  a  year  before  her  death,  which  occurred  in  1547.  Michael 
Angelo  became  architect  of  St.  Peter's  in  154G.  These  letters  arc 

*  See  Harforrl's  Michael  Angolo,  vol.  ii.  p.  148,  «t  Mg.  t  Note  4. 

$  llarford'B  Michael  Angelo,  vol.  ^  i>- 168. 


C6  VITTORIA   COLOSTRA. 

written  with  the  most  perfect  ease,  in  a  firm,  strong  hand  ;  but  there 
is  not  a  syllabic  in  any  of  them  approaching  to  tenderness." 

The  period  of  Vittoria's  stay  in  Rome  on  this  occasion  must  have 
been  a  pleasant  one.  The  acknowledged  leader  of  the  best  and  most 
intellectual  society  in  that  city  ;  surrounded  by  a  company  of  gifted 
and  high-minded  men,  bound  to  her  and  to  each  other  by  that  most 
intimate  and  ennobling  of  all  ties,  the  common  profession  of  a  higher, 
nobler,  purer  theory  of  life  than  that  which  prevailed  around  them, 
and  a  common  membership  of  what  might  almost  be  called  a  select 
church  within  a  church,  whose  principles  and  teaching  its  disciples 
hoped  to  see  rapidly  spreading  and  beneficially  triumphant  ;  dividing 
her  time  between  her  religious  duties,  her  literary  occupations,  and 
conversation  with  well-loved  and  well-understood  friends — Vittoria 
can  hardly  have  been  still  tormented  by  temptations  to  commit  sui- 
cide. Yet  in  a  medal  struck  in  her  honor  at  this  period  of  her  life, 
the  last  of  the  series  engraved  for  Visconti's  edition  of  her  works,  the 
reverse  represents  a  phoenix  on  her  funeral  pile  gazing  on  the  sun, 
while  the  flames  are  rising  around  her.  The  obverse  has  a  bust  of 
the  poetess,  showing  the  features  a  good  deal  changed  in  the  course 
of  the  six  or  seven  years  which  had  elapsed  since  the  execution  of '  hat 
silly  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  medal  mentioned  in  a  previous  chapter, 
though  still  regular  and  well  formed.  The  tendency  to  fatness,  and 
to  a  comfortable-looking  double  chin,  is  considerably  increased.  She 
wears  a  singularly  unbecoming  head-dress  of  plaited  linen,  sitting 
close  to  and  covering  the  entire  head,  with  long  pendants  at  the  sides 
falling  over  the  shoulders. 

These  pleasant  Roman  days  were,  however,  destined  to  be  of  brief 
duration.  They  were  cut  short,  strange  as  the  statement  may  seem, 
by  the  imposition  of  an  increased  tax  upon  salt.  For  when  Paul  III. 
resorted,  in  1539,  to  that  always  odious  and  crwl  means  of  pillaging 
his  people,  Ascanio  Colonna  maintained  that,  by  virtue  of  some  an- 
cient privilege,  the  new  tax  could  not  be  levied  on  his  estates.  The 
pontifical  tax-gatherers  imprisoned  certain  of  his  vassals  for  refusing 
to  pay ;  whereupon  Ascanio  assembled  his  retainers,  made  a  raid 
into  the  Campagna,  and  drove  off  a  large  number  of  cattle.*  The 
pope  lost  no  time  in  gathering  an  army  of  ten  thousand  men,  and 
"  war  was  declared"  between  the  sovereign  and  the  Colon na.  The 
varying  fortunes  of  this  "  war"  have  been  narrated  in  detail  by  more 
than  one  historian. f  Much  mischief  was  done,  and  a  great  deal  of 
misery  occasioned  by  both  the  contending  parties.  But  at  length  the 
forces  of  the  sovereign  got  the  better  of  those  of  his  vassal,  and  the 
principal  fortresses  of  the  Colonna  were  taken,  and  their  fortifica- 
tions ordered  to  be  razed. 

It  was  in  consequence  of  these  misfortunes,  and  of  that  remarka- 
ble "  solidarity"  which,  as  has  been  before  observed,  united  in  those 

*  '-oppi.  Mem.  Col.,  p.  306.          t  Especially  Adrian!,  Storia  di  suoi  tempi. 


VITTORIA   COLONNA.  C7 

days  the  members  of  a  family  in  their  fortunes  and  reverses,  that 
Vittoria  quitted  Rome,  probably  toward  the  end  of*  1540,  and  retired 
to  Orvieto.  But  the  loss  of  their  brightest  ornament  was  a  misfor- 
tune which  the  highest  circles  of  Roman  society  could  not  submit  to 
patiently.  Many  of  the  most  influential  personages  at  Paul  III  's 
court  visited  the  celebrated  exile  at  Orvieto,  and  succeeded  ere  long 
in  obtaining  her  return  to  Rome  after  a  very  short  absence.*  Anil 
we  accordingly  find  her  again  in  the  Eternal  City  in  the  August  of 
1541. 

There  is  a  letter  written  by  Luca  Contilc.t  the  Sienesc  historian, 
dramatist  and  poet,  in  which  he  speaks  of  a  visit  he  had  paid  to  Vit- 
toria in  Rome  in  that  month.  She  asked  him,  he  writes,  for  news 
of  Fra  Bernardino  (Ochino),  and  on  his  replying  that  he  had  left  be- 
hind him  at  Milan  the  highest  reputation  for  virtue  and  holiness,  she 
answered,  "  God  grant  that  he  so  persevere  !" 

On  this  passage  of  Luca  Ccatile's  letter,  Visconti  and  others  have 
built  a  long  argument  in  proof  of  Vittoria's  orthodoxy.  It  is  unite 
clear,  they  say,  that  she  already  suspected  and  lamented  Ochino's 
progress  toward  heresy,  and  thus  indicates  her  own  aversion  to 
aught  that  might  lead  to  separation  from  the  Church  of  Rome.  It 
would  be  difficult,  however,  to  show  that  the  simple  phrase  in  ques- 
tion had  necessarily  any  such  meaning.  But  any  dispute  on  this 
point  is  altogether  nugatory  ;  for  it  may  be  at  once  admitted  that 
Vittosia  did  not  quit,  and  in  all  probability  would  not  under  any  cir- 
cumstances have  (juitted,  the  communion  of  the  Church.  And  if 
this  is  all  that  her  Romanist  biographers  wish  to  maintain,  they  un- 
questionably are  correct  in  their  statements.  She  acted  in  this  re- 
spect in  conformity  with  the  conduct  of  the  majority  of  those  eminent 
men  whose  disciple  and  friend  she  was  during  so  many  years.  And 
the  final  extinction  of  the  reformatory  movement  in  Italy  was  in- 
great  measure  due  precisely  to  the  fact,  that  conformity  to  Rome 
was  dearer  to  most  Italian  minds  than  the  independent  assertion  of 
their  own  opinions.  It  may  be  freely  granted,  that  there  is  every 
reason  to  suppose  that  it  would  have  been  so  to  Vittoria,  had  she  not 
been  so  fortunate  as  to  die  before  her  peculiar  tenets  were  so  defini- 
tively condemned  as  to  make  it  necessary  for  her  to  choose  between 
abandoning  them  or  abandoning  Rome.  But  surely  all  the  interest 
which  belongs  to  the  question  of  her  religious  opinions  consists  in 
the  fact  that  she,  like  the  majority  of  the  best  minds  of  her  country 
and  age,  assuredly  held  doctrines  which  Rome  discovered  and  de- 
clared to  be  incompatible  with  her  creed. 

A  more  agreeable  record  of  Vittoria's  presence  in  Rome  at  this 
tune,  and  an  interesting  glimpse  of  the  manner  in  which  many  of  her 
hours  were  passed,  is  to  be  found  in  the  papers  left  by  one  Fran- 
cesco d'Olanda,$  a  Portuguese  painter,  who  was  then  in  the  Eternal 


*  Viiconti,  p.  cxxvii.       t  Contile,  Lettere,  p.  19 ;  Venice,  1564.       t  NoU  5. 


68  vrrroitiA  COLONKA. 

City.  He  find  been  introduced,  he  tells  us,  by  the  kindness  of  Messer 
Lattanzio  Tolcmci  of  Siena  to  the  Marchcsii  de  Pescara,  and  also  to 
Miehael  Angelo  ;  and  he  has  recorded  at  length  several  conversa- 
tions between  these  and  two  or  three  other  members  of  their  society, 
jn  which  he  took  part.  The  object  of  his  notes  appears  to  have 
been  chiefly  to  preserve  the  opinions  expressed  by  the  great  Floren- 
tine on  subjects  connected  with  the  arts.  And  it  must  be  admitted, 
that  the  conversation  of  the  eminent  personages  mentioned,  as  re- 
corded by  the  Portuguese  painter,  appears,  if  judged  by  the  standard 
of  nineteenth-century  notions,  to  have  been  wonderfully  dull  and 
flat. 

The  record  is  a  very  curious  one  even  in  this  point  of  view.  It  Is 
interesting  to  measure  the  distance  between  what  was  considered 
first-rate  conversation  in  1540,  and  what  would  be  tolerated  among 
intelligent  people  in  1850.  The  good-old-times  admirers,  who  would 
have  us  believe  that  the  ponderous  erudition  of  past  generations  is 
distasteful  to  us,  only  by  reason  of  the  touch-and-go  butterfly  frivo- 
lousncss  of  the  modern  mind,  are  in  error.  The  long  discourses 
which  charmed  a  sixteenth-century  audience  are  to  us  intolerably 
boring,  because  they  are  filled  with  platitudes — with  facts,  inferences, 
and  speculations,  that  is,  which  have  passed  and  re]  Kissed  through 
the  popular  mind  till  they  have  assumed  the  appearance  of  self- 
evident  truths  and  fundamental  axioms,  "which  it  is  loss  of  time  to 
spend  words  on.  And  time  has  so  wonderfully  risen  in  value  <  And 
though  there  are  more  than  ever  men  whose  discourse  might  be  in- 
structive and  profitable  to  their  associates,  the  universality  of  the 
habit  of  reading  prevents  conversation  from  being  turned  into  a  lec- 
ture. Those  who  have  matter  worth  communicating  can  do  so  more 
effectually  and  to  a  larger  audience  by  means  of  the  pen  ;  and  those 
willing  to  be  instructed  can  make  themselves  masters  of  the  thoughts 
of  others  far  more  satisfactorily  by  the  medium  of  a  book. 

But  the  external  circumstances  of  these  conversations,  noted  down 
for  us  by  Francesco  d'Olanda,  give  us  an  amusing  peep  into  the  lit- 
erary life  of  the  Roman  world  three  hundred  years  ago. 

It  was  one  Sunday  afternoon  that  the  Portuguese  artist  went  to 
call  on  Messer  Lattauxio  Tolemei,  nephew  of  the  cardinal  of  that 
name.  The  servants  told  him  that  their  master  was  in  the  church 
of  San  Silvestro,  at  Monte  Cavallo,  in  company  with  the  Mnrchesa 
di  Pescara,  for  the  purpose  of  hearing  a  lecture  on  the  Epistles  of  St. 
Paul,  from  a  certain  Friar  Ambrose  of  Siene.  Maestro  Francesco 
lost  no  time  in  following  his  friend  thither.  And  "as  soon  as  the 
reading  and  the  interpretations  of  it  were  over,"  the  Majchesa,  turning 
to  the  stranger,  and  inviting  him  to  sit  beside  her,  said,  "  If  1  am  not 
mistaken,  Francesco  d'Olanda  would  better  like  to  hear  Michael 
Angelo  preach  on  painting,  than  to  listen  to  Friar  Ambrose's  lecture. " 

Whereupon  the  painter,  "  feeling  himself  piqued,"  assures  the  lady 
that  he  can  take  interest  in  other  matters  than  painting,  and  that, 


VITTORIA   COLONKTA.  69 

however  willingly  he  would  listen  to  Michael  Angelo  on  art,  lie 
would  prefer  to  hear  Friar  Ambrose  when  St.  Paul's  epistles  were  in 
question. 

"Do  not  he  angry,  Messer  Francesco,"  said  Signor  Lattan/io, 
thereupon.  "  The  Marchesa  is  far  from  doubting  that  the  man  ca- 
pable of  painting  may  be  capable  of  aught  else.  We,  in  Italy,  have 
too  high  an  estimate  of  art  for  that.  But  perhaps  we  should  gather 
from  the  remark  of  the  Signora  Marchesa  the  intention  of  adding  to 
the  pleasure  you  have  already  had,  that  of  hearing  Michael  Angclo. " 

"  In  that  case,"  said  I,  "  her  Excellence  would  do  only  as  is  her 
wont — that  is,  to  accord  greater  favors  than  one  would  have  dared 
to  ask  of  her. ' ' 

So  Vittoria  calls  to  a  servant,  and  bids  him  go  to  the  house  of 
Michael  Angelo  and  tell  him  "  that  I  and  Mcsscr  Lattanzio  are  here 
in  this  cool  chapel,  that  the  church  is  shut,  and  very  pleasant,  and 
ask  him  if  he  will  come  and  spend  a  part  of  the  day  with  us.  that  wo 
may  put  it  to  profit  in  his  company.  But  do  not  tell  him  that  Fran- 
cesco d'Olanda  the  Spaniard  is  here." 

Then  there  is  some  very  mild  raillery  about  how  Michael  Angelo 
was  to  be  led. to  speak  of  painting — it  being,  it  seems,  very  quest  ioii- 
able  whether  "he  could  be  induced  to  do  so  ;  and  a  little  bickering 
follows  between  Maestro  Francesco  and  Friar  Ambrose,  who  feels 
convinced  that  Michael  will  not  be  got  to  talk  before  the  Portuguese, 
while  the  latter  boasts  of  his  intimacy  with  the  great  man. 

Presently  there  is  a  knock  at  the  church  door.  It  is  Michael 
Augelo,  who  has  been  met  by  the  servant  as  he  was  going  toward  the 
baths,  talking  with  Orbiiio,  his  color-grinder. 

"  The  Marchesa  rose  to  receive  him,  and  remained  standing  a  good 
while  before  making  him  sit  down  between  her  and  Messer  Lattan- 
zio." Then,  "with  an  art  which  I  can  neither  describe  nor  imitate, 
she  began  to  talk  of  various  matters  with  infinite  wit  and  grace, 
without  ever  touching  the  subject  of  painting,  the  better  to  make 
sure  of  the  great  painter." 

"  One  is  sure  enough,"  she  says  at  last,  "  to  be  completely  beaten, 
as  often  as  one  ventures  to  attack  Michael  Angelo  on  his  own  ground, 
which  is  that  of  wit  and  raillery.  You  will  see,  Messer  Lattanzio, 
that  to  put  him  clown  and  reduce  him  to  silence  we  must  talk  to 
him  of  briefs,  law  processes,  or  painting." 

By  which  subtle  and  deep  laid  plot  the  great  man  is  set  off  into  a 
long  discourse  on  painters  and  painting. 

"  His  Holiness,"  said  the  Marchesa,  after  a  while,  "  has  granted  me 
the  favor  of  authorizing  me  to  build  a  new  convent,  near  this  spot. 
on  the  slope  of  Monte  Cavallo,  when;  there  is  the  ruined  portico, 
from  the  top  of  which,  it  is  said,  that  Nero  looked  on  while  Rome 
was  burning  ;  so  that  virtuous  women  may  ctl'ace  the  trace  of  so 
wicked  a  man.  I  do  not  know,  Michael  Angelo,  what  form  or  pro- 
portions  to  give  the  building,  or  on  which  side  to  make  the  entrance 


?0  Y1TTOK1A    COLONNA. 

Would  it  not  be  possible  to  join  together  some  parts  of  the  ancient 
constructions,  and  make  them  available  toward  the  new  building?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Michael  Angelo  ;  "  the  ruined  portico  might  serve  for 
a  bell-tower." 

This  repartee,  says  our  Portuguese  reporter,  was  uttered  with  so 
much  seriousness  and  aplomb  that  Messer  Lattanzio  could  not  for- 
bear from  remarking  it. 

From.which  we  are  led  to  infer  that  the  great  Michael  was  under- 
stood to  have  made  a  joke.  He  added,  however,  more  seriously,  "  I 
think  that  your  Excellence  may  build  the  proposed  convent  without 
difficulty  ;  and  when  we  go  out,  we  can,  if  your  Excellence  so  please, 
have  a  look  at  the  spot,  and  suggest  to  you  some  ideas." 

Then,  after  a  complimentary  speech  from  Vittoria,  in  which  she 
declares  that  the  public,  who  know  Michael  Angelo's  works  only 
without  being  acquainted  with  his  character,  are  ignorant  of  the  best 
part  of  him,  the  lecture,  to  which  all  this  is  introductory,  begins. 
And  when  the  company  part  at  its  close,  an  appointment  is  made  to 
meet  again  another  Sunday  in  the  same  church. 

A  painter  in  search  of  an  unhackneyed  subject  might  easily  choose 
a  worse  one  than  that  suggested  by  this  notable  group,  making  the 
cool  and  quiet  church  their  Sunday  afternoon  drawing-room. 

The  few  remaining  years  of  Vittoria's  life  were  spent  between 
Rome  and  Viterbo,  an  episcopal  city  some  thirty  miles  to  the  north 
of  it.  In  this  latter  her  home  was  in  the  convent  of  the  nuns  of  St. 
Catherine.  Her  society  there  consisted  chiefly  of  Cardinal  Pole,  the 
governor  of  Viterbo,  her  old  friend  Marco  Antonio  Flammio,  and 
Archbishop  Soranzo. 

During  these  years  the  rapidly  increasing  consciousness  on  the  part 
of  the  Church  of  the  danger  of  the  doctrines  held  by  the  reforming 
party  was  speedily  making  it  unsafe  to  profess  those  opinions. 
which,  as  we  have  seen,  gave  the  color  to  so  large  a  portion  of  Vitto- 
ria's poetry,  and  which  had  formed  her  spiritual  character.  And 
these  friends,  in  the  closest  intimacy  with  whom  she  lived  at  Viterbo, 
were  not  the  sort  of  men  calculated  to  support  her  in  any  daring  re- 
liance on  the  dictates  of  her  own  soul,  when  these  chanced  to  be  in 
opposition  to  the  views  of  the  Church.  Pole  appears  to  have  been  at 
this  time  the  special  director  of  her  conscience.  And  we  know  but 
too  well,  from  the  lamentable  sequel  of  his  own  career,  the  sort  of 
counsel  he  would  be  likely  to  give  her  under  the  circumstances. 
There  is  an  extremely  interesting  letter  extant,  written  by  her  from 
Viterbo  to  the  Cardinal  Cervino,  who  was  afterward  Pope  Marcellus 
II.,  which  proves  clearly  enough,  to  the  great  delight  of  her  orthodox 
admirers,  that  let  her  opinions  have  been  what  they  might,  she  was 
ready  to  "  submit"  them  to  the  censorship  of  Rome,  we  have  seen 
how  closely  her  opinions  agreed  with  those  which  drove  Bernardino 
Oeliino  to  separate  himself  from  the  Church  and  fly  from  its  ven- 
geance. Yet  under  Polc'a  tutelage  -she  writes  as  follows  : 


V1TTOKIA    COLONNA.  *  1 

"MosT  ILLUSTRIOUS  AND  MOST  REVEREND  SIR:  The  more  cp 
portimity  I  have  had  of  observing  the  actions  of  his  Eminence  the 
Cardinal  of  England  (Pole),  the  more  clear  lias  it  seemed  to  me  that 
he  is  a  true  and  sincere  servant  of  God.  Whenever,  therefore,  he 
charitably  condescends  to  give  me  his  opinion  on  any  point,  I  con- 
ceive myself  safe  from  error  in  following  his  advice.  And  he  tf.ld 
me  that,  in  his  opinion,  I  ought,  in  case  any  letter  or  other  mutter 
should  reach  me  from  Fra  Bernardino,  to  send,  the  same  to  your  most, 
Reverend  Lordship,  and  return  no  answer,  unless  I  should  be  directed 
to  do  so.  I  send  you  therefore  the  inclosed,  which  I  have  this  day 
received,  together  with  the  little  book  attached.  The  whole  was  in 
a  packet  which  came  to  the  post  here  by  a  courier  from  Bologna, 
without  any  other  writing  inside.  And  I  have  thought  it  best  not  to 
make  use  of  any  other  means  of  sending  it,  than  by  a  servant  of  my 
own."  .  .  . 

She  adds  in  a  postscript : 

"  It  grieves  me  much  that  the  more  he  tries  to  excuse  himself  the 
more  he  accuses  himself  ;  and  the  more  lie  thinks  to  save  others 
from  shipwreck,  the  more  he  exposes  himself  to  the  flood,  being 
himself  out  of  the  ark  which  saves  and  secures."* 

Poor  Ochino  little  thought  probably  that  his  letter  to  his  former 
admiring  and  fervent  disciple  would  be  passed  on  with  such  a  re- 
mark to  the  hands  of  his  enemies  !  He  ought,  however,  to  have  been 
aware  that  princesses  and  cardinals,  whatever  speculations  they  may 
have  indulged  in,  do  not  easily  become  heretics. 

She  returned  once  more  from  Viterbo  to  Rome  toward  the  end  of 
the  year  1.T44,  and  took  up  her  residence  in  the  convent  of  Bern-die 
tines  of  St.  Anne.  While  there  she  composed  the  Latin  prayer, 
printed  in  the  note,f  which  has  been  much  admired,  and  which, 
though  not  so  Ciceronian  in  its  diction  as  Bembo  might  have  written, 
will  biiar  comparison  with  similar  compositions  by  many  more  cele- 
brated persons.  Several  of  the  latest  of  her  poems  were  also  written 
at  this  time.  But  her  health  began  to  fail  so  rapidly  as  to  give  great 
uneasiness  to  her  friends.  Several  letters  are  extant  from  Tolomei  to 
her  physician,  anxiously  inquiring  after  her  health,  urging  him  to 
neglect  no  resources  of  his  art,  and  bidding  him  remember  that  "  the 
lives  of  many,  who  continually  receive  from  her  their  food— some 
that  of  the  body  and  others  that  of  the  mind— are  bound  up  in  hcr>.  "| 
The  celebrated  physician  and  poet,  Fracastoro,  was  written  to  in 
Verona.  In  his  reply,  after  suggesting  medical  remedies,  he  says, 
"  Would  that  a  physician  for  her  mind  could  be  found  !  Otherwise 
the 


*  Visconti,  p.  c.xxxi.    Printed  U!M>  by  Tirabosr.hi.  vol.  7.  t  Note  6. 

|  Letters  del  Tolomei.  Vene/.iu,  J57H.  §  Viacontl,  p.  cxxxiy. 


72  VITTOHIA    COLONNA. 

not  be  of  much  value.  But  it  is  certain  that  many  circumstances 
combined  to  render  these  declining  years  of  Vittoria's  life  unhappy. 
The  fortunes  of  her  family  were  under  a  cloud  ;  and  it  is  probable 
that  she  was  as  much  grieved  by  her  brother's  conduct  as  by  the 
consequences  of  it.  The  death  also  of  the  Marchese  del  Vasto,  in 
the  flower  of  his  age,  about  this  time,  was  a  severe  blow  to  her. 
Ever  since  those  happy  early  days  in  Ischia,  when  she  had  been  to 
him,  as  she  said,  morally  and  intellectually  a  mother,  the  closest  ties 
of  affection  had  united  them  ;  and  his  loss  was  to  Vittoria  like  that 
of  a  son.  Then  again,  though  she  had  perfectly  made  up  her  mind 
as  to  the  line  of  conduct  it  l>ehooved  her  to  take  in  regard  to  any 
difficulties  of  religious  opinion,  yet  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  the 
necessity  of  separating  herself  from  so  many  whom  she  had  loved 
and  venerated,  deserting  them,  as  it  were,  in  their  falling  fortunes, 
must  have  been  acutely  painful  to  her.  Possibly  also  conscience  was 
not  wholly  at  rest  with  her  on  this  matter.  It  may  be  that  the  still 
voice  of  inward  conviction  would  sometimes  make  obstinate  murmur 
against  blindfold  submission  to  a  priesthood,  who  ought  not,  accord- 
ing to  the  once  expressed  opinion  of  the  poetess,  to  come  between 
the  creature  and  his  Creator. 

As  she  became  gradually  worse  and  weaker,  she  was  removed  from 
the  convent  of  St.  Anne  to  the  neighboring  house  of  Giuliauo  Cesarini, 
the  husband  of  Guilia  Colonna,  the  only  one  of  her  kindred  then  left 
in  Rome.  And  there  she  breathed  her  last,  toward  the  end  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1547,  in  the  57th  year  of  her  age. 

In  her  last  hours  she  was  visited  by  her  faithful  and  devotedly  at- 
tached friend,  Michael  Angelo,  who  watched  the  departure  of  the 
spirit  from  her  frame  ;  and  who  declared,*  years  afterward,  that  he 
had  never  ceased  to  regret  that  in  that  solemn  moment  he  had  not 
ventured  to  press  his  lips,  for  the  first  and  last  time,  to  the  marble 
forehead  of  the  dead. 

She  had  directed  that  her  funeral  should  be  in  all  respects  like  that 
of  one  of  the  sisters  of  the  convent  in  which  she  last  resided.  And 
so  completely  were  her  behests  attended  to  that  no  memorial  of  any 
kind  remains  to  tell  the  place  of  her  sepulchre. 


*  Coadivi.  Vita. 


NOTES 

TO  TUB 

LIFE  OF  VITTOKIA  COLONNA. 


1.— Page  15. 

Galliano  Passeri,  the  author  of  the  diary  quoted  in  tho  text,  was  an  IM>H.^: 
weaver,  living  by  his  art  at  Naples,  in  the  time  of  Ferdinand  of  Spain  and  rharlf* 
V.  His  work  appears  to  have  been  composed  wholly  for  his  own  satisfaction  and 
amusement.  The  entire  work  is  written  m  the  form  of  a  diary.  But  as  the  lir.-t 
entry  records  the  eoming  of  Alphouso  I.  to  Naples,  on  "this  day,  the  2Gth 
P'ebruary,  1443,"  and  the  last  describes  the  funeral  of  the  Marcheae  di  Pescarn, 
Vittoria's  husband,  on  the  12th  May,  1526.  it  is  difficult  to  suppose  that  these  could 
have  been  the  daily  jottings  of  one  and  the  same  individual,  extending  over  a 
period  of  83  years,  although  it  impossible  that  they  may  have  been  so.  As  the  work 
ends  quite  abruptly,  it  seems  reasonable  to  suppose  that  it  was  carried  on  till  the 
death  of  the  writer.  The  probability  is,  that  the  memorials  of  the  earlier  years  arc 
due  to  another  pen.  The  work  is  written  in  Neapolitan  dialoct,  and  concern*  itself 
very  little  with  aught  that  passed  out  of  Naples.  It  has  all  the  mark*  of  being 
written  by  an  eye-witness  of  the  circumstances  recorded.  The  account* especially 
of  all  public  ceremonies,  gala-doings,  etc..  are  given  in  great  detail,  and  with  all 
the  gusto  of  a  regular  sight-seer.  And  the  book  is  interesting  as  a  rare  specimen  of 
ttie  writing  and  ideas  of  an  artisan  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

It  was  printed  in  a  quarto  volume  at  Naples  in  1785,  and  is  rather  rare. 

2.— Pago  29. 

These  false  ducats  gave  rise,  we  are  told,  to  the  king's  saying,  that  his  wife  bad 
6*0 ugh t  him  three  gifts : 

Faciem  pictam, 
Mouetam  flctain, 

to  which  the  ungallant  and  brutal  royal  husband  added  another,  the  fitatemrni  of 
which  ending  in  "6trictam,"is  BO  grossly  coarse  that  it  cannot  bo  repeated  here, 
even  with  the  partial  veil  of  its  Latin  clothing. 

3.— Page  37. 

The  translations  of  the  sonnets  In  the  text  have  been  given  solely  with  tbo  view 
of  enabling  thoso  who  do  not  read  Italian  to  form  some  idea  of  tho  snbject-inatter 
and  mode  of  thought  of  the  author,  and  not  with  any  hope  or  protension  of  prc-rm 
ing  anything  that  might  be  accepted  as  a  tolerable  English  sonnet.  Jn  many  in- 
stances the  required  continuation  of  tho  rhyme  has  not  even  been  attempted.  If 
&  be  asked,  why  thou  were  the  translations  not  given  in  simple  prose,  wiilch  would 


74  VITTORIA   COLONNA. 

hare  admitted  a  yet  greater  accuracy  of  literal  rendering?— it  is  answered,  that  * 
translation  so  made  would  be  BO  intolerably  bald,  flat,  and  silly-sounding,  that  a 
still  more  unfavorable  conception  of  the  original  would  remain  in  the  English 
reader's  mind  than  that  which,  it  is  hoped,  may  be  produced  by  the  more  or  lean 
poetically-cast  translations  given.  The  originals,  printed  in  every  instance,  will  do 
iu»tice  (if  not  more)  to  our  poetess  in  the  eyes  of  those  acquainted  with  her 
language,  for  the  specimens  chosen  may  be  relied  on  as  being  not  unfavorable 
specimens.  And  many  readers,  probably,  who  might  not  take  the  trouble  to 
understand  the  original  in  a  language  they  imperfectly  understand,  may  yet,  by  the 
help  of  tint  translation,  if  they  think  it  worth  while,  obtain  a  tolerably  accurate 
notion  of  Vittona's  poetical  style. 

4.— Page  65. 

When  Mr.  Harford  heard  these  letters  read,  the  exceedingly  valuable  and  inter- 
esting museum  of  papers,  pictures,  drawings,  etc.,  of  Michael  Angelo,  was  the 
property  of  his  lineal  descendant,  the  late  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  in 
Tuscany.  When  dying,  "ho  bequeathed  this  exceedingly  important  collection  to  the 
"Communita,"  or  corporation  of  Florence.  The  Tuscan  law  requires  that  the 
notary  who  draws  a  will  should  do  BO  in  the  presence  of  the,  testator.  Unfortunately, 
on  the  sick  man  complaining  of  the  heat  of  the  room,  the  notary  employed  to  draw 
this  important  instrument,  retired,  it  seems,  into  the  next  room,  which,  as  a  door 
was  open  between  the  two  chambers,  he  conceived  was  equivalent  to  being  in  pres- 
ence of  the  testator,  as  required  by  law.  It  has  been  decided,  however,  by  the  tri- 
bunals of  Florence,  that  the  will  was  thus  vitiated,  and  that  the  property  must  pass 
to  the  heirs  at  law.  An  appeal  still  pending  (September,  1858)  lies  to  a  higher 
court ;  but  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  original  judgment  must  be  con- 
firmed. In  the  mean  time,  the  paper*,  etc.,  are  under  the  inviolable  seal  of  the  law. 

5.— Page  67. 

_The  Tta.  of  Francois  de  Holland,  containing  the  notices  of  Vittoria  Colonna, 
given  in  the  text,  is  to  be  found  translated  into  French,  and  printed  in  a  volume 
entitled,  "  Les  Arts  en  Portugal,  par  le  Comte  A.  Eaczynski.  Paris,  1846." 

My  attention  was  directed  to  tne  notices  of  Vittoria  to  be  found  in  this  volume, 
by  a  review  of  M.  Deumier's  book  on  our  poetess,  by  Signer  A.  Keumont,  inserted 
in  the  fifth  volume  of  the  new  series  of  the  "  Archivio  btorico  Italiano,  Firenz«, 
1S5T,"  p.  138. 

6.— Page  71. 

The  prayer  written  by  Vittoria  Colonna  is  as  follows : 

"Da,  precor,  Domine,  ut  ea  animi  depressione,  quae  humilitati  meae  convcnit, 
caque  mentis  elatione,  qtiam  tua  postulat  celsitudo,  te  semper  adorem ;  ac  in 
timore,  quern  tua  incutit  justitia,  et  in  spe,  quam  tua  dementia  permittit,  vivain 
continue,  meque  tibi  uti  potentissimo  subjiciam,  tanquam  sapieutissimo  dispouam, 
et  ad  te  ut  perfcctiBsimum  et  optimum  converter.  Obsecro,  Pater  PientUslme,  ut 
me  ignis  tuns  yivacissimus  depnret,  lux  tua  clarissima  illustret,  et  amor  tuns  illo 
wnceriiwimus  ita  proficiat  ut  ad  te  iiullo  mortalium  rerum  obice  dententa,  felix 
redMun  et  Bccura. 


